her, and cherish the sweet feeling of his arm round her body. To have
her cheek close to his was godlike. And then when he would kiss her,
though she would rebuke him, it was as though all heaven were in the
embrace.

"And now good-bye. One kiss, darling."

"No."

"Not a kiss when I am going?"

"I don't want you to go. Oh, Fred! Well;--there. Good-bye, my own, own,
own beloved one. You'll be here on Monday?"

"Yes,--on Monday."

"And be in the boat four hours, and here four minutes. Don't I know
you?" But he went without answering this last accusation.

"What shall we do, Kate, if he deceives us?" said the mother that
evening.

"Die. But I am sure he will not deceive us."

Neville, as he made his way down to Liscannor, where his gig was waiting
for him, did ask himself some serious questions about his adventure.
What must be the end of it? And had he not been imprudent? It may be
declared on his behalf that no idea of treachery to the girl ever
crossed his mind. He loved her too thoroughly for that. He did love
her--not perhaps as she loved him. He had many things in the world to
occupy his mind, and she had but one. He was almost a god to her. She to
him was simply the sweetest girl that he had ever as yet seen, and one
who had that peculiar merit that she was all his own. No other man had
ever pressed her hand, or drank her sweet breath. Was not such a love a
thousand times sweeter than that of some girl who had been hurried from
drawing-room to drawing-room, and perhaps from one vow of constancy to
another for half-a-dozen years? The adventure was very sweet. But how
was it to end? His uncle might live these ten years, and he had not the
heart,--nor yet the courage,--to present her to his uncle as his bride.

When he reached Ennis that evening there was a despatch marked
"Immediate," from his aunt Lady Scroope. "Your uncle is very
ill;--dangerously ill, we fear. His great desire is to see you once
again. Pray come without losing an hour."

Early on the following morning he started for Dublin, but before he
went to bed that night he not only wrote to Kate O'Hara, but enclosed
the note from his aunt. He could understand that though the tidings of
his uncle's danger was a shock to him there would be something in the
tidings which would cause joy to the two inmates of Ardkill Cottage.
When he sent that letter with his own, he was of course determined that
he would marry Kate O'Hara as soon as he was a free man.

CHAPTER IX.

FRED NEVILLE RETURNS TO SCROOPE.

The suddenness of the demand made for the heir's presence at Scroope was
perhaps not owing to the Earl's illness alone. The Earl, indeed, was
ill,--so ill that he thought himself that his end was very near; but his
illness had been brought about chiefly by the misery to which he had
been subjected by the last despatch from Castle Quin to the Countess. "I
am most unwilling," she said, "to make mischief or to give unnecessary
pain to you or to Lord Scroope; but I think it my duty to let you know
that the general opinion about here is that Mr. Neville shall make Miss
O'Hara his wife,--_if he has not done so already_. The most dangerous
feature in the whole matter is that it is all managed by the priest of
this parish, a most unscrupulous person, who would do anything,--he
is so daring. We have known him many many years, and we know to what
lengths he would go. The laws have been so altered in favour of the
Roman Catholics, and against the Protestants, that a priest can do
almost just what he likes. I do not think that he would scruple for an
instant to marry them if he thought it likely that his prey would escape
from him. My own opinion is that there has been no marriage as yet,
though I know that others think that there has been." The expression of
this opinion from "others" which had reached Lady Mary's ears consisted
of an assurance from her own Protestant lady's maid that that wicked,
guzzling old Father Marty would marry the young couple as soon as look
at them, and very likely had done so already. "I cannot say," continued
Lady Mary, "that I actually know anything against the character of Miss
O'Hara. Of the mother we have very strange stories here. They live in a
little cottage with one maid-servant, almost upon the cliffs, and nobody
knows anything about them except the priest. If he should be seduced
into a marriage, nothing could be more unfortunate." Lady Mary probably
intended to insinuate that were young Neville prudently to get out of
the adventure, simply leaving the girl behind him blasted, ruined, and
destroyed, the matter no doubt would be bad; but in that case the great
misfortune would have been avoided. She could not quite say this in
plain words; but she felt, no doubt, that Lady Scroope would understand
her. Then Lady Mary went on to assure her friend that though she and her
father and sisters very greatly regretted that Mr. Neville had not again
given them the pleasure of seeing him at Castle Quin, no feeling of
injury on that score had induced her to write so strongly as she had
done. She had been prompted to do so simply by her desire to prevent _a
most ruinous alliance_.

Lady Scroope acknowledged entirely the truth of these last words. Such
an alliance would be most ruinous! But what could she do? Were she to
write to Fred and tell him all that she heard,--throwing to the winds
Lady Mary's stupid injunctions respecting secrecy, as she would not have
scrupled to do could she have thus obtained her object,--might it not be
quite possible that she would precipitate the calamity which she desired
so eagerly to avoid? Neither had she nor had her husband any power over
the young man, except such as arose from his own good feeling. The Earl
could not disinherit him;--could not put a single acre beyond his reach.
Let him marry whom he might he must be Earl Scroope of Scroope, and the
woman so married must be the Countess of Scroope. There was already a
Lady Neville about the world whose existence was a torture to them; and
if this young man chose also to marry a creature utterly beneath him and
to degrade the family, no effort on their part could prevent him. But
if, as seemed probable, he were yet free, and if he could be got to come
again among them, it might be that he still had left some feelings on
which they might work. No doubt there was the Neville obstinacy about
him; but he had seemed to both of them to acknowledge the sanctity of
his family, and to appreciate in some degree the duty which he owed to
it.

The emergency was so great that she feared to act alone. She told
everything to her husband, shewing him Lady Mary's letter, and the
effect upon him was so great that it made him ill. "It will be better
for me," he said, "to turn my face to the wall and die before I know
it." He took to his bed, and they of his household did think that he
would die. He hardly spoke except to his wife, and when alone with
her did not cease to moan over the destruction which had come upon
the house. "If it could only have been the other brother," said Lady
Scroope.

"There can be no change," said the Earl. "He must do as it lists him
with the fortune and the name and the honours of the family."

Then on one morning there was a worse bulletin than heretofore given by
the doctor, and Lady Scroope at once sent off the letter which was to
recall the nephew to his uncle's bedside. The letter, as we have seen,
was successful, and Fred, who caused himself to be carried over from
Dorchester to Scroope as fast as post-horses could be made to gallop,
almost expected to be told on his arrival that his uncle had departed to
his rest. In the hall he encountered Mrs. Bunce the housekeeper. "We
think my lord is a little better," said Mrs. Bunce almost in a whisper.
"My lord took a little broth in the middle of the day, and we believe
he has slept since." Then he passed on and found his aunt in the small
sitting-room. His uncle had rallied a little, she told him. She was very
affectionate in her manner, and thanked him warmly for his alacrity in
coming. When he was told that his uncle would postpone his visit till
the next morning he almost began to think that he had been fussy in
travelling so quickly.

That evening he dined alone with his aunt, and the conversation during
dinner and as they sat for a few minutes after dinner had reference
solely to his uncle's health. But, though they were alone on this
evening, he was surprised to find that Sophie Mellerby was again at
Scroope. Lady Sophia and Mr. Mellerby were up in London, but Sophie was
not to join them till May. As it happened, however, she was dining at
the parsonage this evening. She must have been in the house when Neville
arrived, but he had not seen her. "Is she going to live here?" he
asked, almost irreverently, when he was first told that she was in the
house. "I wish she were," said Lady Scroope. "I am childless, and she
is as dear to me as a daughter." Then Fred apologized, and expressed
himself as quite willing that Sophie Mellerby should live and die at
Scroope.

The evening was dreadfully dull. It had seemed to him that the house was
darker, and gloomier, and more comfortless than ever. He had hurried
over to see a dying man, and now there was nothing for him to do but to
kick his heels. But before he went to bed his ennui was dissipated by
a full explanation of all his aunt's terrors. She crept down to him at
about nine, and having commenced her story by saying that she had a
matter of most vital importance on which to speak to him, she told him
in fact all that she had heard from Lady Mary.

"She is a mischief-making gossiping old maid," said Neville angrily.

"Will you tell me that there is no truth in what she writes?" asked Lady
Scroope. But this was a question which Fred Neville was not prepared to
answer, and he sat silent. "Fred, tell me the truth. Are you married?"

"No;--I am not married."

"I know that you will not condescend to an untruth."

"If so, my word must be sufficient."

But it was not sufficient. She longed to extract from him some repeated
and prolonged assurance which might bring satisfaction to her own
mind. "I am glad, at any rate, to hear that there is no truth in that
suspicion." To this he would not condescend to reply, but sat glowering
at her as though in wrath that any question should be asked him about
his private concerns. "You must feel, Fred, for your uncle in such a
matter. You must know how important this is to him. You have heard what
he has already suffered; and you must know too that he has endeavoured
to be very good to you."

"I do know that he has,--been very good to me."

"Perhaps you are angry with me for interfering." He would not deny that
he was angry. "I should not do so were it not that your uncle is ill and
suffering."

"You have asked me a question and I have answered it. I do not know what
more you want of me."

"Will you say that there is no truth in all this that Lady Mary says?"

"Lady Mary is an impertinent old maid."

"If you were in your uncle's place, and if you had an heir as to whose
character in the world you were anxious, you would not think anyone
impertinent who endeavoured for the sake of friendship to save your
name and family from a disreputable connexion."

"I have made no disreputable connexion. I will not allow the word
disreputable to be used in regard to any of my friends."

"You do know people of the name of O'Hara?"

"Of course I do."

"And there is a--young lady?"

"I may know a dozen young ladies as to whom I shall not choose to
consult Lady Mary Quin."

"You understand what I mean, Fred. Of course I do not wish to ask you
anything about your general acquaintances. No doubt you meet many girls
whom you admire, and I should be very foolish were I to make inquiries
of you or of anybody else concerning them. I am the last person to be so
injudicious. If you will tell me that there is not and never shall be
any question of marriage between you and Miss O'Hara, I will not say
another word."

"I will not pledge myself to anything for the future."

"You told your uncle you would never make a marriage that should be
disgraceful to the position which you will be called upon to fill."

"Nor will I."

"But would not this marriage be disgraceful, even were the young lady
ever so estimable? How are the old families of the country to be kept
up, and the old blood maintained if young men, such as you are, will not
remember something of all that is due to the name which they bear."

"I do not know that I have forgotten anything."

Then she paused before she could summon courage to ask him another
question. "You have made no promise of marriage to Miss O'Hara?" He sat
dumb, but still looking at her with that angry frown. "Surely your uncle
has a right to expect that you will answer that question."

"I am quite sure that for his sake it will be much better that no such
questions shall be asked me."

In point of fact he had answered the question. When he would not deny
that such promise had been made, there could no longer be any doubt of
the truth of what Lady Mary had written. Of course the whole truth had
now been elicited. He was not married but he was engaged;--engaged to
a girl of whom he knew nothing, a Roman Catholic, Irish, fatherless,
almost nameless,--to one who had never been seen in good society, one of
whom no description could be given, of whom no record could be made in
the peerage that would not be altogether disgraceful, a girl of whom he
was ashamed to speak before those to whom he owed duty and submission!

That there might be a way to escape the evil even yet Lady Scroope
acknowledged to herself fully. Many men promise marriage but do not
keep the promise they have made. This lady, who herself was really
good,--unselfish, affectionate, religious, actuated by a sense of
duty in all that she did, whose life had been almost austerely moral,
entertained an idea that young men, such as Fred Neville, very commonly
made such promises with very little thought of keeping them. She did not
expect young men to be governed by principles such as those to which
young ladies are bound to submit themselves. She almost supposed that
heaven had a different code of laws for men and women in her condition
of life, and that salvation was offered on very different terms to the
two sexes. The breach of any such promise as the heir of Scroope could
have made to such a girl as this Miss O'Hara would be a perjury at which
Jove might certainly be expected to laugh. But in her catalogue there
were sins for which no young men could hope to be forgiven; and the sin
of such a marriage as this would certainly be beyond pardon.

Of the injury which was to be done to Miss O'Hara, it may be said with
certainty that she thought not at all. In her eyes it would be no
injury, but simple justice,--no more than a proper punishment for
intrigue and wicked ambition. Without having seen the enemy to the
family of Scroope, or even having heard a word to her disparagement, she
could feel sure that the girl was bad,--that these O'Haras were vulgar
and false impostors, persons against whom she could put out all her
strength without any prick of conscience. Women in such matters are
always hard against women, and especially hard against those whom they
believe to belong to a class below their own. Certainly no feeling of
mercy would induce her to hold her hand in this task of saving her
husband's nephew from an ill-assorted marriage. Mercy to Miss O'Hara!
Lady Scroope had the name of being a very charitable woman. She gave
away money. She visited the poor. She had laboured hard to make the
cottages on the estate clean and comfortable. She denied herself many
things that she might give to others. But she would have no more mercy
on such a one as Miss O'Hara, than a farmer's labourer would have on a
rat!

There was nothing more now to be said to the heir;--nothing more for the
present that could serve the purpose which she had in hand. "Your uncle
is very ill," she murmured.

"I was so sorry to hear it."

