Our young hero, hero-like, took a solitary walk to indulge his feelings; and as he rambled, he railed to his heart’s content against Dora.
“Here all my plans of happiness and improvement are again overturned: Dora cannot improve me, can give me no motive for making myself any thing better than what I am. Polish my manners! no, when she has such rude, odious manners herself; much changed for the worse — a hundred times more agreeable when she was a child. Lost to me she is every way — no longer my playfellow — no chance of her being my friend. Her good father hoped she would be a sister to me — very sorry I should be to have such a sister: then I am to consider her as a married woman — pretty wife she will make! I am convinced she cares no more for that man she is going to marry than I do — marrying merely to be married, to manage her own affairs, and have her own way — so childish! — or marrying merely to get an establishment — so base! How women, and such young creatures, can bring themselves to make these venal matches — I protest Peggy Sheridan’s worth a hundred of such. Moriarty may think himself a happy fellow — Suzy — Jenny, any body — only with dress and manner a little different — is full as good in reality. I question whether they’d give themselves, without liking, to any White Connal in their own rank, at the first offer, for a few sheep, or a cow, or to have their own way.”
Such was the summing up of the topics of invective, which, during a two hours’ walk, had come round and round continually in Ormond’s indignant fancy. He went plucking off the hawthorn blossoms in his path, till at one desperate tug, that he gave to a branch which crossed his way, he opened to a bank that sloped down to the lake. At a little distance below him he saw old Sheelah sitting under a tree rocking herself backwards and forwards; while Dora stood motionless opposite to her, with her hand covering her eyes, and her head drooping. They neither of them saw Ormond, and he walked on pursuing his own path; it led close behind the hedge to the place where they were, so close, that the sounds “Willastrew! Willastrew!” from Old Sheelah, in her funereal tone, reached his ear, and then the words, “Oh, my heart’s darling! so young to be a sacrifice — But what next did he say?”
Ormond’s curiosity was strongly excited; but he was too honourable to listen or to equivocate with conscience: so to warn them that some one was within hearing, he began to whistle clear and strong. Both the old woman and the young lady started.
“Murder!” cried Sheelah, “it’s Harry Ormond. Oh! did he overhear any thing — or all, think ye?”
“Not I,” answered Ormond, leaping over the hedge directly, and standing firm before them: “I overheard nothing — I heard only your last words, Sheelah — you spoke so loud I could not help it. They are as safe with me as with yourself — but don’t speak so loud another time, if you are talking secrets; and whatever you do, never suspect me of listening — I am incapable of that, or any other baseness.”
So saying, he turned his back, and was preparing to vault over the hedge again, when he heard Dora, in a soft low voice, say, “I never suspected you, Harry, of that, or any other baseness.”
“Thank you, Dora,” said he, turning with some emotion, “thank you, Dora, for this first, this only kind word you’ve said to me since you came home.”
Looking at her earnestly, as he approached nearer, he saw the traces of tears, and an air of dejection in her countenance, which turned all his anger to pity and tenderness in an instant. With a soothing tone be said, “Forgive my unseasonable reproach — I was wrong — I see you are not as much to blame as I thought you were.”
“To blame!” cried Dora. “And pray how — and why — and for what did you think me to blame, sir?”
The impossibility of explanation, the impropriety of what he had said flashed suddenly on his mind; and in a few moments a rapid succession of ideas followed. “Was Dora to blame for obeying her father, for being ready to marry the man to whom her father had destined — promised her hand; and was he, Harry Ormond, the adopted child, the trusted friend of the family, to suggest to the daughter the idea of rebelling against her father’s will, or disputing the propriety of his choice?”
Ormond’s imagination took a rapid flight on Dora’s side of the question, and he finished with the conviction that she was “a sacrifice, a martyr, and a miracle of perfection!” “Blame you, Dora!” cried he, “blame you! No — I admire, I esteem, I respect you. Did I say that I blamed you? I did not know what I said, or what I meant.”
“And are you sure you know any better what you say or what you mean, now?” said Dora.
The altered look and tone of tartness in which this question was asked produced as sudden a change in Harry’s conviction. He hesitatingly answered, “I am —”
“He is,” said Sheelah, confidently.
