Mr. Prendergast was passing on to his room, but at
the foot of the stairs Herbert stopped him again,
going up the stairs with him, and almost whispering
into his ear—
“I trust, Mr. Prendergast,” said he, “that
things are not to go on in this way.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Prendergast.
“Because it is unbearable—unbearable
for my mother and for me, and for us all. My
mother thinks that some terrible thing has happened
to the property; but if so, why should I not be told?”
“Of anything that really has happened, or does
happen, you will be told.”
“I don’t know whether you are aware of
it, Mr. Prendergast, but I am engaged to be married.
And I have been given to understand—that
is, I thought that this might take place very soon.
My mother seems to think that your coming here may—may
defer it. If so, I think I have a right to expect
that something shall be told to me.”
“Certainly you have a right, my dear young friend.
But, Mr. Fitzgerald, for your own sake, for all our
sakes, wait patiently for a few hours.”
“I have waited patiently.”
“Yes, I know it. You have behaved admirably.
But I cannot speak to you now. This time the
day after to-morrow, I will tell you everything that
I know. But do not speak of this to your mother.
I make this promise only to you.” And then
he passed on into his bed-room.
With this Herbert was obliged to be content.
That evening he again saw his father and mother, but
he told them nothing of what had passed between him
and Mr. Prendergast. Lady Fitzgerald remained
in the study with Sir Thomas the whole evening, nay,
almost the whole night, and the slow hours as they
passed there were very dreadful. No one came
to table but Aunt Letty, Mr. Prendergast, and Herbert,
and between them hardly a word was spoken. The
poor girls had found themselves utterly unable to
appear. They were dissolved in tears, and crouching
over the fire in their own room. And the moment
that Aunt Letty left the table Mr. Prendergast arose
also. He was suffering, he said, cruelly from
headache, and would ask permission to go to his chamber.
It would have been impossible for him to have sat
there pretending to sip his wine with Herbert Fitzgerald.
After this Herbert again went to his father, and then,
in the gloom of the evening, he found Mr. Somers in
the office, a little magistrate’s room, that
was used both by him and by Sir Thomas. But nothing
passed between them. Herbert had nothing to tell.
And then at about nine he also went up to his bedroom.
A more melancholy day than that had never shed its
gloom upon Castle Richmond.
TWO WITNESSES
