Castle Richmond by Anthony Trollope (good story books to read .txt) 📖

marry Lady Clara?" said Herbert very bitterly.

"I like her excessively," said Sir Thomas. "I think she is a sweet girl, a very sweet girl, all that I or your mother could desire to see in your wife; but—"

"But she is not rich."

"Do not speak to me in that tone, my boy," said Sir Thomas, with an expression that would have moved his enemy to pity, let alone his son. His son did pity him, and ceased to wear the angry expression of face which had so wounded his father.

"But, father, I do not understand you," he said. "Is there any real objection why I should not marry? I am more than twenty-two, and you, I think, married earlier than that."

In answer to this Sir Thomas only sighed meekly and piteously.

"If you mean to say," continued the son, "that it will be inconvenient to you to make me any allowance—"

"No, no, no; you are of course entitled to what you want, and as long as I can give it, you shall have it."

"As long as you can give it, father!"

"As long as it is in my power, I mean. What can I want of anything but for you—for you and them?"

After this Herbert sat silent for a while, leaning on his arm. He knew that there existed some mischief, but he could not fathom it. Had he been prudent, he would have felt that there was some impediment to his love; some evil which it behoved him to fathom before he allowed his love to share it; but when was a lover prudent?

"We should live here, should we not, father? No second establishment would be necessary."

"Of course you would live here," said Sir Thomas, glad to be able to look at the subject on any side that was not painful. "Of course you would live here. For the matter of that, Herbert, the house should be considered as your own if you so wished it."

Against this the son put in his most violent protest. Nothing on earth should make him consider himself master of Castle Richmond as long as his father lived. Nor would Clara,—his Clara, wish it. He knew her well, he boasted. It would amply suffice to her to live there with them all. Was not the house large enough? And, indeed, where else could he live, seeing that all his interests were naturally centred upon the property?

And then Sir Thomas did give his consent. It would be wrong to say that it was wrung from him. He gave it willingly enough, as far as the present moment was concerned. When it was once settled, he assured his son that he would love Clara as his daughter. But, nevertheless—

The father knew that he had done wrong; and Herbert knew that he also, he himself, had done wrongly. He was aware that there was something which he did not understand. But he had promised to see Clara either that day or the next, and he could not bring himself to unsay all that he had said to her. He left his father's room sorrowful at heart, and discontented. He had expected that his tidings would have been received in so far other a manner; that he would have been able to go from his father's study up stairs to his mother's room with so exulting a step; that his news, when once the matter was ratified by his father's approval, would have flown about the house with so loud a note of triumph. And now it was so different! His father had consented; but it was too plain that there was no room for any triumph.

"Well, Herbert!" said Emmeline, jumping up to meet him as he returned to a small back drawing-room, through which he had gone to his father's dressing-room. She had calculated that he would come there, and that she might thus get the first word from him after the interview was over.

But there was a frown upon his brow, and displeasure in his eyes. There was none of that bright smile of gratified pride with which she had expected that her greeting would have been met. "Is there anything wrong?" she said. "He does not disapprove, does he?"

"Never mind; and do leave me now. I never can make you understand that one is not always in a humour for joking." And so saying, he put her aside, and passed on.

Joking! That was indeed hard upon poor Emmeline, seeing that her thoughts were so full of him, that her heart beat so warmly for his promised bride. But she said nothing, shrinking back abashed, and vanishing out of the way. Could it be possible that her father should have refused to receive Lady Clara Desmond as his daughter-in-law?

He then betook himself to a private territory of his own, where he might be sure that he would remain undisturbed for some half-hour or so. He would go to his mother, of course, but not quite immediately. He would think over the matter, endeavouring to ascertain what it was that had made his father's manner and words so painful to him.

But he could not get his thoughts to work rightly;—which getting of the thoughts to work rightly is, by-the-by, as I take it, the hardest work which a man is called upon to do. Not that the subject to be thought about need in itself be difficult. Were one to say that thoughts about hydrostatics and pneumatics are difficult to the multitude, or that mental efforts in regions of political economy or ethical philosophy are beyond ordinary reach, one would only pronounce an evident truism, an absurd platitude. But let any man take any subject fully within his own mind's scope, and strive to think about it steadily, with some attempt at calculation as to results. The chances are his mind will fly off, will-he-nill-he, to some utterly different matter. When he wishes to debate within himself that question of his wife's temper, he will find himself considering whether he may not judiciously give away half a dozen pairs of those old boots; or when it behoves him to decide whether it shall be manure and a green crop, or a fallow season and then grass seeds, he cannot keep himself from inward inquiry as to the meaning of that peculiar smile on Mrs. Walker's face when he shook hands with her last night.