"We hope now that he may recover. For the last two days the doctor has
told us that we may hope."

"I am so glad to find that it is so."

"I am sure you are. You will see him to-morrow after breakfast. He is
most anxious to see you. I think sometimes you hardly reflect how much
you are to him."

"I don't know why you should say so."

"You had better not speak to him to-morrow about this affair,--of the
Irish young lady."

"Certainly not,--unless he speaks to me about it."

"He is hardly strong enough yet. But no doubt he will do so before you
leave us. I hope it may be long before you do that."

"It can't be very long, Aunt Mary." To this she said nothing, but bade
him good-night and he was left alone. It was now past ten, and he
supposed that Miss Mellerby had come in and gone to her room. Why she
should avoid him in this way he could not understand. But as for Miss
Mellerby herself, she was so little to him that he cared not at all
whether he did or did not see her. All his brightest thoughts were away
in County Clare, on the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic. They might say
what they liked to him, but he would never be untrue to the girl whom
he had left there. His aunt had spoken of the "affair of--the Irish
young lady;" and he had quite understood the sneer with which she had
mentioned Kate's nationality. Why should not an Irish girl be as good as
any English girl? Of one thing he was quite sure,--that there was much
more of real life to be found on the cliffs of Moher than in the gloomy
chambers of Scroope Manor.

He got up from his seat feeling absolutely at a loss how to employ
himself. Of course he could go to bed, but how terribly dull must life
be in a place in which he was obliged to go to bed at ten o'clock
because there was nothing to do. And since he had been there his only
occupation had been that of listening to his aunt's sermons. He began
to think that a man might pay too dearly even for being the heir to
Scroope. After sitting awhile in the dark gloom created by a pair of
candles, he got up and wandered into the large unused dining-room of the
mansion. It was a chamber over forty feet long, with dark flock paper
and dark curtains, with dark painted wainscoating below the paper, and
huge dark mahogany furniture. On the walls hung the portraits of the
Scroopes for many generations past, some in armour, some in their robes
of state, ladies with stiff bodices and high head-dresses, not beauties
by Lely or warriors and statesmen by Kneller, but wooden, stiff,
ungainly, hideous figures, by artists whose works had, unfortunately,
been more enduring than their names. He was pacing up and down the room
with a candle in his hand, trying to realize to himself what life at
Scroope might be with a wife of his aunt's choosing, and his aunt to
keep the house for them, when a door was opened at the end of the room,
away from that by which he had entered, and with a soft noiseless step
Miss Mellerby entered. She did not see him at first, as the light of her
own candle was in her eyes, and she was startled when he spoke to her.
His first idea was one of surprise that she should be wandering about
the house alone at night. "Oh, Mr. Neville," she said, "you quite took
me by surprise. How do you do? I did not expect to meet you here."

"Nor I you!"

"Since Lord Scroope has been so ill, Lady Scroope has been sleeping in
the little room next to his, downstairs, and I have just come from her."

"What do you think of my uncle's state?"

"He is better; but he is very weak."

"You see him?"

"Oh yes, daily. He is so anxious to see you, Mr. Neville, and so much
obliged to you for coming. I was sure that you would come."

"Of course I came."

"He wanted to see you this afternoon; but the doctor had expressly
ordered that he should be kept quiet. Good-night. I am so very glad that
you are here. I am sure that you will be good to him."

Why should she be glad, and why should she be sure that he would be
good to his uncle? Could it be that she also had been told the story of
Kate O'Hara? Then, as no other occupation was possible to him, he took
himself to bed.

CHAPTER X.

FRED NEVILLE'S SCHEME.

On the next morning after breakfast Neville was taken into his uncle's
chamber, but there was an understanding that there was to be no
conversation on disagreeable subjects on this occasion. His aunt
remained in the room while he was there, and the conversation was
almost confined to the expression of thanks on the part of the Earl to
his nephew for coming, and of hopes on the part of the nephew that his
uncle might soon be well. One matter was mooted as to which no doubt
much would be said before Neville could get away. "I thought it better
to make arrangements to stay a fortnight," said Fred,--as though a
fortnight were a very long time indeed.

"A fortnight!" said the Earl.

"We won't talk of his going yet," replied Lady Scroope.

"Supposing I had died, he could not have gone back in a fortnight," said
the Earl in a low moaning voice.

"My dear uncle, I hope that I may live to see you in your own place here
at Scroope for many years to come." The Earl shook his head, but nothing
more was then said on that subject. Fred, however, had carried out his
purpose. He had been determined to let them understand that he would not
hold himself bound to remain long at Scroope Manor.

Then he wrote a letter to his own Kate. It was the first time he had
addressed her in this fashion, and though he was somewhat of a gallant
gay Lothario, the writing of the letter was an excitement to him. If so,
what must the receipt of it have been to Kate O'Hara! He had promised
her that he would write to her, and from the moment that he was gone she
was anxious to send in to the post-office at Ennistimon for the treasure
which the mail car might bring to her. When she did get it, it was
indeed a treasure. To a girl who really loves, the first love letter is
a thing as holy as the recollection of the first kiss. "May I see it,
Kate?" said Mrs. O'Hara, as her daughter sat poring over the scrap of
paper by the window.

"Yes, mamma,--if you please." Then she paused a moment. "But I think
that I had rather you did not. Perhaps he did not mean me to shew it."
The mother did not urge her request, but contented herself with coming
up behind her child and kissing her. The reader, however, shall have the
privilege which was denied to Mrs. O'Hara.

   DEAREST KATE,

   I got here all alive yesterday at four. I came on as fast as ever
   I could travel, and hardly got a mouthful to eat after I left
   Limerick. I never saw such beastliness as they have at the stations.
   My uncle is much better,--so much so that I shan't remain here very
   long. I can't tell you any particular news,--except this, that
   that old cat down at Castle Quin,--the one with the crisp-curled
   wig,--must have the nose of a dog and the ears of a cat and the eyes
   of a bird, and she sends word to Scroope of everything that she
   smells and hears and sees. It makes not the slightest difference to
   me,--nor to you I should think. Only I hate such interference. The
   truth is old maids have nothing else to do. If I were you I wouldn't
   be an old maid.

   I can't quite say how long it will be before I am back at
   Ardkill, but not a day longer than I can help. Address to Scroope,
   Dorsetshire,--that will be enough;--to F. Neville, Esq. Give my
   love to your mother.--As for yourself, dear Kate, if you care for
   my love, you may weigh mine for your own dear self with your own
   weights and measures. Indeed you have all my heart.

   Your own F. N.

   There is a young lady here whom it is intended that I shall marry.
   She is the pink of propriety and really very pretty;--but you need
   not be a bit jealous. The joke is that my brother is furiously in
   love with her, and that I fancy she would be just as much in love
   with him only that she's told not to.--A thousand kisses.

It was not much of a love letter, but there were a few words in it which
sufficed altogether for Kate's happiness. She was told that she had
all his heart,--and she believed it. She was told that she need not be
jealous of the proper young lady, and she believed that too. He sent
her a thousand kisses; and she, thinking that he might have kissed the
paper, pressed it to her lips. At any rate his hand had rested on it.
She would have been quite willing to shew to her mother all these
expressions of her lover's love; but she felt that it would not be fair
to him to expose his allusions to the "beastliness" at the stations. He
might say what he liked to her; but she understood that she was not at
liberty to shew to others words which had been addressed to her in the
freedom of perfect intimacy.

"Does he say anything of the old man?" asked Mrs. O'Hara.

"He says that his uncle is better."

"Threatened folks live long. Does Neville tell you when he will be
back?"

"Not exactly; but he says that he will not stay long. He does not like
Scroope at all. I knew that. He always says that,--that--"

"Says what, dear?"

"When we are married he will go away somewhere,--to Italy or Greece or
somewhere. Scroope he says is so gloomy."

"And where shall I go?"

"Oh, mother;--you shall be with us, always."

"No, dear, you must not dream of that. When you have him you will not
want me."

"Dear mother. I shall want you always."

"He will not want me. We have no right to expect too much from him,
Kate. That he shall make you his wife we have a right to expect. If he
were false to you--"

"He is not false. Why should you think him false?"

"I do not think it; but if he were--! Never mind. If he be true to you,
I will not burden him. If I can see you happy, Kate, I will bear all the
rest." That which she would have to bear would be utter solitude for
life. She could look forward and see how black and tedious would be her
days; but all that would be nothing to her if her child were lifted up
on high.

It was now the beginning of April, which for sportsmen in England is
of all seasons the most desperate. Hunting is over. There is literally
nothing to shoot. And fishing,--even if there were fishing in England
worth a man's time,--has not begun. A gentleman of enterprise driven
very hard in this respect used to declare that there was no remedy for
April but to go and fly hawks in Holland. Fred Neville could not fly
hawks at Scroope, and found that there was nothing for him to do. Miss
Mellerby suggested--books. "I like books better than anything," said
Fred. "I always have a lot of novels down at our quarters. But a fellow
can't be reading all day, and there isn't a novel in the house except
Walter Scott's and a lot of old rubbish. By-the-bye have you read 'All
Isn't Gold That Glitters?'" Miss Mellerby had not read the tale named.
"That's what I call a good novel."

Day passed after day and it seemed as though he was expected to remain
at Scroope without any definite purpose, and, worse still, without any
fixed limit to his visit. At his aunt's instigation he rode about the
property and asked questions as to the tenants. It was all to be his
own, and in the course of nature must be his own very soon. There could
not but be an interest for him in every cottage and every field. But yet
there was present to him all the time a schoolboy feeling that he was
doing a task; and the occupation was not pleasant to him because it was
a task. The steward was with him as a kind of pedagogue, and continued
to instruct him during the whole ride. This man only paid so much
a year, and the rent ought to be so much more; but there were
circumstances. And "My Lord" had been peculiarly good. This farm was
supposed to be the best on the estate, and that other the worst. Oh
yes, there were plenty of foxes. "My Lord" had always insisted that the
foxes should be preserved. Some of the hunting gentry no doubt had made
complaints, but it was a great shame. Foxes had been seen, two or three
at a time, the very day after the coverts had been drawn blank. As for
game, a head of game could be got up very soon, as there was plenty of
corn and the woods were large; but "My Lord" had never cared for game.
The farmers all shot the rabbits on their own land. Rents were paid to
the day. There was never any mistake about that. Of course the land
would require to be re-valued, but "My Lord" wouldn't hear of such a
thing being done in his time. The Manor wood wanted thinning very badly.
The wood had been a good deal neglected. "My Lord" had never liked to
hear the axe going. That was Grumby Green and the boundary of the estate
in that direction. The next farm was college property, and was rented
five shillings an acre dearer than "My Lord's" land. If Mr. Neville
wished it the steward would show him the limit of the estate on the
other side to-morrow. No doubt there was a plan of the estate. It was
in "My Lord's" own room, and would shew every farm with its acreage and
bounds. Fred thought that he would study this plan on the next day
instead of riding about with the steward.

He could not escape from the feeling that he was being taught his lesson
like a school-boy, and he did not like it. He longed for the freedom
of his boat on the Irish coast, and longed for the devotedness of Kate
O'Hara. He was sure that he loved her so thoroughly that life without
her was not to be regarded as possible. But certain vague ideas very
injurious to the Kate he so dearly loved crossed his brain. Under the
constant teaching of his aunt he did recognize it as a fact that he
owed a high duty to his family. For many days after that first night at
Scroope not a word was said to him about Kate O'Hara. He saw his uncle
daily,--probably twice a day; but the Earl never alluded to his Irish
love. Lady Scroope spoke constantly of the greatness of the position
which the heir was called upon to fill and of all that was due to the
honour of the family. Fred, as he heard her, would shake his head
impatiently, but would acknowledge the truth of what she said. He was
induced even to repeat the promise which he had made to his uncle,
and to assure his aunt that he would do nothing to mar or lessen the
dignity of the name of Neville. He did become, within his own mind,
indoctrinated with the idea that he would injure the position of the
earldom which was to be his were he to marry Kate O'Hara. Arguments
which had appeared to him to be absurd when treated with ridicule by
Father Marty, and which in regard to his own conduct he had determined
to treat as old women's tales, seemed to him at Scroope to be true
and binding. The atmosphere of the place, the companionship of Miss
Mellerby, the reverence with which he himself was treated by the
domestics, the signs of high nobility which surrounded him on all sides,
had their effect upon him. Noblesse oblige. He felt that it was so. Then
there crossed his brain visions of a future life which were injurious to
the girl he loved.

