Fred Neville’s sitting-room at Ennis was not a chamber prepared for the reception of ladies.  It was very rough, as are usually barrack rooms in outlying quarters in small towns in the west of Ireland,—­and it was also very untidy.  The more prudent and orderly of mankind might hardly have understood why a young man, with prospects and present wealth such as belonged to Neville, should choose to spend a twelvemonth in such a room, contrary to the wishes of all his friends, when London was open to him, and the continent, and scores of the best appointed houses in England, and all the glories of ownership at Scroope.  There were guns about, and whips, hardly half a dozen books, and a few papers.  There were a couple of swords lying on a table that looked like a dresser.  The room was not above half covered with its carpet, and though there were three large easy chairs, even they were torn and soiled.  But all this had been compatible with adventures,—­and while the adventures were simply romantic and not a bit troublesome, the barracks at Ennis had been to him by far preferable to the gloomy grandeur of Scroope.

And now Mrs. O’Hara was there, telling him that she knew of all!  Not for a moment did he remain ignorant of the meaning of her communication.  And now the arguments to be used against him in reference to the marriage would be stronger than ever.  A silly, painful smile came across his handsome face as he attempted to welcome her, and moved a chair for her accommodation.  “I am so sorry that you have had the trouble of coming over,” he said.

“That is nothing.  When will you make my child your wife?” How was he to answer this?  In the midst of his difficulties he had brought himself to one determination.  He had resolved that under no pressure would he marry the daughter of O’Hara, the galley-slave.  As far as that, he had seen his way.  Should he now at once speak of the galley-slave, and, with expressions of regret, decline the alliance on that reason?  Having dishonoured this woman’s daughter should he shelter himself behind the dishonour of her husband?  That he meant to do so ultimately is true; but at the present moment such a task would have required a harder heart than his.  She rose from her chair and stood close over him as she repeated her demand, “When will you make my child your wife?”

“You do not want me to answer you at this moment?”

“Yes;—­at this moment.  Why not answer me at once?  She has told me all.  Mr. Neville, you must think not only of her, but of your child also.”

“I hope not that,” he said.

“I tell you that it is so.  Now answer me.  When shall my Kate become your wife?”