“I did not ask your opinion, Sheelah: I can judge for myself,” said Dora. “Your words tell me one thing, sir, and your looks another,” said she, turning to Ormond; “which am I to believe, pray?”
“Oh! believe the young man any way, sure,” said Sheelah; “silence speaks best for him.”
“Best against him, in my opinion,” said Dora.
“Dora, will you hear me?” Ormond began.
“No, sir, I will not,” interrupted Dora. “What’s the use of hearing or listening to a man who does not, by the confession of his own eyes, and his own tongue, know two minutes together what he means, or mean two minutes together the same thing? A woman might as well listen to a fool or a madman!”
“Too harsh, too severe, Dora,” said he.
“Too true, too sincere, perhaps you mean.”
“Since I am allowed, Dora, to speak to you as a brother —”
“Who allowed you, sir?” interrupted Dora.
“Your father, Dora.”
“My father cannot, shall not! Nobody but nature can make any man my brother — nobody but myself shall allow any man to call himself my brother.”
“I am sorry I presumed so far, Miss O’Shane — I was only going to offer one word of advice.”
“I want no advice — I will take none from you, sir.”
“You shall have none, madam, henceforward, from Harry Ormond.”
“’Tis well, sir. Come away, Sheelah.”
“Oh! wait, dear — Och! I am too old,” said Sheelah, groaning as she rose slowly. “I’m too slow entirely for these quick passions.”
“Passions!” cried Dora, growing scarlet and pale in an instant: “what do you mean by passions, Sheelah?”
“I mean changes,” said Sheelah, “changes, dear. I am ready now — where’s my stick? Thank you, Master Harry. Only I say I can’t change my quarters and march so quick as you, dear.”
“Well, well, lean on me,” said Dora impatiently.
“Don’t hurry, poor Sheelah — no necessity to hurry away from me,” said Ormond, who had stood for a few moments like one transfixed. “’Tis for me to go — and I will go as fast and as far as you please, Dora, away from you and for ever.”
“For ever!” said Dora: “what do you mean?”
“Away from the Black Islands? he can’t mean that,” said Sheelah.
“Why not? — Did not I leave Castle Hermitage at a moment’s warning?”
“Warning! Nonsense!” cried Dora: “lean on him, Sheelah — he has frightened you; lean on him, can’t you? — sure he’s better than your stick. Warning! — where did you find that pretty word? Is Harry Ormond then turned footman?”
“Harry Ormond! — and a minute ago she would not let me — Miss O’Shane, I shall not forget myself again — amuse yourself with being as capricious as you please, but not at my expense; little as you think of me, I am not to be made your butt or your dupe: therefore, I must seriously beg, at once, that I may know whether you wish me to stay or to go.”
“To stay, to be sure, when my father invites you. Would you expose me to his displeasure? you know he can’t bear to be contradicted; and you know that he asked you to stay and live here.”
“But without exposing you to any displeasure, I can,” replied Ormond, “contrive —”
“Contrive nothing at all — do leave me to contrive for myself. I don’t mean to say leave me — you take up one’s words so quickly, and are so passionate, Mr. Ormond.”
“If you would have me understand you, Dora, explain how you wish me to live with you.”
“Lord bless me! what a fuss the man makes about living with one — one would think it was the most difficult thing in the world. Can’t you live on like any body else? There’s my aunt in the hedge-row walk, all alone — I must go and take care of her: I leave you to take care of Sheelah — you know you were always very good-natured when we were children.”
Dora went off quick as lightning, and what to make of her, Ormond did not well know. Was it mere childishness, or affectation, or coquetry? No; the real tears, and real expression of look and word forbade each of these suppositions. One other cause for her conduct might have been suggested by a vain man. Harry Ormond was not a vain man; but a little fluttering delight was just beginning to play round his head, when Sheelah, leaning heavily on his arm as they ascended the bank, reminding him of her existence —“My poor old Sheelah!” said he, “are you not tired?”
“Not now, thanks to your arm, Master Harry, dear, that was always good to me — not now — I am not a whit tired; now I see all right again between my childer — and happy I was, these five minutes past, watching you smiling to yourself; and I don’t doubt but all the world will smile on ye yet. If it was my world, it should. But I can only wish you my best wish, which I did long ago —may you live to wonder at your own good luck!”