Let his brother Jack come and live at Scroope and marry Sophie Mellerby.
As long as he lived Jack could not be the Earl, but in regard to money
he would willingly make such arrangements as would enable his brother
to maintain the dignity and state of the house. They would divide the
income. And then he would so arrange his matters with Kate O'Hara that
his brother's son should be heir to the Earldom. He had some glimmering
of an idea that as Kate was a Roman Catholic a marriage ceremony might
be contrived of which this would become the necessary result. There
should be no deceit. Kate should know it all, and everything should be
done to make her happy. He would live abroad, and would not call himself
by his title. They would be Mr. and Mrs. Neville. As to the property,
that must of course hereafter go with the title, but in giving up so
much to his brother, he could of course arrange as to the provision
necessary for any children of his own. No doubt his Kate would like to
be the Countess Scroope,--would prefer that a future son of her own
should be the future Earl. But as he was ready to abandon so much,
surely she would be ready to abandon something. He must explain to
her,--and to her mother,--that under no other circumstances could he
marry her. He must tell her of pledges made to his uncle before he knew
her, of the duty which he owed to his family, and of his own great
dislike to the kind of life which would await him as acting head of the
family. No doubt there would be scenes,--and his heart quailed as he
remembered certain glances which had flashed upon him from the eyes of
Mrs. O'Hara. But was he not offering to give up everything for his love?
His Kate should be his wife after some Roman Catholic fashion in some
Roman Catholic country. Of course there would be difficulties,--the
least of which would not be those glances from the angry mother; but
it would be his business to overcome difficulties. There were always
difficulties in the way of any man who chose to leave the common grooves
of life and to make a separate way for himself. There were always
difficulties in the way of adventures. Dear Kate! He would never desert
his Kate. But his Kate must do as much as this for him. Did he not
intend that, whatever good things the world might have in store for him,
his Kate should share them all?

His ideas were very hazy, and he knew himself that he was ignorant of
the laws respecting marriage. It occurred to him, therefore, that he had
better consult his brother, and confide everything to him. That Jack was
wiser than he, he was always willing to allow; and although he did in
some sort look down upon Jack as a plodding fellow, who shot no seals
and cared nothing for adventure, still he felt it to be almost a pity
that Jack should not be the future Earl. So he told his aunt that he
proposed to ask his brother to come to Scroope for a day or two before
he returned to Ireland. Had his aunt, or would his uncle have, any
objection? Lady Scroope did not dare to object. She by no means wished
that her younger nephew should again be brought within the influence
of Miss Mellerby's charms; but it would not suit her purpose to give
offence to the heir by refusing so reasonable request. He would have
been off to join his brother at Woolwich immediately. So the invitation
was sent, and Jack Neville promised that he would come.

Fred knew nothing of the offer that had been made to Miss Mellerby,
though he had been sharp enough to discern his brother's feelings. "My
brother is coming here to-morrow," he said one morning to Miss Mellerby
when they were alone together.

"So Lady Scroope has told me. I don't wonder that you should wish to see
him."

"I hope everybody will be glad to see him. Jack is just about the very
best fellow in the world;--and he's one of the cleverest too."

"It is so nice to hear one brother speak in that way of another."

"I swear by Jack. He ought to have been the elder brother;--that's the
truth. Don't you like him?"

"Who;--I. Oh, yes, indeed. What I saw of him I liked very much."

"Isn't it a pity that he shouldn't have been the elder?"

"I can't say that, Mr. Neville."

"No. It wouldn't be just civil to me. But I can say it. When we were
here last winter I thought that my brother was--"

"Was what, Mr Neville?"

"Was getting to be very fond of you. Perhaps I ought not to say so."

"I don't think that much good is ever done by saying that kind of
thing," said Miss Mellerby gravely.

"It cannot at any rate do any harm in this case. I wish with all my
heart that he was fond of you and you of him."

"That is all nonsense. Indeed it is."

"I am not saying it without an object. I don't see why you and I should
not understand one another. If I tell you a secret will you keep it?"

"Do not tell me any secret that I must keep from Lady Scroope."

"But that is just what you must do."

"But then suppose I don't do it," said Miss Mellerby.

But Fred was determined to tell his secret. "The truth is that both my
uncle and my aunt want me to fall in love with you."

"How very kind of them," said she with a little forced laugh.

"I don't for a moment think that, had I tried it on ever so, I could
have succeeded. I am not at all the sort of man to be conceited in that
way. Wishing to do the best they could for me, they picked you out. It
isn't that I don't think as well of you as they do, but--"

"Really, Mr. Neville, this is the oddest conversation."

"Quite true. It is odd. But the fact is you are here, and there is
nobody else I can talk to. And I want you to know the exact truth. I'm
engaged to--somebody else."

"I ought to break my heart;--oughtn't I?"

"I don't in the least mind your laughing at me. I should have minded it
very much if I had asked you to marry me, and you had refused me."

"You haven't given me the chance, you see."

"I didn't mean. What was the good?"

"Certainly not, Mr. Neville, if you are engaged to some one else. I
shouldn't like to be Number Two."

"I'm in a peck of troubles;--that's the truth. I would change places
with my brother to-morrow if I could. I daresay you don't believe that,
but I would. I will not vex my uncle if I can help it, but I certainly
shall not throw over the girl who loves me. If it wasn't for the title,
I'd give up Scroope to my brother to-morrow, and go and live in some
place where I could get lots of shooting, and where I should never have
to put on a white choker."

"You'll think better of all that."

"Well!--I've just told you everything because I like to be on the
square. I wish you knew Kate O'Hara. I'm sure you would not wonder that
a fellow should love her. I had rather you didn't tell my aunt what I
have told you; but if you choose to do so, I can't help it."

CHAPTER XI.

THE WISDOM OF JACK NEVILLE.

Neville had been forced to get his leave of absence renewed on the score
of his uncle's health, and had promised to prolong his absence till the
end of April. When doing so he had declared his intention of returning
to Ennis in the beginning of May; but no agreement to that had as yet
been expressed by his uncle or aunt. Towards the end of the month his
brother came to Scroope, and up to that time not a word further had been
said to him respecting Kate O'Hara.

He had received an answer from Kate to his letter, prepared in a fashion
very different from that of his own. He had seated himself at a table
and in compliance with the pledge given by him, had scrawled off his
epistle as fast as he could write it. She had taken a whole morning to
think of hers, and had re-copied it after composing it, and had then
read it with the utmost care, confessing to herself, almost with tears,
that it was altogether unworthy of him to whom it was to be sent. It was
the first love letter she had ever written,--probably the first letter
she had ever written to a man, except those short notes which she would
occasionally scrawl to Father Marty in compliance with her mother's
directions. The letter to Fred was as follows;--

   ARDKILL COTTAGE,
   10th April, 18--.

   MY DEAREST FRED,

   I received your dear letter three or four days ago, and it made me
   so happy. We were sorry that you should have such an uncomfortable
   journey; but all that would be over and soon forgotten when you
   found yourself in your comfortable home and among your own friends.
   I am very glad to hear that your uncle is better. The thought of
   finding him so ill must have made your journey very sad. As he is
   so much better, I suppose you will come back soon to your poor
   little Kate.

   There is no news at all to send you from Liscannor. Father Marty
   was up here yesterday and says that your boat is all safe at
   Lahinch. He says that Barney Morony is an idle fellow, but as he
   has nothing to do he can't help being idle. You should come back
   and not let him be idle any more. I think the sea gulls know that
   you are away, because they are wheeling and screaming about louder
   and bolder than ever.

   Mother sends her best love. She is very well. We have had nothing
   to eat since you went because it has been Lent. So, if you had
   been here, you would not have been able to get a bit of luncheon.
   I dare say you have been a great deal better off at Scroope.
   Father Marty says that you Protestants will have to keep your
   Lent hereafter,--eighty days at a time instead of forty; and that
   we Catholics will be allowed to eat just what we like, while you
   Protestants will have to look on at us. If so, I think I'll manage
   to give you a little bit.

   Do come back to your own Kate as soon as you can. I need not tell
   you that I love you better than all the world because you know it
   already. I am not a bit jealous of the proper young lady, and I
   hope that she will fall in love with your brother. Then some day
   we shall be sisters;--shan't we? I should like to have a proper
   young lady for my sister so much. Only, perhaps she would despise
   me. Do come back soon. Everything is so dull while you are away!
   You would come back to your own Kate if you knew how great a joy
   it is to her when she sees you coming along the cliff.

   Dearest, dearest love, I am always your own, own

   KATE O'HARA.

Neville thought of showing Kate's letter to Miss Mellerby, but when
he read it a second time he made up his mind that he would keep it to
himself. The letter was all very well, and, as regarded the expressions
towards himself, just what it should be. But he felt that it was not
such a letter as Miss Mellerby would have written herself, and he was
a little ashamed of all that was said about the priest. Neither was he
proud of the pretty, finished, French hand-writing, over every letter of
which his love had taken so much pains. In truth, Kate O'Hara was better
educated than himself, and perhaps knew as much as Sophie Mellerby. She
could have written her letter quite as well in French as in English, and
she did understand something of the formation of her sentences. Fred
Neville had been at an excellent school, but it may be doubted whether
he could have explained his own written language. Nevertheless he was
a little ashamed of his Kate, and thought that Miss Mellerby might
perceive her ignorance if he shewed her letter.

He had sent for his brother in order that he might explain his scheme
and get his brother's advice;--but he found it very difficult to explain
his scheme to Jack Neville. Jack, indeed, from the very first would
not allow that the scheme was in any way practicable. "I don't quite
understand, Fred, what you mean. You don't intend to deceive her by a
false marriage?"

"Most assuredly not. I do not intend to deceive her at all."

"You must make her your wife, or not make her your wife."

"Undoubtedly she will be my wife. I am quite determined about that. She
has my word,--and over and above that, she is dearer to me than anything
else."

"If you marry her, her eldest son must of course be the heir to the
title."

"I am not at all so sure of that. All manner of queer things may be
arranged by marriages with Roman Catholics."

"Put that out of your head," said Jack Neville. "In the first place
you would certainly find yourself in a mess, and in the next place the
attempt itself would be dishonest. I dare say men have crept out of
marriages because they have been illegal; but a man who arranges a
marriage with the intention of creeping out of it is a scoundrel."

"You needn't bully about it, Jack. You know very well that I don't mean
to creep out of anything."

"I'm sure you don't. But as you ask me I must tell you what I think. You
are in a sort of dilemma between this girl and Uncle Scroope."

"I'm not in any dilemma at all."

"You seem to think you have made some promise to him which will be
broken if you marry her;--and I suppose you certainly have made her a
promise."

"Which I certainly mean to keep," said Fred.

"All right. Then you must break your promise to Uncle Scroope."

"It was a sort of half and half promise. I could not bear to see him
making himself unhappy about it."

"Just so. I suppose Miss O'Hara can wait."

Fred Neville scratched his head. "Oh yes;--she can wait. There's nothing
to bind me to a day or a month. But my uncle may live for the next ten
years now."

"My advice to you is to let Miss O'Hara understand clearly that you will
make no other engagement, but that you cannot marry her as long as your
uncle lives. Of course I say this on the supposition that the affair
cannot be broken off."

"Certainly not," said Fred with a decision that was magnanimous.

"I cannot think the engagement a fortunate one for you in your position.
Like should marry like. I'm quite sure of that. You would wish your
wife to be easily intimate with the sort of people among whom she would
naturally be thrown as Lady Scroope,--among the wives and daughters of
other Earls and such like."

"No; I shouldn't."

"I don't see how she would be comfortable in any other way."

"I should never live among other Earls, as you call them. I hate that
kind of thing. I hate London. I should never live here."

"What would you do?"

"I should have a yacht, and live chiefly in that. I should go about
a good deal, and get into all manner of queer places. I don't say
but what I might spend a winter now and then in Leicestershire or
Northamptonshire, for I am fond of hunting. But I should have no regular
home. According to my scheme you should have this place,--and sufficient
of the income to maintain it of course."

"That wouldn't do, Fred," said Jack, shaking his head,--"though I know
how generous you are."

"Why wouldn't it do?"

"You are the heir, and you must take the duties with the privileges. You
can have your yacht if you like a yacht,--but you'll soon get tired of
that kind of life. I take it that a yacht is a bad place for a nursery,
and inconvenient for one's old boots. When a man has a home fixed for
him by circumstances,--as you will have,--he gravitates towards it,
let his own supposed predilections be what they may. Circumstances are
stronger than predilections."

"You're a philosopher."

"I was always more sober than you, Fred."

"I wish you had been the elder,--on the condition of the younger brother
having a tidy slice out of the property to make himself comfortable."

"But I am not the elder, and you must take the position with all the
encumbrances. I see nothing for it but to ask Miss O'Hara to wait. If my
uncle lives long the probability is that one or the other of you will
change your minds, and that the affair will never come off."

When the younger and wiser brother gave this advice he did not think
it all likely that Miss O'Hara would change her mind. Penniless young
ladies don't often change their minds when they are engaged to the heirs
of Earls. It was not at all probable that she should repent the bargain
that she had made. But Jack Neville did think it very probable that his
brother might do so;--and, indeed, felt sure that he would do so if
years were allowed to intervene. His residence in County Clare would not
be perpetual, and with him in his circumstances it might well be that
the young lady, being out of sight, should be out of mind. Jack could
not exactly declare his opinion on this head. His brother at present was
full of his promise, full of his love, full of his honour. Nor would
Jack have absolutely counselled him to break his word to the young
lady. But he thought it probable that in the event of delay poor Miss
O'Hara might go to the wall;--and he also thought that for the general
interests of the Scroope family it would be better that she should do
so.

"And what are you going to do yourself?" asked Fred.

"In respect of what?"

"In respect of Miss Mellerby?"