Lord Brougham and Professor Faraday can, no doubt, command their thoughts. If many men could do so, there would be many Lord Broughams and many Professor Faradays.

At the present moment Herbert Fitzgerald had no right to consider himself as following in the steps of either one or other of these great men. He wished to think about his father's circumstances, but his mind would fly off to Clara Desmond and her perfections. And thus, though he remained there for half an hour, with his back to the fire and his hands in his pockets, his deliberations had done him no good whatever,—had rather done him harm, seeing that he had only warmed himself into a firmer determination to go on with what he was doing. And then he went to his mother.

She kissed him, and spoke very tenderly, nay affectionately, about Clara; but even she, even his mother, did not speak joyously; and she also said something about the difficulty of providing a maintenance for a married son. Then to her he burst forth, and spoke somewhat loudly.

"I cannot understand all this, mother. If either you or my father know any reason why I should be treated differently from other sons, you ought to tell me; not leave me to grope about in the dark."

"But, my boy, we both think that no son was ever entitled to more consideration, or to kinder or more liberal treatment."

"Why do I hear all this, then, about the difficulty of my marrying? Or if I hear so much, why do I not hear more? I know pretty well, I believe, what is my father's income."

"If you do not, he would tell you for the asking."

"And I know that I must be the heir to it, whatever it is,—not that that feeling would make any difference in my dealings with him, not the least. And, under these circumstances, I cannot conceive why he and you should look coldly upon my marriage."

"I look coldly on it, Herbert!"

"Do you not? Do you not tell me that there will be no income for me? If that is to be so; if that really is the case; if the property has so dwindled away, or become embarrassed—"

"Oh, Herbert! there never was a man less likely to injure his son's property than your father."

"I do not mean that, mother. Let him do what he likes with it, I should not upbraid him, even in my thoughts. But if it be embarrassed; if it has dwindled away; if there be any reason why I should not regard myself as altogether untrammelled with regard to money, he ought to tell me. I cannot accuse myself of expensive tastes."

"Dearest Herbert, nobody accuses you of anything."

"But I do desire to marry; and now I have engaged myself, and will not break from my engagement, unless it be shown to me that I am bound in honour to do so. Then, indeed—"

"Oh, Herbert! I do not know what you mean."

"I mean this: that I expect that Clara shall be received as my wife with open arms—"

"And so she shall be if she comes."

"Or else that some reason should be given me why she should not come. As to income, something must be done, I suppose. If the means at our disposal are less than I have been taught to believe, I at any rate will not complain. But they cannot, I think, be so small as to afford any just reason why I should not marry."

"Your father, you see, is ill, and one can hardly talk to him fully upon such matters at present."

"Then I will speak to Somers. He, at any rate, must know how the property is circumstanced, and I suppose he will not hesitate to tell me."

"I don't think Somers can tell you anything."

"Then what is it? As for the London estate, mother, that is all moonshine. What if it were gone altogether? It may be that it is that which vexes my father; but if so, it is a monomania."

"Oh, my boy, do not use such a word!"

"You know what I mean. If any doubt as to that is creating this despondency, it only shows that though we are bound to respect and relieve my father's state of mind, we are not at all bound to share it. What would it really matter, mother, if that place in London were washed away by the Thames? There is more than enough left for us all, unless—"

"Ah, Herbert, that is it."

"Then I will go to Somers, and he shall tell me. My father's interest in this property cannot have been involved without his knowledge; and circumstanced as we and my father are, he is bound to tell me."

"If there be anything within his knowledge to tell, he will tell it."

"And if there be nothing within his knowledge, then I can only look upon all this as a disease on my poor father's part. I will do all I can to comfort him in it; but it would be madness to destroy my whole happiness because he labours under delusions."

Lady Fitzgerald did not know what further to say. She half believed that Sir Thomas did labour under some delusion; but then she half believed also that he had upon his mind a sorrow, terribly real, which was in no sort delusive. Under such circumstances, how could she advise her son? Instead of advising him, she caressed him.

"But I may claim this from you, mother, that if Somers tells me nothing which ought to make me break my word to Clara, you will receive her as your daughter. You will promise me that, will you not?"

Lady Fitzgerald did promise, warmly; assuring him that she already dearly loved Clara Desmond, that she would delight in having such a daughter-in-law, and that she would go to her to welcome her as such as soon as ever he should bid her do so. With this Herbert was somewhat comforted, and immediately started on his search after Mr. Somers.

I do not think that any person is to be found, as a rule, attached to English estates whose position is analogous to that of an Irish agent. And there is a wide misunderstanding in England as to these Irish functionaries. I have attempted, some pages back, to describe the national delinquencies of a middleman, or profit-renter. In England we are apt to think that the agents on Irish properties are to be charged with similar shortcomings. This