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Updated: May 2, 2025
In 1566 apparently some of the prelates of Connaught assembled and proclaimed them in the province of Tuam; in 1587 the Bishops of Clogher, Derry, Raphoe, Down and Connor, Ardagh, Kilmore, and Achonry, together with a large number of clergy met in the diocese of Clogher for a similar purpose, and in 1614 they were proclaimed for the province of Dublin by a synod convoked at Kilkenny.
When Maxwell came back to her on the afternoon of his decisive interview with Lord Ardagh, she was waiting for him in that same inner room where Tressady paid his first visit. At the sound of her husband's step outside, she sprang up, and they met half-way, her hands clasped in his, against his breast, her face looking up at him.
"No no," as Catherine was about to ring for the nurse, "not in the body not that." Catherine sat down by the bed and clasped her mother's hot hand. "What is it?" she whispered. Mrs. Ardagh was silent for a moment. She blinked her heavy eyelids to stop the tears from falling on her wasted cheeks. At length she said, "William Foster has done more evil." Catherine did not speak.
She felt that it was true, that there was no alternative. Either Mark must be convinced now, by this bedside, in this hot, dark room from which a soul was passing, or he would, by some accident, by some sudden means, be swept away from the world that he was injuring, that he was poisoning. Mrs. Ardagh seemed to grow more feeble with every moment that passed.
Mark Sirrett was light-hearted, gay, and the kindest, most thoughtful husband in the world. When they came back to London, Catherine went at once to see her mother. Mr. Ardagh had gone to the Riviera and Catherine found Mrs. Ardagh quite alone in the big house in Eaton Square. "Why, where is Jenny Levita?" she asked. Mrs. Ardagh made no reply for a moment.
Catherine sprang up, and hastened to it with a fast beating heart. Mr. Ardagh stood there. "How is she?" he whispered. "I think she is not in pain. She is just resting. Has Mark come?" "No." "Please send him up directly he comes." She spoke with a hushed, but with an intense, excitement. "I want him to to say good-bye to her," she added. Mr. Ardagh nodded, and went softly downstairs.
Ardagh, rigid, melancholy as she was sometimes, was genuinely charitable, genuinely dutiful. If she adored the forms of religion she loved also its essence, the doing of good. In these many mornings Catherine was like her mother improved. But in the evenings she no longer resembled Mrs. Ardagh, but rather, in a degree, echoed her father, and responded to his vehement, if furtive, teachings.
Mary Beddoes and I are on the sofa next the door; Honora and Anna on the other, and somebody sitting in the middle talking by turns to each sofa. Who can that be? Not Harriet, for tea is over and she has seceded to Lucy's room not my mother, nor William, nor Mrs. Beaufort, nor Louisa, for the carriage has carried them away some hours ago, poor souls, and full-dressed bodies, to dine at Ardagh.
Sir Robert Ardagh, as we choose to call him, was the heir and representative of the family whose name he bore; but owing to the prodigality of his father, the estates descended to him in a very impaired condition.
Ardagh recognised the fact, shrugged his shoulders and travelled. His philosophy taught him to accept the inevitable with the fortitude of the Stoic. From henceforward the Sirretts saw little of him. As to Mark, with his habitual tenderness he set about consoling his wife for her loss. He was kindness itself. Catherine seemed grateful, was indeed grateful to him.
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