"In respect of Miss Mellerby I am not going to do anything," said Jack
as he walked away.

In all that the younger brother said to the elder as to poor Kate O'Hara
he was no doubt wise and prudent; but in what he said about himself he
did not tell the truth. But then the question asked was one which a man
is hardly bound to answer, even to a brother. Jack Neville was much less
likely to talk about his love affairs than Fred, but not on that account
less likely to think about them. Sophie Mellerby had refused him once,
but young ladies have been known to marry gentlemen after refusing them
more than once. He at any rate was determined to persevere, having in
himself and in his affairs that silent faith of which the possessor is
so often unconscious, but which so generally leads to success. He found
Miss Mellerby to be very courteous to him if not gracious; and he had
the advantage of not being afraid of her. It did not strike him that
because she was the granddaughter of a duke, and because he was a
younger son, that therefore he ought not to dare to look at her. He
understood very well that she was brought there that Fred might marry
her;--but Fred was intent on marrying some one else, and Sophie Mellerby
was not a girl to throw her heart away upon a man who did not want
it. He had come to Scroope for only three days, but, in spite of some
watchfulness on the part of the Countess, he found his opportunity for
speaking before he left the house. "Miss Mellerby," he said, "I don't
know whether I ought to thank Fortune or to upbraid her for having again
brought me face to face with you."

"I hope the evil is not so oppressive as to make you very loud in your
upbraidings."

"They shall not at any rate be heard. I don't know whether there was any
spice of malice about my brother when he asked me to come here, and told
me in the same letter that you were at Scroope."

"He must have meant it for malice, I should think," said the young lady,
endeavouring, but not quite successfully, to imitate the manner of the
man who loved her.

"Of course I came."

"Not on my behalf, I hope, Mr. Neville."

"Altogether on your behalf. Fred's need to see me was not very great,
and, as my uncle had not asked me, and as my aunt, I fancy, does not
altogether approve of me, I certainly should not have come,--were it not
that I might find it difficult to get any other opportunity of seeing
you."

"That is hardly fair to Lady Scroope, Mr. Neville."

"Quite fair, I think. I did not come clandestinely. I am not ashamed
of what I am doing,--or of what I am going to do. I may be ashamed of
this,--that I should feel my chance of success to be so small. When I
was here before I asked you to--allow me to love you. I now ask you
again."

"Allow you!" she said.

"Yes;--allow me. I should be too bold were I to ask you to return my
love at once. I only ask you to know that because I was repulsed once, I
have not given up the pursuit."

"Mr. Neville, I am sure that my father and mother would not permit it."

"May I ask your father, Miss Mellerby?"

"Certainly not,--with my permission."

"Nevertheless you will not forget that I am suitor for your love?"

"I will make no promise of anything, Mr. Neville." Then, fearing that
she had encouraged him, she spoke again. "I think you ought to take my
answer as final."

"Miss Mellerby, I shall take no answer as final that is not favourable.
Should I indeed hear that you were to be married to another man, that
would be final; but that I shall not hear from your own lips. You will
say good-bye to me," and he offered her his hand.

She gave him her hand;--and he raised it to his lips and kissed it, as
men were wont to do in the olden days.

CHAPTER XII.

FRED NEVILLE MAKES A PROMISE.

Fred Neville felt that he had not received from his brother the
assistance or sympathy which he had required. He had intended to make
a very generous offer,--not indeed quite understanding how his offer
could be carried out, but still of a nature that should, he thought,
have bound his brother to his service. But Jack had simply answered him
by sermons;--by sermons and an assurance of the impracticability of
his scheme. Nevertheless he was by no means sure that his scheme was
impracticable. He was at least sure of this,--that no human power could
force him to adopt a mode of life that was distasteful to him. No one
could make him marry Sophie Mellerby, or any other Sophie, and maintain
a grand and gloomy house in Dorsetshire, spending his income, not in a
manner congenial to him, but in keeping a large retinue of servants
and taking what he called the "heavy line" of an English nobleman.
The property must be his own,--or at any rate the life use of it. He
swore to himself over and over again that nothing should induce him to
impoverish the family or to leave the general affairs of the house of
Scroope worse than he found them. Much less than half of that which he
understood to be the income coming from the estates would suffice for
him. But let his uncle or aunt,--or his strait-laced methodical brother,
say what they would to him, nothing should induce him to make himself a
slave to an earldom.

But yet his mind was much confused and his contentment by no means
complete. He knew that there must be a disagreeable scene between
himself and his uncle before he returned to Ireland, and he knew also
that his uncle could, if he were so minded, stop his present very
liberal allowance altogether. There had been a bargain, no doubt, that
he should remain with his regiment for a year, and of that year six
months were still unexpired. His uncle could not quarrel with him for
going back to Ireland; but what answer should he make when his uncle
asked him whether he were engaged to marry Miss O'Hara,--as of course he
would ask; and what reply should he make when his uncle would demand of
him whether he thought such a marriage fit for a man in his position. He
knew that it was not fit. He believed in the title, in the sanctity of
the name, in the mysterious grandeur of the family. He did not think
that an Earl of Scroope ought to marry a girl of whom nothing whatever
was known. The pride of the position stuck to him;--but it irked him to
feel that the sacrifices necessary to support that pride should fall on
his own shoulders.

One thing was impossible to him. He would not desert his Kate. But he
wished to have his Kate, as a thing apart. If he could have given six
months of each year to his Kate, living that yacht-life of which he had
spoken, visiting those strange sunny places which his imagination had
pictured to him, unshackled by conventionalities, beyond the sound of
church bells, unimpeded by any considerations of family,--and then have
migrated for the other six months to his earldom and his estates, to
his hunting and perhaps to Parliament, leaving his Kate behind him,
that would have been perfect. And why not? In the days which must come
so soon, he would be his own master. Who could impede his motions or
gainsay his will? Then he remembered his Kate's mother, and the glances
which would come from the mother's eyes. There might be difficulty even
though Scroope were all his own.

He was not a villain;--simply a self-indulgent spoiled young man who had
realized to himself no idea of duty in life. He never once told himself
that Kate should be his mistress. In all the pictures which he drew for
himself of a future life everything was to be done for her happiness and
for her gratification. His yacht should be made a floating bower for
her delight. During those six months of the year which, and which only,
the provoking circumstances of his position would enable him to devote
to joy and love, her will should be his law. He did not think himself
to be fickle. He would never want another Kate. He would leave her
with sorrow. He would return to her with ecstasy. Everybody around him
should treat her with the respect due to an empress. But it would be
very expedient that she should be called Mrs. Neville instead of Lady
Scroope. Could things not be so arranged for him;--so arranged that he
might make a promise to his uncle, and yet be true to his Kate without
breaking his promise? That was his scheme. Jack said that his scheme was
impracticable. But the difficulties in his way were not, he thought, so
much those which Jack had propounded as the angry eyes of Kate O'Hara's
mother.

At last the day was fixed for his departure. The Earl was already so
much better as to be able to leave his bedroom. Twice or thrice a day
Fred saw his uncle, and there was much said about the affairs of the
estate. The heir had taken some trouble, had visited some of the
tenants, and had striven to seem interested in the affairs of the
property. The Earl could talk for ever about the estate, every field,
every fence, almost every tree on which was familiar to him. That
his tenants should be easy in their circumstances, a protestant,
church-going, rent-paying people, son following father, and daughters
marrying as their mothers had married, unchanging, never sinking an inch
in the social scale, or rising,--this was the wish nearest to his heart.
Fred was well disposed to talk about the tenants as long as Kate O'Hara
was not mentioned. When the Earl would mournfully speak of his own
coming death, as an event which could not now be far distant, Fred with
fullest sincerity would promise that his wishes should be observed. No
rents should be raised. The axe should be but sparingly used. It seemed
to him strange that a man going into eternity should care about this
tree or that;--but as far as he was concerned the trees should stand
while Nature supported them. No servant should be dismissed. The
carriage horses should be allowed to die on the place. The old charities
should be maintained. The parson of the parish should always be a
welcome guest at the Manor. No promise was difficult for him to make so
long as that one question were left untouched.

But when he spoke of the day of his departure as fixed,--as being "the
day after to-morrow,"--then he knew that the question must be touched.
"I am sorry,--very sorry, that you must go," said the Earl.

"You see a man can't leave the service at a moment's notice."

"I think that we could have got over that, Fred."

"Perhaps as regards the service we might, but the regiment would think
ill of me. You see, so many things depend on a man's staying or going.
The youngsters mayn't have their money ready. I said I should remain
till October."

"I don't at all wish to act the tyrant to you."

"I know that, uncle."

Then there was a pause. "I haven't spoken to you yet, Fred, on a matter
which has caused me a great deal of uneasiness. When you first came I
was not strong enough to allude to it, and I left it to your aunt."
Neville knew well what was coming now, and was aware that he was moved
in a manner that hardly became his manhood. "Your aunt tells me that you
have got into some trouble with a young lady in the west of Ireland."

"No trouble, uncle, I hope."

"Who is she?"

Then there was another pause, but he gave a direct answer to the
question. "She is a Miss O'Hara."

"A Roman Catholic?"

"Yes."

"A girl of whose family you know nothing?"

"I know that she lives with her mother."

"In absolute obscurity,--and poverty?"

"They are not rich," said Fred.

"Do not suppose that I regard poverty as a fault. It is not necessary
that you should marry a girl with any fortune."

"I suppose not, Uncle Scroope."

"But I understand that this young lady is quite beneath yourself in
life. She lives with her mother in a little cottage, without
servants,--"

"There is a servant."

"You know what I mean, Fred. She does not live as ladies live. She is
uneducated."

"You are wrong there, my lord. She has been at an excellent school in
France."

"In France! Who was her father, and what?"

"I do not know what her father was;--a Captain O'Hara, I believe."

"And you would marry such a girl as that;--a Roman Catholic; picked up
on the Irish coast,--one of whom nobody knows even her parentage or
perhaps her real name? It would kill me, Fred."

"I have not said that I mean to marry her."

"But what do you mean? Would you ruin her;--seduce her by false promises
and then leave her? Do you tell me that in cold blood you look forward
to such a deed as that?"

"Certainly not."

"I hope not, my boy; I hope not that. Do not tell me that a heartless
scoundrel is to take my name when I am gone."

"I am not a heartless scoundrel," said Fred Neville, jumping up from his
seat.

"Then what is it that you mean? You have thought, have you not, of the
duties of the high position to which you are called? You do not suppose
that wealth is to be given to you, and a great name, and all the
appanages and power of nobility, in order that you may eat more, and
drink more, and lie softer than others. It is because some think so, and
act upon such base thoughts, that the only hereditary peerage left in
the world is in danger of encountering the ill will of the people. Are
you willing to be known only as one of those who have disgraced their
order?"

"I do not mean to disgrace it."

"But you will disgrace it if you marry such a girl as that. If she were
fit to be your wife, would not the family of Lord Kilfenora have known
her?"

"I don't think much of their not knowing her, uncle."

"Who does know her? Who can say that she is even what she pretends to
be? Did you not promise me that you would make no such marriage?"

He was not strong to defend his Kate. Such defence would have been in
opposition to his own ideas, in antagonism with the scheme which he had
made for himself. He understood, almost as well as did his uncle, that
Kate O'Hara ought not to be made Countess of Scroope. He too thought
that were she to be presented to the world as the Countess of Scroope,
she would disgrace the title. And yet he would not be a villain! And yet
he would not give her up! He could only fall back upon his scheme. "Miss
O'Hara is as good as gold," he said; "but I acknowledge that she is not
fit to be mistress of this house."

"Fred," said the Earl, almost in a passion of affectionate solicitude,
"do not go back to Ireland. We will arrange about the regiment. No harm
shall be done to any one. My health will be your excuse, and the lawyers
shall arrange it all."

"I must go back," said Neville. Then the Earl fell back in his chair and
covered his face with his hands. "I must go back; but I will give you my
honour as a gentleman to do nothing that shall distress you."

"You will not marry her?"

"No."

"And, oh, Fred, as you value your own soul, do not injure a poor girl
so desolate as that. Tell her and tell her mother the honest truth. If
there be tears, will not that be better than sorrow, and disgrace, and
ruin?" Among evils there must always be a choice; and the Earl thought
that a broken promise was the lightest of those evils to a choice among
which his nephew had subjected himself.

And so the interview was over, and there had been no quarrel. Fred
Neville had given the Earl a positive promise that he would not marry
Kate O'Hara,--to whom he had sworn a thousand times that she should
be his wife. Such a promise, however,--so he told himself--is never
intended to prevail beyond the lifetime of the person to whom it is
made. He had bound himself not to marry Kate O'Hara while his uncle
lived, and that was all.

Or might it not be better to take his uncle's advice altogether and tell
the truth,--not to Kate, for that he could not do,--but to Mrs. O'Hara
or to Father Marty? As he thought of this he acknowledged to himself
that the task of telling such a truth to Mrs. O'Hara would be almost
beyond his strength. Could he not throw himself upon the priest's
charity, and leave it all to him? Then he thought of his own Kate, and
some feeling akin to genuine love told him that he could not part with
the girl in such fashion as that. He would break his heart were he to
lose his Kate. When he looked at it in that light it seemed to him that
Kate was more to him than all the family of the Scroopes with all their
glory. Dear, sweet, soft, innocent, beautiful Kate! His Kate who, as
he knew well, worshipped the very ground on which he trod! It was not
possible that he should separate himself from Kate O'Hara.

