As he was returning to Ennis Neville was so far removed from immediate distress as to be able to look forward without fear to his meeting with the two ladies at Ardkill. He could as yet take his Kate in his arms without any hard load upon his heart, such as would be there if he knew that it was incumbent upon him at once to explain his difficulties. His uncle was still living, but was old and still ill. He would naturally make the most of the old man’s age and infirmities. There was every reason why they should wait, and no reason why such waiting should bring reproaches upon his head. On the night of his arrival at his quarters he despatched a note to his Kate.

Dearest love.

Here I am again in the land of freedom and potatoes. I need not trouble you with writing about home news, as I shall see you the day after tomorrow. All tomorrow and Wednesday morning I must stick close to my guns here. After one on Wednesday I shall be free. I will drive over to Lahinch, and come round in the boat. I must come back here the same night, but I suppose it will be the next morning before I get to bed. I sha’n’t mind that if I get something for my pains. My love to your mother. Your own,

F. N.

In accordance with this plan he did drive over to Lahinch. He might have saved time by directing that his boat should come across the bay to meet him at Liscannor, but he felt that he would prefer not to meet Father Marty at present. It might be that before long he would be driven to tell the priest a good deal, and to ask for the priest’s assistance; but at present he was not anxious to see Father Marty. Barney Morony was waiting for him at the stable where he put up his horse, and went down with him to the beach. The ladies, according to Barney, were quite well and more winsome than ever. But,—and this information was not given without much delay and great beating about the bush,—there was a rumour about Liscannor that Captain O’Hara had “turned up.” Fred was so startled at this that he could not refrain from showing his anxiety by the questions which he asked. Barney did not seem to think that the Captain had been at Ardkill or anywhere in the neighbourhood. At any rate he, Barney, had not seen him. He had just heard the rumour. “Shure, Captain, I wouldn’t be telling yer honour a lie; and they do be saying that the Captain one time was as fine a man as a woman ever sot eyes on;—and why not, seeing what kind the young lady is, God bless her!” If it were true that Kate’s father had “turned up,” such an advent might very naturally alter Neville’s plans. It would so change the position of things as to relieve him in some degree from the force of his past promises.

Nevertheless when he saw Kate coming along the cliffs to meet him, the one thing more certain to him than all other things was that he would never abandon her. She had been watching for him almost from the hour at which he had said that he would leave Ennis, and, creeping up among the rocks, had seen his boat as it came round the point from Liscannor. She had first thought that she would climb down the path to meet him; but the tide was high and there was now no strip of strand below the cliffs; and Barney Morony would have been there to see; and she resolved that it would be nicer to wait for him on the summit. “Oh Fred, you have come back,” she said, throwing herself on his breast.

“Yes; I am back. Did you think I was going to desert you?”

“No; no. I knew you would not desert me. Oh, my darling!”

“Dear Kate;—dearest Kate.”

“You have thought of me sometimes?”

“I have thought of you always,—every hour.” And so he swore to her that she was as much to him as he could possibly be to her. She hung on his arm as she went down to the cottage, and believed herself to be the happiest and most fortunate girl in Ireland. As yet no touch of the sorrows of love had fallen upon her.

He could not all at once ask her as to that rumour which Morony had mentioned to him. But he thought of it as he walked with his arm round her waist. Some question must be asked, but it might, perhaps, be better that he should ask it of the mother. Mrs. O’Hara was at the cottage and seemed almost as glad to see him as Kate had been. “It is very pleasant to have you back again,” she said. “Kate has been counting first the hours, and then the minutes.”

“And so have you, mother.”

“Of course we want to hear all the news,” said Mrs. O’Hara. Then Neville, with the girl who was to be his wife sitting close beside him on the sofa,—almost within his embrace,—told them how things were going at Scroope. His uncle was very weak,—evidently failing; but still so much better as to justify the heir in coming away. He might perhaps live for another twelve months, but the doctors thought it hardly possible that he should last longer than that. Then the nephew went on to say that his uncle was the best and most generous man in the world,—and the finest gentleman and the truest Christian. He told also of the tenants who were not to be harassed, and the servants who were not to be dismissed, and the horses that were to be allowed to die in their beds, and the trees that were not to be cut down.

“I wish I knew him,” said Kate. “I wish I could have seen him once.”

“That can never be,” said Fred, sadly.

“No;—of course not.”

Then Mrs. O’Hara asked a question. “Has he ever heard of us?”

“Yes;—he has heard of you.”

“From you?”

“No;—not first from me. There are many reasons why I would not have mentioned your names could I have helped it. He has wished me to marry another girl,—and especially a Protestant girl. That was impossible.”

“That must be impossible now, Fred,” said Kate, looking up into his face.

“Quite so, dearest; but why should I have vexed him, seeing that he is so good to me, and that he must be gone so soon?”

“Who had told him of us?” asked Mrs. O’Hara.

“That woman down there at Castle Quin.”

“Lady Mary?”

“Foul-tongued old maid that she is,” exclaimed Fred. “She writes to my aunt by every post, I believe.”

“What evil can she say of us?”

“She does say evil. Never mind what. Such a woman always says evil of those of her sex who are good-looking.”

“There, mother;—that’s for you,” said Kate, laughing. “I don’t care what she says.”

“If she tells your aunt that we live in a small cottage, without servants, without society, with just the bare necessaries of life, she tells the truth of us.”

“That’s just what she does say;—and she goes on harping about religion. Never mind her. You can understand that my uncle should be old-fashioned. He is very old, and we must wait.”

“Waiting is so weary,” said Mrs. O’Hara.

“It is not weary for me at all,” said Kate.

Then he left them, without having said a word about the Captain. He found the Captain to be a subject very uncomfortable to mention, and thought as he was sitting there that it might perhaps be better to make his first enquiries of this priest. No one said a word to him about the Captain beyond what he had heard from his boatman. For, as it happened, he did not see the priest till May was nearly past, and during all that time things were going from bad to worse. As regarded any services which he rendered to the army at this period of his career, the excuses which he had made to his uncle were certainly not valid. Some pretence at positively necessary routine duties it must be supposed that he made; but he spent more of his time either on the sea, or among the cliffs with Kate, or on the road going backwards and forwards, than he did at his quarters. It was known that he was to leave the regiment and become a great man at home in October, and his brother officers were kind to him. And it was known also, of course, that there was a young lady down on the sea coast beyond Ennistimon, and doubtless there were jokes on the subject. But there was no one with him at Ennis having such weight of fears or authority as might have served to help to rescue him. During this time Lady Mary Quin still made her reports, and his aunt’s letters were full of cautions and entreaties. “I am told,” said the Countess, in one of her now detested epistles, “that the young woman has a reprobate father who has escaped from the galleys. Oh, Fred, do not break our hearts.” He had almost forgotten the Captain when he received this further rumour which had circulated to him round by Castle Quin and Scro............