with a countenance full of unutterable
woe and weakness. What was he to say on such a subject in such a
company? There sat his wife and daughter, his veritable wife and
true-born daughter, on whom he was now dependent, and in whose hands
he lay, as a sick man does lie in the hands of women: could he deny
them? And there sat the awful Mr. Prendergast, the representative
of all that Fitzgerald interest which he had so wronged, and who up
to this morning had at any rate believed the story with which he,
Mollett, had pushed his fortunes in county Cork. Could he in his
presence acknowledge that Lady Fitzgerald had never been his wife? It
must be confessed that he was in a sore plight. And then remember his
ague!

"You feel yourself tolerably comfortable, I suppose, now that you are
with your wife and daughter," continued Mr. Prendergast, most
inhumanly.

Mr. Mollett continued to look at him so piteously from beneath his
nightcap. "I am better than I was, thank you, sir," said he.

"There is nothing like the bosom of one's family for restoring one to
health; is there, Mrs. Mollett;--or for keeping one in health?"

"I wish you gentlemen would think so," said she, drily.

"As for me, I never was blessed with a wife. When I am sick I have to
trust to hired attendance. In that respect I am not so fortunate as
your husband; I am only an old bachelor."

"Oh, ain't you, sir?" said Mrs. Mollett; "and perhaps it's best so.
It ain't all married people that are the happiest."

The daughter during this time was sitting intent on her work, not
lifting her face from the shirt she was sewing. But an observer might
have seen from her forehead and eye that she was not only listening
to what was said, but thinking and meditating on the scene before
her.

"Well, Mr. Mollett," said Mr. Prendergast, "you at any rate are not
an old bachelor." Mr. Mollett still looked piteously at him, but said
nothing. It may be thought that in all this Mr. Prendergast was more
cruel than necessary, but it must be remembered that it was incumbent
on him to bring the poor wretch before him down absolutely on his
marrow-bones. Mollett must be made to confess his sin, and own that
this woman before him was his real wife; and the time for mercy had
not commenced till that had been done.

And then his daughter spoke, seeing how things were going with him.
"Father," said she, "this gentleman has called because he has had a
letter from Abraham Mollett; and he