Ormond looked as if he was going to ask some question that interested him much, but it ended by wondering what o’clock it was. Sheelah wondered at him for thinking what the hour was, when she was talking of Miss Dora. After a silence, which brought them to the chicken-yard door, where Sheelah was “to quit his arm,” she leaned heavily again,
“The marriage — that they are all talking of in the kitchen, and every where through the country — Miss Dora’s marriage with White Connal, is reprieved for the season. She axed time till she’d be seventeen — very rasonable. So it’s to be in October — if we all live till those days — in the same mind. Lord, he knows — I know nothing at all about it; but I thank you kindly, Master Harry, and wish you well, any way. Did you ever happen to see the bridegroom that is to be?”
“Never.”
Harry longed to hear what she longed to say; but he did not deem it prudent, he did not think it honourable, to let her enter on this topic. The prudential consideration might have been conquered by curiosity; but the honourable repugnance to obtaining second-hand information, and encouraging improper confidence, prevailed. He deposited Sheelah safe on her stone bench at the chicken-yard door, and, much against her will, he left her before she had told or hinted to him all she did know — and all she did not know.
The flattering delight that played about our young hero’s head had increased, was increasing, and ought to be diminished. Of this he was sensible. It should never come near his heart — of that he was determined; he would exactly follow the letter and spirit of his benefactor’s commands — he would always consider Dora as a married woman; but the prospect of there being some temptation, and some struggle, was infinitely agreeable to our young hero — it would give him something to do, something to think of, something to feel.
It was much in favour of his resolution, that Dora really was not at all the kind of woman he had pictured to himself, either as amiable or charming: she was not in the least like his last patterns of heroines, or any of his approved imaginations of the beau ideal. But she was an exceedingly pretty girl; she was the only very pretty and tolerably accomplished girl immediately near him. A dangerous propinquity!
White Connal and his father — we name the son first, because his superior wealth inverting the order of nature, gave him, in his own opinion, the precedency on all occasions — White Connal and his father arrived at Corny Castle. King Corny rejoiced to see his old friend, the elder Connal; but through all the efforts that his majesty made to be more than civil to the son, the degenerate grazier, his future son-in-law, it was plain that he was only keeping his promise, and receiving such a guest as he ought to be received.
Mademoiselle decided that old Connal, the father, was quite a gentleman, for he handed her about, and in his way had some politeness towards the sex; but as for the son, her abhorrence must have burst forth in plain English, if it had not exhaled itself safely in French, in every exclamation of contempt which the language could afford. She called him bête! and grand bête! by turns, butor! ane! and grand butor! — nigaud! and grand nigaud!— pronounced him to be “Un homme qui ne dit rien — d’ailleurs un homme qui n’a pas l’air comme il faut — un homme, enfin, qui n’est pas présentable — même en fait de mari.”
Dora looked unutterable things; but this was not unusual with her. Her scornful airs, and short answers, were not more decidedly rude to White Connal than to others; indeed she was rather more civil to him than to Ormond. There was nothing in her manner of keeping Connal at a distance, beyond what he, who had not much practice or skill in the language of female coquetry, might construe into maiden coyness to the acknowledged husband lover.
It seemed as if she had some secret hope, or fear, or reason, for not coming to open war: in short, as usual, she was odd, if not unintelligible. White Connal did not disturb himself at all to follow her doublings: his pleasure was not in the chase — he was sure the game was his own.
Be bold, but not too bold, White Connal! — be negligent, but not too negligent, of the destined bride. ’Tis bad, as you say, to be spoiling a wife before marriage; but what if she should never be your wife? thought some.
That was a contingency that never had occurred to White Connal. Had he not horses, and saddles, and bridles, and bits, finer than had ever been seen before in the Black Islands? And had he not thousands of sheep, and hundreds of oxen? And had he not the finest pistols, and the most famous fowling-pieces? And had he not thousands in paper, and thousands in gold; and if he lived, would he not have tens of thousands more? And had he not brought with him a plan of Connal’s-town, the name by which he dignified a snug slated lodge he had upon one of his farms — an elevation of the house to be built, and of the offices that had been built?
