“It would have been dreadful to have gone away
without seeing them,” said Mary. “Poor
creatures, poor dear creatures; we shall never again
have any more people to be fond of us like that!”
“There is no knowing,” said Aunt Letty;
“the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, and
blessed is the name of the Lord. You are both
young, and may come back again; but for me—”
“Dear Aunt Letty, if we come back you shall
come too.”
“If I only thought that my bones could lie here
near my brother’s. But never mind; what
signifies it where our bones lie?” And then
they were silent for a while, till Aunt Letty spoke
again. “I mean to be quite happy over in
England; I believe I shall be happiest of you all
if I can find any clergyman who is not half perverted
to idolatry.”
This took place some time before the ladies left Castle
Richmond,—perhaps as much as three weeks;
it was even before Herbert’s departure, who
started for London the day but one after the scene
here recorded; he had gone to various places to take
his last farewell; to see the Townsends at their parsonage;
to call on Father Barney at Kanturk, and had even
shaken hands with the Rev. Mr. Creagh, at Gortnaclough.
But one farewell visit had been put off for the last.
It was now arranged that he was to go over to Desmond
Court and see Clara before he went. There had
been some difficulty in this, for Lady Desmond had
at first declared that she could not feel justified
in asking him into her house; but the earl was now
at home, and her ladyship had at last given her consent:
he was to see the countess first, and was afterwards
to see Clara—alone. He had declared
that he would not go there unless he were to be allowed
an interview with her in private. The countess,
as I have said, at last consented, trusting that her
previous eloquence might be efficacious in counteracting
the ill effects of her daughter’s imprudence.
On the day after that interview he was to start for
London; “never to return,” as he said
to Emmeline, “unless he came to seek his wife.”
“But you will come to seek your wife,”
said Emmeline, stoutly; “I shall think you faint-hearted
if you doubt it.”
THE LAST STAGE
On the day before his departure for London, Herbert
Fitzgerald once more got on his horse—the
horse that was to be no longer his after that day—and
rode off towards Desmond Court. He had already
perceived how foolish he had been in walking thither
through the mud and rain when last he went there,
and how much he had lost by his sad appearance that
day, and by his want of personal comfort. So he
dressed himself with some care—dressing
not for his love, but for the countess,—and
taking his silver-mounted whip in his gloved hand,
he got up on his well-groomed nag with more spirit
than he had hitherto felt.
