“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 tw............