He had so. But it happened one day, when Connal was going to ride out with Dora, that just as he mounted, her veil fluttering before his horse’s eyes, startled the animal; and the awkward rider being unable to manage him, King Corny begged Harry Ormond to change horses with him, that Mr. Connal might go quietly beside Dora, “who was a bit of a coward.”
Imprudent father! Harry obeyed — and the difference between the riders and the gentlemen was but too apparent. For what avails it that you have the finest horse, if another ride him better? What avails it that you have the finest saddle, if another become it better? What use to you your Wogden pistols, if another hit the mark you miss? What avails the finest fowling~piece to the worst sportsman? The thousands upon thousands to him who says but little, and says that little ill? What avail that the offices at Connal’s town be finished, dog-kennel and all? or what boots it that the plan and elevation of Connal’s-town be unrolled, and submitted to the fair one’s inspection and remarks, if the fair disdain to inspect, and if she remark only that a cottage and love are more to her taste? White Connal put none of these questions to himself — he went on his own way. Faint heart never won fair lady. Then no doubt he was in a way to win, for his heart never quailed, his colour never changed when he saw his fair one’s furtive smiles, or heard her aunt’s open praises of the youth, by whom riding, dancing, shooting, speaking, or silent, he was always eclipsed. Connal of Connal’s-town despised Harry Ormond of no-town — viewed him with scornful, but not with jealous eyes: idle jealousies were far from Connal’s thoughts — he was intent upon the noble recreation of cock-fighting. Cock-fighting had been the taste of his boyish days, before he became a money-making man; and at every interval of business, at each intermission of the passion of avarice, when he had leisure to think of amusement, this his first idea of pleasure recurred. Since he came to Corny Castle, he had at sundry times expressed to his father his “hope in Heaven, that before they would leave the Black Islands, they should get some good fun, cock-fighting; for it was a poor case for a man that is not used to it, to be tied to a woman’s apron-strings, twirling his thumbs all the mornings, for form’s sake.”
There was a strolling kind of gentleman in the Islands, a Mr. O’Tara, who was a famous cock-fighter. O’Tara came one day to dine at Corny Castle. The kindred souls found each other out, and an animated discourse across the table commenced concerning cocks. After dinner, as the bottle went round, the rival cock-fighters, warmed to enthusiasm in praise of their birds. Each relating wonders, they finished by proposing a match, laying bets and despatching messengers and hampers for their favourites. The cocks arrived, and were put in separate houses, under the care of separate feeders.
Moriarty Carroll, who was curious, and something of a sportsman, had a mind to have a peep at the cocks. Opening the door of one of the buildings hastily, he disturbed the cock, who taking fright, flew about the barn with such violence, as to tear off several of his feathers, and very much to deface his appearance. Unfortunately, at this instant, White Connal and Mr. O’Tara came by, and finding what had happened, abused Moriarty with all the vulgar eloquence which anger could supply. Ormond, who had been with Moriarty, but who had no share in the disaster, endeavoured to mitigate the fury of White Connal and apologized to Mr. O’Tara: O’Tara was satisfied! — shook hands with Ormond, and went off. But White Connal’s anger lasted longer: for many reasons he disliked Ormond; and thinking from Harry’s gentleness, that he might venture to insult him, returned to the charge, and becoming high and brutal in his tone, said that “Mr. Ormond had committed an ungentlemanlike action, which it was easier to apologize for than to defend.” Harry took fire, and instantly was much more ready than his opponent wished to give any other satisfaction that Mr. Connal desired. Well, “Name his hour — his place.” “To-morrow morning, six o’clock, in the east meadow, out of reach and sight of all,” Ormond said; or he was ready at that instant, if Mr. Connal pleased: he hated, he said, to bear malice — he could not sleep upon it.
Moriarty now stepping up privately, besought Mr. Connal’s “honour, for Heaven and earth’s sake, to recollect, if he did not know it, what a desperate good shot Mr. Harry notoriously was always.”
“What, you rascal! are you here still?” cried White Connal: “Hold your peace! How dare you speak between gentlemen?”
Moriarty begged pardon and departed. The hint he had given, however, operated immediately upon White Connal.
“This scattered-brained young Ormond,” said he to himself, “desires nothing better than to fight. Very natural — he has nothing to lose in the world but his bare life: neither money, nor landed property as I have to quit, in leaving the world — unequal odds. Not worth my while to stand his shot, for the feather of a cock,” concluded Connal, as he pulled to pieces one of the feathers, which had been the original cause of all the mischief.
