"You are, madam, the widow of the late Sir William de Clare." The lady bowed. "You will excuse me, madam, but I have most important reasons for asking you a few questions, which otherwise may appear to be intrusive. Are you aware of the death of his brother, Sir Henry de Clare?"
"Indeed I was not," replied she. "I seldom look at a paper, and I have long ceased to correspond with any one in Ireland. May I ask you what occasioned his death?"
"He fell by his own hands, madam."
Lady de Clare covered up her face. "God forgive him!" said she, in a low voice.
"Lady de Clare, upon what terms were your husband and the late Sir Henry? It is important to know."
"Not on the very best, sir. Indeed, latterly, for years, they never met or spoke: we did not know what had become of him."
"Were there any grounds for ill-will?"
"Many, sir, on the part of the elder brother; but none on that of Sir Henry, who was treated with every kindness, until he—" Lady de Clare stopped—"until he behaved very ill to him."
As we afterwards discovered, Henry de Clare had squandered away the small portion left him by his father, and had ever after that been liberally supplied by his eldest brother, until he had attempted to seduce Lady de Clare, upon which he was dismissed for ever.
"And now, madam, I must revert to a painful subject. You had a daughter by your marriage?"