No attempt at escape was made. The Earl breakfasted by himself at about nine, and then lighting a cigar, roamed about for a while round the Inn, thinking of the work that was now before him. He saw nothing of Father Marty though he knew that the priest was still in Ennistimon. And he felt that he was watched. They might have saved themselves that trouble, for he certainly had no intention of breaking his word to them. So he told himself, thinking as he did so, that people such as these could not understand that an Earl of Scroope would not be untrue to his word. And yet since he had been back in County Clare he had almost regretted that he had not broken his faith to them and remained in England. At half-past ten he started on a car, having promised to be at the cottage at noon, and he told his servant that he should certainly leave Ennistimon that day at three. The horse and gig were to be ready for him exactly at that hour.

On this occasion he did not go through Liscannor, but took the other road to the burial ground. There he left his car and slowly walked along the cliffs till he came to the path leading down from them to the cottage. In doing this he went somewhat out of his way, but he had time on his hands and he did not desire to be at the cottage before the hour he had named. It was a hot midsummer day, and there seemed to be hardly a ripple on the waves. The tide was full in, and he sat for a while looking down upon the blue waters. What an ass had he made himself, coming thither in quest of adventures! He began to see now the meaning of such idleness of purpose as that to which he had looked for pleasure and excitement. Even the ocean itself and the very rocks had lost their charm for him. It was all one blaze of blue light, the sky above and the water below, in which there was neither beauty nor variety. How poor had been the life he had chosen! He had spent hour after hour in a comfortless dirty boat, in company with a wretched ignorant creature, in order that he might shoot a few birds and possibly a seal. All the world had been open to him, and yet how miserable had been his ambition! And now he could see no way out of the ruin he had brought upon himself.

When the time had come he rose from his seat and took the path down to the cottage. At the corner of the little patch of garden ground attached to it he met Mrs. O’Hara. Her hat was on her head, and a light shawl was on her shoulders as though she had prepared herself for walking. He immediately asked after Kate. She told him that Kate was within and should see him presently. Would it not be better that they two should go up on the cliffs together, and then say what might be necessary for the mutual understanding of their purposes? “There should be no talking of all this before Kate,” said Mrs. O’Hara.

“That is true.”

“You can imagine what she must feel if she is told to doubt. Lord Scroope, will you not say at once that there shall be no doubt? You must not ruin my child in return for her love!”

“If there must be ruin I would sooner bear it myself,” said he. And then they walked on without further speech till they had reached a point somewhat to the right, and higher than that on which he had sat before. It had ever been a favourite spot with her, and he had often sat there between the mother and daughter. It was almost the summit of the cliff, but there was yet a higher pitch which screened it from the north, so that the force of the wind was broken. The fall from it was almost precipitous to the ocean, so that the face of the rocks immediately below was not in view; but there was a curve here in the line of the shore, and a little bay in the coast, which exposed to view the whole side of the opposite cliff, so that the varying colours of the rocks might be seen. The two ladies had made a seat upon the turf, by moving the loose stones and levelling the earth around, so that they could sit securely on the very edge. Many many hours had Mrs. O’Hara passed upon the spot, both summer and winter, watching the sunset in the west, and listening to the screams of the birds. “There are no gulls now,” she said as she seated herself,—as though for a moment she had forgotten the great subject which filled her mind.

“No;—they never show themselves in weather like this. They only come when the wind blows. I wonder where they go when the sun shines.”

“They are just the opposite to men and women who only come around you in fine weather. How hot it is!” and she threw her shawl back from her shoulders.

“Yes, indeed. I walked up from the burial ground and I found that it was very hot. Have you seen Father Marty this morning?”

“No. Have you?” she asked the question turning upon him very shortly.

“Not today. He was with me till late last night.”

“Well.” He did not answer her. He had nothing to say to her. In fact everything had been said yesterday. If she had questions to ask he would answer them. “What did you settle last night? When he went from me an hour after you were gone, he said that it was impossible that you should mean to destroy her.”

“God forbid that I should destroy her.”

“He said that,—that you were afraid of her father.”

“I am.”

“And of me.”

“No;—not of you, Mrs. O’Hara.”

“Listen to me. He said that such a one as you cannot endure the presence of an uneducated and ill-mannered mother-in-law. Do not interrupt me, Lord Scroope. If you will marry her, my girl shall never see my face again; and I will cling to that man and will not leave him for a moment, so that he shall never put his foot near your door. Our name shall never be spoken in your hearing. She shall never even write to me if you think it better that we shall be so separated.”

“It is not that,” he said.

“What is it, then?”

“Oh, Mrs. O’Hara, you do not understand. You,—you I could love dearly.”

“I would have you keep all your love for her.”

“I do love her. She is good enough for me. She is too good; and so are you. It is for the family, and not for myself.”

“How will she harm the family?”

“I swore to my uncle that I would not make her Countess of Scroope.”

“And have you not sworn to her again and again that she should be your wife? Do you think that she would have done for you what she has done, had you not so sworn? Lord Scroope, I cannot think that you really mean it.” She put both her hands softly upon his arm and looked up to him imploring his mercy.

He got up from his seat and roamed along the cliff, and she followed him, still imploring. Her tones were soft, and her words were the words of a suppliant. Would he not relent and save her child from wretchedness, from ruin and from death. “I will keep her with me till I die,” he said.

“But not as your wife?”

“She shall have all attention from me,—everyt............