On his return to Ireland he turned that scheme of his over and over
again in his head. Surely something might be done if the priest would
stand his friend! What if he were to tell the whole truth to the
priest, and ask for such assistance as a priest might give him? But the
one assurance to which he came during his journey was this;--that when
a man goes in for adventures, he requires a good deal of skill and some
courage too to carry him through them.

VOLUME II.

CHAPTER I.

FROM BAD TO WORSE.

As he was returning to Ennis Neville was so far removed from immediate
distress as to be able to look forward without fear to his meeting with
the two ladies at Ardkill. He could as yet take his Kate in his arms
without any hard load upon his heart, such as would be there if he knew
that it was incumbent upon him at once to explain his difficulties. His
uncle was still living, but was old and still ill. He would naturally
make the most of the old man's age and infirmities. There was every
reason why they should wait, and no reason why such waiting should bring
reproaches upon his head. On the night of his arrival at his quarters he
despatched a note to his Kate.

   Dearest love.

   Here I am again in the land of freedom and potatoes. I need not
   trouble you with writing about home news, as I shall see you the
   day after to-morrow. All to-morrow and Wednesday morning I must
   stick close to my guns here. After one on Wednesday I shall be
   free. I will drive over to Lahinch, and come round in the boat.
   I must come back here the same night, but I suppose it will be
   the next morning before I get to bed. I sha'n't mind that if I
   get something for my pains. My love to your mother. Your own,

   F. N.

In accordance with this plan he did drive over to Lahinch. He might have
saved time by directing that his boat should come across the bay to meet
him at Liscannor, but he felt that he would prefer not to meet Father
Marty at present. It might be that before long he would be driven to
tell the priest a good deal, and to ask for the priest's assistance; but
at present he was not anxious to see Father Marty. Barney Morony was
waiting for him at the stable where he put up his horse, and went down
with him to the beach. The ladies, according to Barney, were quite well
and more winsome than ever. But,--and this information was not given
without much delay and great beating about the bush,--there was a
rumour about Liscannor that Captain O'Hara had "turned up." Fred was
so startled at this that he could not refrain from showing his anxiety
by the questions which he asked. Barney did not seem to think that the
Captain had been at Ardkill or anywhere in the neighbourhood. At any
rate he, Barney, had not seen him. He had just heard the rumour. "Shure,
Captain, I wouldn't be telling yer honour a lie; and they do be saying
that the Captain one time was as fine a man as a woman ever sot eyes
on;--and why not, seeing what kind the young lady is, God bless her!" If
it were true that Kate's father had "turned up," such an advent might
very naturally alter Neville's plans. It would so change the position of
things as to relieve him in some degree from the force of his past
promises.

Nevertheless when he saw Kate coming along the cliffs to meet him, the
one thing more certain to him than all other things was that he would
never abandon her. She had been watching for him almost from the hour at
which he had said that he would leave Ennis, and, creeping up among the
rocks, had seen his boat as it came round the point from Liscannor. She
had first thought that she would climb down the path to meet him; but
the tide was high and there was now no strip of strand below the cliffs;
and Barney Morony would have been there to see; and she resolved that it
would be nicer to wait for him on the summit. "Oh Fred, you have come
back," she said, throwing herself on his breast.

"Yes; I am back. Did you think I was going to desert you?"

"No; no. I knew you would not desert me. Oh, my darling!"

"Dear Kate;--dearest Kate."

"You have thought of me sometimes?"

"I have thought of you always,--every hour." And so he swore to her that
she was as much to him as he could possibly be to her. She hung on his
arm as she went down to the cottage, and believed herself to be the
happiest and most fortunate girl in Ireland. As yet no touch of the
sorrows of love had fallen upon her.

He could not all at once ask her as to that rumour which Morony had
mentioned to him. But he thought of it as he walked with his arm round
her waist. Some question must be asked, but it might, perhaps, be better
that he should ask it of the mother. Mrs. O'Hara was at the cottage and
seemed almost as glad to see him as Kate had been. "It is very pleasant
to have you back again," she said. "Kate has been counting first the
hours, and then the minutes."

"And so have you, mother."

"Of course we want to hear all the news," said Mrs. O'Hara. Then
Neville, with the girl who was to be his wife sitting close beside him
on the sofa,--almost within his embrace,--told them how things were
going at Scroope. His uncle was very weak,--evidently failing; but still
so much better as to justify the heir in coming away. He might perhaps
live for another twelve months, but the doctors thought it hardly
possible that he should last longer than that. Then the nephew went
on to say that his uncle was the best and most generous man in the
world,--and the finest gentleman and the truest Christian. He told also
of the tenants who were not to be harassed, and the servants who were
not to be dismissed, and the horses that were to be allowed to die in
their beds, and the trees that were not to be cut down.

"I wish I knew him," said Kate. "I wish I could have seen him once."

"That can never be," said Fred, sadly.

"No;--of course not."

Then Mrs. O'Hara asked a question. "Has he ever heard of us?"

"Yes;--he has heard of you."

"From you?"

"No;--not first from me. There are many reasons why I would not have
mentioned your names could I have helped it. He has wished me to marry
another girl,--and especially a Protestant girl. That was impossible."

"That must be impossible now, Fred," said Kate, looking up into his
face.

"Quite so, dearest; but why should I have vexed him, seeing that he is
so good to me, and that he must be gone so soon?"

"Who had told him of us?" asked Mrs. O'Hara.

"That woman down there at Castle Quin."

"Lady Mary?"

"Foul-tongued old maid that she is," exclaimed Fred. "She writes to my
aunt by every post, I believe."

"What evil can she say of us?"

"She does say evil. Never mind what. Such a woman always says evil of
those of her sex who are good-looking."

"There, mother;--that's for you," said Kate, laughing. "I don't care
what she says."

"If she tells your aunt that we live in a small cottage, without
servants, without society, with just the bare necessaries of life, she
tells the truth of us."

"That's just what she does say;--and she goes on harping about
religion. Never mind her. You can understand that my uncle should be
old-fashioned. He is very old, and we must wait."

"Waiting is so weary," said Mrs. O'Hara.

"It is not weary for me at all," said Kate.

Then he left them, without having said a word about the Captain. He
found the Captain to be a subject very uncomfortable to mention, and
thought as he was sitting there that it might perhaps be better to make
his first enquiries of this priest. No one said a word to him about the
Captain beyond what he had heard from his boatman. For, as it happened,
he did not see the priest till May was nearly past, and during all that
time things were going from bad to worse. As regarded any services which
he rendered to the army at this period of his career, the excuses which
he had made to his uncle were certainly not valid. Some pretence at
positively necessary routine duties it must be supposed that he made;
but he spent more of his time either on the sea, or among the cliffs
with Kate, or on the road going backwards and forwards, than he did at
his quarters. It was known that he was to leave the regiment and become
a great man at home in October, and his brother officers were kind to
him. And it was known also, of course, that there was a young lady down
on the sea coast beyond Ennistimon, and doubtless there were jokes on
the subject. But there was no one with him at Ennis having such weight
of fears or authority as might have served to help to rescue him. During
this time Lady Mary Quin still made her reports, and his aunt's letters
were full of cautions and entreaties. "I am told," said the Countess, in
one of her now detested epistles, "that the young woman has a reprobate
father who has escaped from the galleys. Oh, Fred, do not break our
hearts." He had almost forgotten the Captain when he received this
further rumour which had circulated to him round by Castle Quin and
Scroope Manor.

It was all going from bad to worse. He was allowed by the mother to be
at the cottage as much as he pleased, and the girl was allowed to wander
with him when she would among the cliffs. It was so, although Father
Marty himself had more than once cautioned Mrs. O'Hara that she was
imprudent. "What can I do?" she said. "Have not you yourself taught me
to believe that he is true?"

"Just spake a word to Miss Kate herself."

"What can I say to her now? She regards him as her husband before God."

"But he is not her husband in any way that would prevent his taking
another wife an' he plases. And, believe me, Misthress O'Hara, them sort
of young men like a girl a dale better when there's a little 'Stand off'
about her."

"It is too late to bid her to be indifferent to him now, Father Marty."

"I am not saying that Miss Kate is to lose her lover. I hope I'll have
the binding of 'em together myself, and I'll go bail I'll do it fast
enough. In the meanwhile let her keep herself to herself a little more."

The advice was very good, but Mrs. O'Hara knew not how to make use of
it. She could tell the young man that she would have his heart's blood
if he deceived them, and she could look at him as though she meant to be
as good as her word. She had courage enough for any great emergency. But
now that the lover had been made free of the cottage she knew not how to
debar him. She could not break her Kate's heart by expressing doubts to
her. And were he to be told to stay away, would he not be lost to them
for ever? Of course he could desert them if he would, and then they must
die.

It was going from bad to worse certainly; and not the less so because
he was more than ever infatuated about the girl. When he had calculated
whether it might be possible to desert her he had been at Scroope. He
was in County Clare now, and he did not hesitate to tell himself that
it was impossible. Whatever might happen, and to whomever he might be
false,--he would be true to her. He would at any rate be so true to her
that he would not leave her. If he never made her his legal wife, his
wife legal at all points, he would always treat her as wife. When his
uncle the Earl should die, when the time came in which he would be
absolutely free as to his own motions, he would discover the way in
which this might best be done. If it were true that his Kate's father
was a convict escaped from the galleys, that surely would be an
additional reason why she should not be made Countess of Scroope. Even
Mrs. O'Hara herself must understand that. With Kate, with his own Kate,
he thought that there would be no difficulty.

From bad to worse! Alas, alas; there came a day in which the
pricelessness of the girl he loved sank to nothing, vanished away, and
was as a thing utterly lost, even in his eyes. The poor unfortunate
one,--to whom beauty had been given, and grace, and softness,--and
beyond all these and finer than these, innocence as unsullied as the
whiteness of the plumage on the breast of a dove; but to whom, alas,
had not been given a protector strong enough to protect her softness,
or guardian wise enough to guard her innocence! To her he was godlike,
noble, excellent, all but holy. He was the man whom Fortune, more than
kind, had sent to her to be the joy of her existence, the fountain of
her life, the strong staff for her weakness. Not to believe in him would
be the foulest treason! To lose him would be to die! To deny him would
be to deny her God! She gave him all;--and her pricelessness in his eyes
was gone for ever.

He was sitting with her one day towards the end of May on the edge of
the cliff, looking down upon the ocean and listening to the waves, when
it occurred to him that he might as well ask her about her father.
It was absurd he thought to stand upon any ceremony with her. He was
very good to her, and intended to be always good to her, but it was
essentially necessary to him to know the truth. He was not aware,
perhaps, that he was becoming rougher with her than had been his wont.
She certainly was not aware of it, though there was a touch of awe
sometimes about her as she answered him. She was aware that she now
shewed to him an absolute obedience in all things which had not been
customary with her; but then it was so sweet to obey him; so happy a
thing to have such a master! If he rebuked her, he did it with his arm
round her waist, so that she could look into his face and smile as she
promised that she would be good and follow his behests in all things. He
had been telling her now of some fault in her dress, and she had been
explaining that such faults would come when money was so scarce. Then he
had offered her gifts. A gift she would of course take. She had already
taken gifts which were the treasures of her heart. But he must not pay
things for her till,--till--. Then she again looked up into his face and
smiled. "You are not angry with me?" she said.

"Kate,--I want to ask you a particular question."

"What question?"

"You must not suppose, let the answer be what it may, that it can make
any difference between you and me."

"Oh,--I hope not," she replied trembling.

"It shall make none," he answered with all a master's assurance and
authority. "Therefore you need not be afraid to answer me. Tidings have
reached me on a matter as to which I ought to be informed."

"What matter? Oh Fred, you do so frighten me. I'll tell you anything I
know."

"I have been told that--that your father--is alive." He looked down
upon her and could see that her face was red up to her very hair. "Your
mother once told me that she had never been certain of his death."

"I used to think he was dead."

"But now you think he is alive?"

"I think he is;--but I do not know. I never saw my father so as to
remember him; though I do remember that we used to be very unhappy when
we were in Spain."

"And what have you heard lately? Tell me the truth, you know."

"Of course I shall tell you the truth, Fred. I think mother got a
letter, but she did not shew it me. She said just a word, but nothing
more. Father Marty will certainly know if she knows."

"And you know nothing?"

"Nothing."

"I think I must ask Father Marty."

"But will it matter to you?" Kate asked.

"At any rate it shall not matter to you," he said, kissing her. And
then again she was happy; though there had now crept across her heart
the shadow of some sad foreboding, a foretaste of sorrow that was not
altogether bitter as sorrow is, but which taught her to cling closely
to him when he was there and would fill her eyes with tears when she
thought of him in his absence.

