He slept without waking till the light of the February
morning was beginning to dawn into his room, and then
he was roused by a servant knocking at the door.
It was grievous enough that awaking to his sorrow
after the pleasant dreams of the night.
“Here is a letter, Mr. Herbert, from Desmond
Court,” said Richard. “The boy as
brought it says as how—”
“A letter from Desmond Court,” said Herbert,
putting out his hand greedily.
“Yes, Mr. Herbert. The boy’s been
here this hour and better. I warn’t just
up and about myself, or I wouldn’t have let ’em
keep it from you, not half a minute.”
“And where is he? I have a letter to send
to Desmond Court. But never mind. Perhaps—”
“It’s no good minding, for the gossoon’s
gone back any ways.” And then Richard,
having drawn the blind, and placed a little table by
the bed-head, left his young master to read the despatch
from Desmond Court. Herbert, till he saw the
writing, feared that it was from the countess; but
the letter was from Clara. She also had thought
good to write before she betook herself to bed, and
she had been earlier in despatching her messenger.
Here is her letter:
“Dear Herbert, my own Herbert,
“I have heard it all. But remember this;
nothing, nothing, nothing can make any change
between you and me. I will hear of no arguments
that are to separate us. I know beforehand what
you will say, but I will not regard it—not
in the least. I love you ten times the more for
all your unhappiness; and as I would have shared your
good fortune, I claim my right to share your bad fortune.
Pray believe me, that nothing shall
turn me from this; for I will not be given
up.
“Give my kindest love to your dear, dear, dearest
mother—my mother, as she is and must be;
and to my darling girls. I do so wish I could
be with them, and with you, my own Herbert. I
cannot help writing in confusion, but I will explain
all when I see you. I have been so unhappy.
“Your own faithful
“Clara.”
Having read this, Herbert Fitzgerald, in spite of
his affliction, was comforted.
FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT
Herbert as he started from his bed with this letter
in his hand felt that he could yet hold up his head
against all that the world could do to him. How
could he be really unhappy while he possessed such
an assurance of love as this, and while his mother
was able to give him so glorious an example of endurance?
He was not really unhappy. The low-spirited broken-hearted
wretchedness of the preceding day seemed to have departed
from him as he hurried on his clothes, and went off
to his sister’s room that he might show his letter
to Emmeline in accordance with the promise he had
made her.
“May I come in?” he said, knocking at
the door. “I must come in, for I have something
to show you.” But the two girls were dressing
and he could not be admitted. Emmeline however,
promised to come to him, and in about three minutes
she was out in the cold little sitting-room which
adjoined their bedroom with her slippers on, and her
dressing gown wrapped round her, an object presentable
to no male eyes but those of her brother.