On this day he had not found Mrs. O'Hara at the cottage. She had gone
down to Liscannor, Kate told him. He had sent his boat back to the
strand near that village, round the point and into the bay, as it could
not well lie under the rocks at high tide, and he now asked Kate to
accompany him as he walked down. They would probably meet her mother on
the road. Kate, as she tied on her hat, was only too happy to be his
companion. "I think," he said, "that I shall try and see Father Marty as
I go back. If your mother has really heard anything about your father,
she ought to have told me."

"Don't be angry with mother, Fred."

"I won't be angry with you, my darling," said the master with masterful
tenderness.

Although he had intimated his intention of calling on the priest that
very afternoon, it may be doubted whether he was altogether gratified
when he met the very man with Mrs. O'Hara close to the old burying
ground. "Ah, Mr. Neville," said the priest, "and how's it all wid you
this many a day?"

"The top of the morning to you thin, Father Marty," said Fred, trying
to assume an Irish brogue. Nothing could be more friendly than the
greeting. The old priest took off his hat to Kate, and made a low bow,
as though he should say,--to the future Countess of Scroope I owe a very
especial respect. Mrs. O'Hara held her future son-in-law's hand for a
moment, as though she might preserve him for her daughter by some show
of affection on her own part. "And now, Misthress O'Hara," said the
priest, "as I've got a companion to go back wid me, I'm thinking I'll
not go up the hill any further." Then they parted, and Kate looked as
though she were being robbed of her due because her lover could not give
her one farewell kiss in the priest's presence.

CHAPTER II.

IS SHE TO BE YOUR WIFE?

"It's quite a sthranger you are, these days," said the priest, as soon
as they had turned their backs upon the ladies.

"Well; yes. We haven't managed to meet since I came back;--have we?"

"I've been pretty constant at home, too. But you like them cliffs up
there, better than the village no doubt."

"Metal more attractive, Father Marty," said Fred laughing;--"not meaning
however any slight upon Liscannor or the Cork whisky."

"The Cork whisky is always to the fore, Mr. Neville. And how did you
lave matters with your noble uncle?"

Neville at the present moment was anxious rather to speak of Kate's
ignoble father than of his own noble uncle. He had declared his
intention of making inquiry of Father Marty, and he thought that he
should do so with something of a high hand. He still had that scheme
in his head, and he might perhaps be better prepared to discuss it
with the priest if he could first make this friend of the O'Hara family
understand how much he, Neville, was personally injured by this "turning
up" of a disreputable father. But, should he allow the priest at once to
run away to Scroope and his noble uncle, the result of such conversation
would simply be renewed promises on his part in reference to his future
conduct to Kate O'Hara.

"Lord Scroope wasn't very well when I left him. By the bye, Father
Marty, I've been particularly anxious to see you."

"'Deed thin I was aisy found, Mr. Neville."

"What is this I hear about--Captain O'Hara?"

"What is it that you have heard, Mr. Neville?" Fred looked into the
priest's face and found that he, at least, did not blush. It may be that
all power of blushing had departed from Father Marty.

"In the first place I hear that there is such a man."

"Ony way there was once."

"You think he's dead then?"

"I don't say that. It's a matter of,--faith, thin, it's a matter of nigh
twenty years since I saw the Captain. And when I did see him I didn't
like him. I can tell you that, Mr. Neville."

"I suppose not."

"That lass up there was not born when I saw him. He was a handsome man
too, and might have been a gentleman av' he would."

"But he wasn't."

"It's a hard thing to say what is a gentleman, Mr. Neville. I don't know
a much harder thing. Them folk at Castle Quin, now, wouldn't scruple
to say that I'm no gentleman, just because I'm a Popish priest. I say
that Captain O'Hara was no gentleman because--he ill-treated a woman."
Father Marty as he said this stopped a moment on the road, turning round
and looking Neville full in the face. Fred bore the look fairly well.
Perhaps at the moment he did not understand its application. It may be
that he still had a clear conscience in that matter, and thought that he
was resolved to treat Kate O'Hara after a fashion that would in no way
detract from his own character as a gentleman. "As it was," continued
the priest, "he was a low blag-guard."

"He hadn't any money, I suppose?"

"'Deed and I don't think he was iver throubled much in respect of money.
But money doesn't matter, Mr. Neville."

"Not in the least," said Fred.

"Thim ladies up there are as poor as Job, but anybody that should say
that they weren't ladies would just be shewing that he didn't know the
difference. The Captain was well born, Mr. Neville, av' that makes ony
odds."

"Birth does go for something, Father Marty."

"Thin let the Captain have the advantage. Them O'Haras of Kildare
weren't proud of him I'm thinking, but he was a chip of that block; and
some one belonging to him had seen the errors of the family ways, in
respect of making him a Papist. 'Deed and I must say, Mr. Neville, when
they send us any offsets from a Prothestant family it isn't the best
that they give us."

"I suppose not, Father Marty."

"We can make something of a bit of wood that won't take ony shape at
all, at all along wid them. But there wasn't much to boast of along of
the Captain."

"But is he alive, Father Marty;--or is he dead? I think I've a right to
be told."

"I am glad to hear you ask it as a right, Mr. Neville. You have a right
if that young lady up there is to be your wife." Fred made no answer
here, though the priest paused for a moment, hoping that he would do
so. But the question could be asked again, and Father Marty went on to
tell all that he knew, and all that he had heard of Captain O'Hara. He
was alive. Mrs. O'Hara had received a letter purporting to be from her
husband, giving an address in London, and asking for money. He, Father
Marty, had seen the letter; and he thought that there might perhaps be a
doubt whether it was written by the man of whom they were speaking. Mrs.
O'Hara had declared that if it were so written the handwriting was much
altered. But then in twelve years the writing of a man who drank hard
will change. It was twelve years since she had last received a letter
from him.

"And what do you believe?"

"I think he lives, and that he wrote it, Mr. Neville. I'll tell you
God's truth about it as I believe it, because as I said before, I think
you are entitled to know the truth."

"And what was done?"

"I sent off to London,--to a friend I have."

"And what did your friend say?"

"He says there is a man calling himself Captain O'Hara."

"And is that all?"

"She got a second letter. She got it the very last day you was down
here. Pat Cleary took it up to her when you was out wid Miss Kate."

"He wants money, I suppose."

"Just that, Mr. Neville."

"It makes a difference;--doesn't it?"

"How does it make a difference?"

"Well; it does. I wonder you don't see it. You must see it." From that
moment Father Marty said in his heart that Kate O'Hara had lost her
husband. Not that he admitted for a moment that Captain O'Hara's return,
if he had returned, would justify the lover in deserting the girl; but
that he perceived that Neville had already allowed himself to entertain
the plea. The whole affair had in the priest's estimation been full of
peril; but then the prize to be won was very great! From the first he
had liked the young man, and had not doubted,--did not now doubt,--but
that if once married he would do justice to his wife. Even though
Kate should fail and should come out of the contest with a scorched
heart,--and that he had thought more than probable,--still the prize was
very high and the girl he thought was one who could survive such a blow.
Latterly, in that respect he had changed his opinion. Kate had shewn
herself to be capable of so deep a passion that he was now sure that
she would be more than scorched should the fire be one to injure and
not to cherish her. But the man's promises had been so firm, so often
reiterated, were so clearly written, that the priest had almost dared to
hope that the thing was assured. Now, alas, he perceived that the embryo
English lord was already looking for a means of escape, and already
thought that he had found it in this unfortunate return of the father.
The whole extent of the sorrow even the priest did not know. But he was
determined to fight the battle to the very last. The man should make the
girl his wife, or he, Father Marty, parish priest of Liscannor, would
know the reason why. He was a man who was wont to desire to know the
reason why, as to matters which he had taken in hand. But when he heard
the words which Neville spoke and marked the tone in which they were
uttered he felt that the young man was preparing for himself a way of
escape.

"I don't see that it should make any difference," he said shortly.

"If the man be disreputable,--"

"The daughter is not therefore disreputable. Her position is not
changed."

"I have to think of my friends."

"You should have thought of that before you declared yourself to her,
Mr. Neville." How true this was now, the young man knew better than
the priest, but that, as yet, was his own secret. "You do not mean to
tell me that because the father is not all that he should be, she is
therefore to be thrown over. That cannot be your idea of honour. Have
you not promised that you would make her your wife?" The priest stopped
for an answer, but the young man made him none. "Of course you have
promised her."

"I suppose she has told you so."

"To whom should she tell her story? To whom should she go for advice?
But it was you who told me so, yourself."

"Never."

"Did you not swear to me that you would not injure her? And why should
there have been any talk with you and me about her, but that I saw
what was coming? When a young man like you chooses to spend his hours
day after day and week after week with such a one as she is, with a
beautiful young girl, a sweet innocent young lady, so sweet as to make
even an ould priest like me feel that the very atmosphere she breathes
is perfumed and hallowed, must it not mean one of two things;--that he
desires to make her his wife or else,--or else something so vile that
I will not name it in connection with Kate O'Hara? Then as her mother's
friend, and as hers,--as their only friend near them, I spoke out
plainly to you, and you swore to me that you intended no harm to her."

"I would not harm her for the world."

"When you said that, you told me as plainly as you could spake that she
should be your wife. With her own mouth she never told me. Her mother
has told me. Daily Mrs. O'Hara has spoken to me of her hopes and fears.
By the Lord above me whom I worship, and by His Son in whom I rest all
my hopes, I would not stand in your shoes if you intend to tell that
woman that after all that has passed you mean to desert her child."

"Who has talked of deserting?" asked Neville angrily.

"Say that you will be true to her, that you will make her your wife
before God and man, and I will humbly ask your pardon."

"All that I say is that this Captain O'Hara's coming is a nuisance."

"If that be all, there is an end of it. It is a nuisance. Not that I
suppose he ever will come. If he persists she must send him a little
money. There shall be no difficulty about that. She will never ask you
to supply the means of keeping her husband."

"It isn't the money. I think you hardly understand my position, Father
Marty." It seemed to Neville that if it was ever his intention to open
out his scheme to the priest, now was his time for doing so. They had
come to the cross roads at which one way led down to the village and to
Father Marty's house, and the other to the spot on the beach where the
boat would be waiting. "I can't very well go on to Liscannor," said
Neville.

"Give me your word before we part that you will keep your promise to
Miss O'Hara," said the priest.

"If you will step on a few yards with me I will tell you just how I am
situated." Then the priest assented, and they both went on towards the
beach, walking very slowly. "If I alone were concerned, I would give
up everything for Miss O'Hara. I am willing to give up everything as
regards myself. I love her so dearly that she is more to me than all the
honours and wealth that are to come to me when my uncle dies."

"What is to hinder but that you should have the girl you love and your
uncle's honours and wealth into the bargain?"

"That is just it."

"By the life of me I don't see any difficulty. You're your own masther.
The ould Earl can't disinherit you if he would."

"But I am bound down."

"How bound? Who can bind you?"

"I am bound not to make Miss O'Hara Countess of Scroope."

"What binds you? You are bound by a hundred promises to make her your
wife."

"I have taken an oath that no Roman Catholic shall become Countess
Scroope as my wife."

"Then, Mr. Neville, let me tell you that you must break your oath."

"Would you have me perjure myself?"

"Faith I would. Perjure yourself one way you certainly must, av' you've
taken such an oath as that, for you've sworn many oaths that you would
make this Catholic lady your wife. Not make a Roman Catholic Countess of
Scroope! It's the impudence of some of you Prothestants that kills me
entirely. As though we couldn't count Countesses against you and beat
you by chalks! I ain't the man to call hard names, Mr. Neville; but if
one of us is upstarts, it's aisy seeing which. Your uncle's an ould man,
and I'm told nigh to his latter end. I'm not saying but what you should
respect even his wakeness. But you'll not look me in the face and tell
me that afther what's come and gone that young lady is to be cast on one
side like a plucked rose, because an ould man has spoken a foolish word,
or because a young man has made a wicked promise."

They were now standing again, and Fred raised his hat and rubbed his
forehead as he endeavoured to arrange the words in which he could best
propose his scheme to the priest. He had not yet escaped from the idea
that because Father Marty was a Roman Catholic priest, living in a
village in the extreme west of Ireland, listening night and day to the
roll of the Atlantic and drinking whisky punch, therefore he would be
found to be romantic, semi-barbarous, and perhaps more than semi-lawless
in his views of life. Irish priests have been made by chroniclers of
Irish story to do marvellous things; and Fred Neville thought that
this priest, if only the matter could be properly introduced, might
be persuaded to do for him something romantic, something marvellous,
perhaps something almost lawless. In truth it might have been difficult
to find a man more practical or more honest than Mr. Marty. And then
the difficulty of introducing the subject was very great. Neville stood
with his face a little averted, rubbing his forehead as he raised his
sailor's hat. "If you could only read my heart," he said, "you'd know
that I am as true as steel."

"I'd be lothe to doubt it, Mr. Neville."

"I'd give up everything to call Kate my own."

"But you need give up nothing, and yet have her all your own."

"You say that because you don't completely understand. It may as well be
taken for granted at once that she can never be Countess of Scroope."

"Taken for granted!" said the old man as the fire flashed out of his
eyes.

"Just listen to me for one moment. I will marry her to-morrow, or at any
time you may fix, if a marriage can be so arranged that she shall never
be more than Mrs. Neville."

"And what would you be?"

"Mr. Neville."

"And what would her son be?"

"Oh;--just the same,--when he grew up. Perhaps there wouldn't be a son."

"God forbid that there should on those terms. You intend that your
children and her children shall be--bastards. That's about it, Mr.
Neville." The romance seemed to vanish when the matter was submitted
to him in this very prosaic manner. "As to what you might choose to
call yourself, that would be nothing to me and not very much I should
say, to her. I believe a man needn't be a lord unless he likes to be a
lord;--and needn't call his wife a countess. But, Mr. Neville, when you
have married Miss O'Hara, and when your uncle shall have died, there can
be no other Countess of Scroope, and her child must be the heir to your
uncle's title."

"All that I could give her except that, she should have."

"But she must have that. She must be your wife before God and man, and
her children must be the children of honour and not of disgrace."
Ah,--if the priest had known it all!

"I would live abroad with her, and her mother should live with us."

"You mean that you would take Kate O'Hara as your misthress! And you
make this as a proposal to me! Upon my word, Mr. Neville, I don't think
that I quite understand what it is that you're maning to say to me. Is
she to be your wife?"

"Yes," said Neville, urged by the perturbation of his spirit to give a
stronger assurance than he had intended.

"Then must her son if she have one be the future Earl of Scroope. He may
be Protesthant,--or what you will?"

"You don't understand me, Father Marty."

"Faith, and that's thrue. But we are at the baich, Mr. Neville, and I've
two miles along the coast to Liscannor."

"Shall I make Barney take you round in the canoe?"

"I believe I may as well walk it. Good-bye, Mr. Neville. I'm glad at any
rate to hear you say so distinctly that you are resolved at all hazards
to make that dear girl your wife." This he said, almost in a whisper,
standing close to the boat, with his hand on Neville's shoulder. He
paused a moment as though to give special strength to his words, and
Neville did not dare or was not able to protest against the assertion.
Father Marty himself was certainly not romantic in his manner of
managing such an affair as this in which they were now both concerned.

Neville went back to Ennis much depressed, turning the matter over in
his mind almost hopelessly. This was what had come from his adventures!
No doubt he might marry the girl,--postponing his marriage till after
his uncle's death. For aught he knew as yet that might still be
possible. But were he to do so, he would disgrace his family, and
disgrace himself by breaking the solemn promise he had made. And in such
case he would be encumbered, and possibly be put beyond the pale of that
sort of life which should be his as Earl of Scroope, by having Captain
O'Hara as his father-in-law. He was aware now that he would be held by
all his natural friends to have ruined himself by such a marriage.

On the other hand he could, no doubt, throw the girl over. They could
not make him marry her though they could probably make him pay very
dearly for not doing so. If he could only harden his heart sufficiently
he could escape in that way. But he was not hard, and he did feel that
so escaping, he would have a load on his breast which would make his
life unendurable. Already he was beginning to hate the coast of Ireland,
and to think that the gloom of Scroope Manor was preferable to it.

CHAPTER III.

FRED NEVILLE RECEIVES A VISITOR AT ENNIS.

For something over three weeks after his walk with the priest Neville
saw neither of the two ladies of Ardkill. Letters were frequent between
the cottage and the barracks at Ennis, but,--so said Fred himself,
military duties detained him with the troop. He explained that he had
been absent a great deal, and that now Captain Johnstone was taking his
share of ease. He was all alone at the barracks, and could not get away.
There was some truth in this, created perhaps by the fact that as he
didn't stir, Johnstone could do so. Johnstone was backwards and forwards,
fishing at Castle Connel, and Neville was very exact in explaining that
for the present he was obliged to give up all the delights of the coast.
But the days were days of trial to him.

A short history of the life of Captain O'Hara was absolutely sent to
him by the Countess of Scroope. The family lawyer, at the instance of
the Earl,--as she said, though probably her own interference had been
more energetic than that of the Earl,--had caused enquiries to be made.
Captain O'Hara, the husband of the lady who was now living on the coast
of County Clare, and who was undoubtedly the father of the Miss O'Hara
whom Fred knew, had passed at least ten of the latter years of his
life at the galleys in the south of France. He had been engaged in
an extensive swindling transaction at Bordeaux, and had thence been
transferred to Toulon, had there been maintained by France,--and was now
in London. The Countess in sending this interesting story to her nephew
at Ennis, with ample documentary evidence, said that she was sure that
he would not degrade his family utterly by thinking of allying himself
with people who were so thoroughly disreputable; but that, after all
that was passed, his uncle expected from him a renewed assurance on the
matter. He answered this in anger. He did not understand why the history
of Captain O'Hara should have been raked up. Captain O'Hara was nothing
to him. He supposed it had come from Castle Quin, and anything from
Castle Quin he disbelieved. He had given a promise once and he didn't
understand why he should be asked for any further assurance. He
thought it very hard that his life should be made a burden to him by
foul-mouthed rumours from Castle Quin. That was the tenour of his letter
to his aunt; but even that letter sufficed to make it almost certain
that he could never marry the girl. He acknowledged that he had bound
himself not to do so. And then, in spite of all that he said about the
mendacity of Castle Quin, he did believe the little history. And it
was quite out of the question that he should marry the daughter of a
returned galley-slave. He did not think that any jury in England would
hold him to be bound by such a promise. Of course he would do whatever
he could for his dear Kate; but, even after all that had passed, he
could not pollute himself by marriage with the child of so vile a
father. Poor Kate! Her sufferings would have been occasioned not by him,
but by her father.

In the meantime Kate's letters to him became more and more frequent,
more and more sad,--filled ever with still increasing warmth of
entreaty. At last they came by every post, though he knew how difficult
it must be for her to find daily messengers into Ennistimon. Would he
not come and see her? He must come and see her. She was ill and would
die unless he came to her. He did not always answer these letters, but
he did write to her perhaps twice a week. He would come very soon,--as
soon as Johnstone had come back from his fishing. She was not to fret
herself. Of course he could not always be at Ardkill. He too had things
to trouble him. Then he told her he had received letters from home which
caused him very much trouble; and there was a something of sharpness
in his words, which brought from her a string of lamentations in
which, however, the tears and wailings did not as yet take the form
of reproaches. Then there came a short note from Mrs. O'Hara herself.
"I must beg that you will come to Ardkill at once. It is absolutely
necessary for Kate's safety that you should do so."

When he received this he thought that he would go on the morrow. When
the morrow came he determined to postpone the journey another day! The
calls of duty are so much less imperious than those of pleasure! On that
further day he still meant to go, as he sat about noon unbraced, only
partly dressed in his room at the barracks. His friend Johnstone was back
in Ennis, and there was also a Cornet with the troop. He had no excuse
whatever on the score of military duty for remaining at home on that
day. But he sat idling his time, thinking of things. All the charm of
the adventure was gone. He was sick of the canoe and of Barney Morony.
He did not care a straw for the seals or wild gulls. The moaning of the
ocean beneath the cliff was no longer pleasurable to him,--and as to the
moaning at their summit, to tell the truth, he was afraid of it. The
long drive thither and back was tedious to him. He thought now more of
the respectability of his family than of the beauty of Kate O'Hara.

But still he meant to go,--certainly would go on this very day. He had
desired that his gig should be ready, and had sent word to say that he
might start at any moment. But still he sat in his dressing-gown at
noon, unbraced, with a novel in his hand which he could not read, and a
pipe by his side which he could not smoke. Close to him on the table lay
that record of the life of Captain O'Hara, which his aunt had sent him,
every word of which he had now examined for the third or fourth time. Of
course he could not marry the girl. Mrs. O'Hara had deceived him. She
could not but have known that her husband was a convict;--and had kept
the knowledge back from him in order that she might allure him to the
marriage. Anything that money could do, he would do. Or, if they would
consent, he would take the girl away with him to some sunny distant
clime, in which adventures might still be sweet, and would then devote
to her--some portion of his time. He had not yet ruined himself, but
he would indeed ruin himself were he, the heir to the earldom of
Scroope, to marry the daughter of a man who had been at the French
galleys! He had just made up his mind that he would be firm in this
resolution,--when the door opened and Mrs. O'Hara entered his room.
"Mrs. O'Hara."

She closed the door carefully behind her before she spoke, excluding the
military servant who had wished to bar her entrance. "Yes, sir; as you
would not come to us I have been forced to come to you. I know it all.
When will you make my child your wife?"

Yes. In the abjectness of her misery the poor girl had told her mother
the story of her disgrace; or, rather, in her weakness had suffered her
secret to fall from her lips. That terrible retribution was to come upon
her which, when sin has been mutual, falls with so crushing a weight
upon her who of the two sinners has ever been by far the less sinful.
She, when she knew her doom, simply found herself bound by still
stronger ties of love to him who had so cruelly injured her. She was his
before; but now she was more than ever his. To have him near her, to
give her orders that she might obey them, was the consolation that she
coveted,--the only consolation that could have availed anything to her.
To lean against him, and to whisper to him, with face averted, with
half-formed syllables, some fervent words that might convey to him a
truth which might be almost a joy to her if he would make it so,--was
the one thing that could restore hope to her bosom. Let him come and be
near to her, so that she might hide her face upon his breast. But he
came not. He did not come, though, as best she knew how, she had thrown
all her heart into her letters. Then her spirit sank within her, and she
sickened, and as her mother knelt over her, she allowed her secret to
fall from her.

Fred Neville's sitting-room at Ennis was not a chamber prepared for the
reception of ladies. It was very rough, as are usually barrack rooms in
outlying quarters in small towns in the west of Ireland,--and it was
also very untidy. The more prudent and orderly of mankind might hardly
have understood why a young man, with prospects and present wealth such
as belonged to Neville, should choose to spend a twelvemonth in such a
room, contrary to the wishes of all his friends, when London was open
to him, and the continent, and scores of the best appointed houses in
England, and all the glories of ownership at Scroope. There were guns
about, and whips, hardly half a dozen books, and a few papers. There
were a couple of swords lying on a table that looked like a dresser. The
room was not above half covered with its carpet, and though there were
three large easy chairs, even they were torn and soiled. But all this
had been compatible with adventures,--and while the adventures were
simply romantic and not a bit troublesome, the barracks at Ennis had
been to him by far preferable to the gloomy grandeur of Scroope.

And now Mrs. O'Hara was there, telling him that she knew of all! Not for
a moment did he remain ignorant of the meaning of her communication. And
now the arguments to be used against him in reference to the marriage
would be stronger than ever. A silly, painful smile came across his
handsome face as he attempted to welcome her, and moved a chair for her
accommodation. "I am so sorry that you have had the trouble of coming
over," he said.

"That is nothing. When will you make my child your wife?" How was he to
answer this? In the midst of his difficulties he had brought himself to
one determination. He had resolved that under no pressure would he marry
the daughter of O'Hara, the galley-slave. As far as that, he had seen
his way. Should he now at once speak of the galley-slave, and, with
expressions of regret, decline the alliance on that reason? Having
dishonoured this woman's daughter should he shelter himself behind the
dishonour of her husband? That he meant to do so ultimately is true;
but at the present moment such a task would have required a harder
heart than his. She rose from her chair and stood close over him as she
repeated her demand, "When will you make my child your wife?"

"You do not want me to answer you at this moment?"

"Yes;--at this moment. Why not answer me at once? She has told me all.
Mr. Neville, you must think not only of her, but of your child also."

"I hope not that," he said.

"I tell you that it is so. Now answer me. When shall my Kate become your
wife?"

He still knew that any such consummation as that was quite out of the
question. The mother herself as she was now present to him, seemed to
be a woman very different from the quiet, handsome, high-spirited, but
low-voiced widow whom he had known, or thought that he had known, at
Ardkill. Of her as she had there appeared to him he had not been ashamed
to think as one who might at some future time be personally related to
himself. He had recognized her as a lady whose outward trappings, poor
though they might be, were suited to the seclusion in which she lived.
But now, although it was only to Ennis that she had come from her nest
among the rocks, she seemed to be unfitted for even so much intercourse
with the world as that. And in the demand which she reiterated over him
she hardly spoke as a lady would speak. Would not all they who were
connected with him at home have a right to complain if he were to bring
such a woman with him to England as the mother of his wife. "I can't
answer such a question as that on the spur of the moment," he said.

"You will not dare to tell me that you mean to desert her?"

"Certainly not. I was coming over to Ardkill this very day. The trap is
ordered. I hope Kate is well?"

"She is not well. How should she be well?"

"Why not? I didn't know. If there is anything that she wants that I can
get for her, you have only to speak."

In the utter contempt which Mrs. O'Hara now felt for the man she
probably forgot that his immediate situation was one in which it was
nearly impossible that any man should conduct himself with dignity.
Having brought himself to his present pass by misconduct, he could
discover no line of good conduct now open to him. Moralists might tell
him that let the girl's parentage be what it might, he ought to marry
her; but he was stopped from that, not only by his oath, but by a
conviction that his highest duty required him to preserve his family
from degradation. And yet to a mother, with such a demand on her lips
as that now made by Mrs. O'Hara,--whose demand was backed by such
circumstances,--how was it possible that he should tell the truth and
plead the honour of his family? His condition was so cruel that it was
no longer possible to him to be dignified or even true. The mother again
made her demand. "There is one thing that you must do for her before
other things can be thought of. When shall she become your wife?"

It was for a moment on his tongue to tell her that it could not be so
while his uncle lived;--but to this he at once felt that there were two
objections, directly opposed to each other, but each so strong as to
make any such reply very dangerous. It would imply a promise, which he
certainly did not intend to keep, of marrying the girl when his uncle
should be dead; and, although promising so much more than he intended
to perform, would raise the ungovernable wrath of the woman before him.
That he should now hesitate,--now, in her Kate's present condition,--as
to redeeming those vows of marriage which he had made to her in her
innocence, would raise a fury in the mother's bosom which he feared to
encounter. He got up and walked about the room, while she stood with her
eyes fixed upon him, ever and anon reiterating her demand. "No day must
now be lost. When will you make my child your wife?"

At last he made a proposition to which she assented. The tidings
which she had brought him had come upon him very suddenly. He was
inexpressibly pained. Of course Kate, his dearest Kate, was everything
to him. Let him have that afternoon to think about it. On the morrow he
would assuredly visit Ardkill. The mother, full of fears, resolving that
should he attempt to play her girl false and escape from her she would
follow him to the end of the world, but feeling that at the present
moment she could not constrain him, accepted his repeated promise as to
the following day; and at last left him to himself.

CHAPTER IV.

NEVILLE'S SUCCESS.

Neville sat in his room alone, without moving, for a couple of hours
after Mrs. O'Hara had left him. In what way should he escape from the
misery and ruin which seemed to surround him? An idea did cross his
mind that it would be better for him to fly and write the truth from
the comparatively safe distance of his London club. But there would
be a meanness in such conduct which would make it impossible that he
should ever again hold up his head. The girl had trusted to him, and by
trusting to him had brought herself to this miserable pass. He could
not desert her. It would be better that he should go and endure all
the vials of their wrath than that. To her he would still be tenderly
loving, if she would accept his love without the name which he could not
give her. His whole life he would sacrifice to her. Every luxury which
money could purchase he would lavish on her. He must go and make his
offer. The vials of wrath which would doubtless be poured out upon his
head would not come from her. In his heart of hearts he feared both
the priest and the mother. But there are moments in which a man feels
himself obliged to encounter all that he most fears;--and the man who
does not do so in such moments is a coward.

He quite made up his mind to start early on the following morning; but
the intermediate hours were very sad and heavy, and his whole outlook
into life was troublesome to him. How infinitely better would it have
been for him had he allowed himself to be taught a twelvemonth since
that his duty required him to give up the army at once! But he had made
his bed, and now he must lie upon it. There was no escape from this
journey to Ardkill. Even though he should be stunned by their wrath he
must endure it.

He breakfasted early the next day, and got into his gig before nine.
He must face the enemy, and the earlier that he did it the better. His
difficulty now lay in arranging the proposition that he would make and
the words that he should speak. Every difficulty would be smoothed and
every danger dispelled if he would only say that he would marry the girl
as quickly as the legal forms would allow. Father Marty, he knew, would
see to all that, and the marriage might be done effectually. He had
quite come to understand that Father Marty was practical rather than
romantic. But there would be cowardice in this as mean as that other
cowardice. He believed himself to be bound by his duty to his family.
Were he now to renew his promise of marriage, such renewal would be
caused by fear and not by duty, and would be mean. They should tear him
piecemeal rather than get from him such a promise. Then he thought of
the Captain, and perceived that he must make all possible use of the
Captain's character. Would anybody conceive that he, the heir of the
Scroope family, was bound to marry the daughter of a convict returned
from the galleys? And was it not true that such promise as he had made
had been obtained under false pretences? Why had he not been told of the
Captain's position when he first made himself intimate with the mother
and daughter?

Instead of going as was his custom to Lahinch, and then rowing across
the bay and round the point, he drove his gig to the village of
Liscannor. He was sick of Barney Morony and the canoe, and never desired
to see either of them again. He was sick indeed, of everything Irish,
and thought that the whole island was a mistake. He drove however boldly
through Liscannor and up to Father Marty's yard, and, not finding the
priest at home, there left his horse and gig. He had determined that
he would first go to the priest and boldly declare that nothing should
induce him to marry the daughter of a convict. But Father Marty was not
at home. The old woman who kept his house believed that he had gone into
Ennistown. He was away with his horse, and would not be back till dinner
time. Then Neville, having seen his own nag taken from the gig, started
on his walk up to Ardkill.

How ugly the country was to his eyes as he now saw it. Here and there
stood a mud cabin, and the small, half-cultivated fields, or rather
patches of land, in which the thin oat crops were beginning to be
green, were surrounded by low loose ramshackle walls, which were little
more than heaps of stone, so carelessly had they been built and so
negligently preserved. A few cocks and hens with here and there a
miserable, starved pig seemed to be the stock of the country. Not a
tree, not a shrub, not a flower was there to be seen. The road was
narrow, rough, and unused. The burial ground which he passed was the
liveliest sign of humanity about the place. Then the country became
still wilder, and there was no road. The oats also ceased, and the
walls. But he could hear the melancholy moan of the waves, which he had
once thought to be musical and had often sworn that he loved. Now the
place with all its attributes was hideous to him, distasteful, and
abominable. At last the cottage was in view, and his heart sank very
low. Poor Kate! He loved her dearly through it all. He endeavoured to
take comfort by assuring himself that his heart was true to her. Not for
worlds would he injure her;--that is, not for worlds, had any worlds
been exclusively his own. On account of the Scroope world,--which was a
world general rather than particular,--no doubt he must injure her most
horribly. But still she was his dear Kate, his own Kate, his Kate whom
he would never desert.

When he came up to the cottage the little gate was open, and he knew
that somebody was there besides the usual inmates. His heart at once
told him that it was the priest. His fate had brought him face to face
with his two enemies at once! His breath almost left him, but he knew
that he could not run away. However bitter might be the vials of wrath
he must encounter them. So he knocked at the outer door and, after his
custom, walked into the passage. Then he knocked again at the door of
the one sitting-room,--the door which hitherto he had always passed with
the conviction that he should bring delight,--and for a moment there was
no answer. He heard no voice and he knocked again. The door was opened
for him, and as he entered he met Father Marty. But he at once saw that
there was another man in the room, seated in an arm chair near the
window. Kate, his Kate, was not there, but Mrs. O'Hara was standing at
the head of the sofa, far away from the window and close to the door.
"It is Mr. Neville," said the priest. "It is as well that he should come
in."

"Mr. Neville," said the man rising from his chair, "I am informed that
you are a suitor for the hand of my daughter. Your prospects in life are
sufficient, sir, and I give my consent."

The man was a thing horrible to look at, tall, thin, cadaverous,
ill-clothed, with his wretched and all but ragged overcoat buttoned
close up to his chin, with long straggling thin grizzled hair,
red-nosed, with a drunkard's eyes, and thin lips drawn down at the
corners of the mouth. This was Captain O'Hara; and if any man ever
looked like a convict returned from work in chains, such was the
appearance of this man. This was the father of Fred's Kate;--the man
whom it was expected that he, Frederic Neville, the future Earl of
Scroope, should take as his father-in-law! "This is Captain O'Hara,"
said the priest. But even Father Marty, bold as he was, could not assume
the voice with which he had rebuked Neville as he walked with him, now
nearly a month ago, down to the beach.

Neville did feel that the abomination of the man's appearance
strengthened his position. He stood looking from one to another, while
Mrs. O'Hara remained silent in the corner. "Perhaps," said he, "I had
better not be here. I am intruding."

"It is right that you should know it all," said the priest. "As regards
the young lady it cannot now alter your position. This gentleman must
be--arranged for."

"Oh, certainly," said the Captain. "I must be--arranged for, and that so
soon as possible." The man spoke with a slightly foreign accent and in
a tone, as Fred thought, which savoured altogether of the galleys. "You
have done me the honour, I am informed, to make my daughter all your
own. These estimable people assure me that you hasten to make her your
wife on the instant. I consent. The O'Haras, who are of the very oldest
blood in Europe, have always connected themselves highly. Your uncle
is a most excellent nobleman whose hand I shall be proud to grasp." As
he thus spoke he stalked across the room to Fred, intending at once to
commence the work of grasping the Neville family.

"Get back," said Fred, retreating to the door.

"Is it that you fail to believe that I am your bride's father?"

"I know not whose father you may be. Get back."

"He is what he says he is," said the priest. "You should bear with him
for a while."

"Where is Kate?" demanded Fred. It seemed as though, for the moment,
he were full of courage. He looked round at Mrs. O'Hara, but nobody
answered him. She was still standing with her eyes fixed upon the
man, almost as though she thought that she could dart out upon him and
destroy him. "Where is Kate?" he asked again. "Is she well?"

"Well enough to hide herself from her old father," said the Captain,
brushing a tear from his eye with the back of his hand.

"You shall see her presently, Mr. Neville," said the priest.

Then Neville whispered a word into the priest's ear. "What is it that
the man wants?"

"You need not regard that," said Father Marty.

"Mr. Marty," said the Captain, "you concern yourself too closely in my
affairs. I prefer to open my thoughts and desires to my son-in-law. He
has taken measures which give him a right to interfere in the family.
Ha, ha, ha."

"If you talk like that I'll stab you to the heart," said Mrs. O'Hara,
jumping forward. Then Fred Neville perceived that the woman had a dagger
in her hand which she had hitherto concealed from him as she stood up
against the wall behind the head of the sofa. He learnt afterwards that
the priest, having heard in Liscannor of the man's arrival, had hurried
up to the cottage, reaching it almost at the same moment with the
Captain. Kate had luckily at the moment been in her room and had not
seen her father. She was still in her bed and was ill;--but during the
scene that occurred afterwards she roused herself. But Mrs. O'Hara,
even in the priest's presence, had at once seized the weapon from the
drawer,--showing that she was prepared even for murder, had murder been
found necessary by her for her relief. The man had immediately asked as
to the condition of his daughter, and the mother had learned that her
child's secret was known to all Liscannor. The priest now laid his hand
upon her and stopped her, but he did it in all gentleness. "You'll have
a fierce pig of a mother-in-law, Mr. Neville," said the Captain, "but
your wife's father,--you'll find him always gentle and open to reason.
You were asking what I wanted."

"Had I not better give him money?" suggested Neville.

"No," said the priest shaking his head.

"Certainly," said Captain O'Hara.

"If you will leave this place at once," said Neville, "and come to me
to-morrow morning at the Ennis barracks, I will give you money."

"Give him none," said Mrs. O'Hara.

"My beloved is unreasonable. You would not be rid of me even were he to
be so hard. I should not die. Have I not proved to you that I am one
whom it is hard to destroy by privation. The family has been under a
cloud. A day of sunshine has come with this gallant young nobleman. Let
me partake the warmth. I will visit you, Mr. Neville, certainly;--but
what shall be the figure?"

"That will be as I shall find you then."

"I will trust you. I will come. The journey hence to Ennis is long for
one old as I am, and would be lightened by so small a trifle as--shall
I say a bank note of the meanest value." Upon this Neville handed him
two bank notes for £1 each, and Captain O'Hara walked forth out of his
wife's house.

"He will never leave you now," said the priest.

"He cannot hurt me. I will arrange with some man of business to pay him
a stipend as long as he never troubles our friend here. Though all the
world should know it, will it not be better so?"

Great and terrible is the power of money. When this easy way out of
their immediate difficulties had been made by the rich man, even
Mrs. O'Hara with all her spirit was subdued for the moment, and the
reproaches of the priest were silenced for that hour. The young man
had seemed to behave well, had stood up as the friend of the suffering
women, and had been at any rate ready with his money. "And now," he
said, "where is Kate?" Then Mrs. O'Hara took him by the hand and led
him into the bedroom in which the poor girl had buried herself from her
father's embrace. "Is he gone?" she asked before even she would throw
herself into her lover's arms.

"Neville has paid him money," said the mother.

"Yes, he has gone," said Fred; "and I think,--I think that he will
trouble you no more."

"Oh, Fred, oh, my darling, oh, my own one. At last, at last you have
come to me. Why have you stayed away? You will not stay away again? Oh,
Fred, you do love me? Say that you love me."

"Better than all the world," he said pressing her to his bosom.

He remained with her for a couple of hours, during which hardly a word
was said to him about his marriage. So great had been the effect upon
them all of the sudden presence of the Captain, and so excellent had
been the service rendered them by the trust which the Captain had placed
in the young man's wealth, that for this day both priest and mother were
incapacitated from making their claim with the vigour and intensity of
purpose which they would have shewn had Captain O'Hara not presented
himself at the cottage. The priest left them soon,--but not till it had
been arranged that Neville should go back to Ennis to prepare for his
reception of the Captain, and return to the cottage on the day after
that interview was over. He assumed on a sudden the practical views of
a man of business. He would take care to have an Ennis attorney with
him when speaking to the Captain, and would be quite prepared to go to
the extent of two hundred a year for the Captain's life, if the Captain