Thus cooled, and suddenly become reasonable, he lowered his tone, declaring that he did not mean to say any thing in short that could give offence, nothing but what it was natural for any man in the heat of passion to say, and it was enough to put a man in a passion at first sight to see his favourite bird disfigured. If he had said any thing too strong, he hoped Mr. Ormond would excuse it.
Ormond knew what the heat of passion was, and was willing to make all proper allowances. White Connal made more than proper apologies; and Ormond rejoiced that the business was ended. But White Connal, conscious that he had first bullied, then quailed, and that if the story were repeated, it would tell to his disadvantage, made it his anxious request that he would say nothing to Cornelius O’Shane of what had passed between them, lest it should offend Cornelius, who he knew was so fond of Mr. Ormond. Harry eased the gentleman’s mind, by promising that he would never say a word about the matter. Mr. Connal was not content till this promise was solemnly repeated. Even this, though it seemed quite to satisfy him at the time, did not afterwards relieve Connal from the uneasy consciousness he felt in Ormond’s company. He could bear it only the remainder of this day. The next morning he left the Black Islands, having received letters of business, he said, which required his immediate presence at Connal’s-town. Many at Corny Castle seemed willing to dispense with his further stay, but King Corny, true to his word and his character, took leave of him as his son-in-law, and only, as far as hospitality required, was ready to “speed the parting guest.” At parting, White Connal drew his future father-in-law aside, and gave him a hint, that he had better look sharp after that youth he was fostering.
“Harry Ormond, do you mean?” said O’Shane.
“I do,” said Connal: “but, Mr. O’Shane, don’t go to mistake me, I am not jealous of the man — not capable — of such a fellow as that — a wild scatterbrains, who is not worth a sixpence scarce — I have too good an opinion of Miss Dora. But if I was in your place, her father, just for the look of the thing in the whole country, I should not like it: not that I mind what people say a potato skin; but still, if I was her father, I’d as soon have the devil an inmate and intimate in my house, nuzzling in my daughter’s ear behind backs.”
Cornelius O’Shane stoutly stood by his young friend.
He never saw Harry Ormond muzzling— behind backs, especially — did not believe any such thing: all Harry said and did was always above-board, and before faces, any way. “In short,” said Cornelius, “I will answer for Harry Ormond’s honour with my own honour. After that, ‘twould be useless to add with my life, if required — that of course; and this ought to satisfy any son-in-law, who was a gentleman — none such could glance or mean to reflect on Dora.”
Connal, perceiving he had overshot himself, made protestations of his innocence of the remotest intention of glancing at, or reflecting upon, or imagining any thing but what was perfectly angelic and proper in Miss Dora — Miss O’Shane.
“Then that was all as it should be,” Mr. O’Shane said, “so far: but another point he would not concede to mortal man, was he fifty times his son-in-law promised, that was, his own right to have who he pleased and willed to have, at his own castle, his inmate and his intimate.”
“No doubt — to be sure,” Connal said: “he did not mean — he only meant — he could not mean — in short, he meant nothing at all, only just to put Mr. O’Shane on his guard — that was all he meant.”
“Phoo!” said Cornelius O’Shane; but checking the expression of his contempt for the man, he made an abrupt transition to Connal’s horse, which had just come to the door.
“That’s a handsome horse! certainly you are well mounted, Mr. Connal.”
O’Shane’s elision of contempt was beyond Mr. Connal’s understanding or feeling.
“Well mounted! certainly I am that, and ever will be, while I can so well afford it,” said Connal, mounting his horse; and identifying himself with the animal, he sat proudly, then bowing to the ladies, who were standing at an open window, “Good day to ye, ladies, till October, when I hope —”
But his horse, who did not seem quite satisfied of his identity with the man, would not permit him to say more, and off he went — half his hopes dispersed in empty air.
“I know I wish,” said Cornelius O’Shane to himself, as he stood on the steps, looking after the man and horse, “I wish that that unlucky bowl of punch had remained for ever unmixed, at the bottom of which I found this son-in-law for my poor daughter, my innocent Dora, then unborn; but she must make the best of him for me and herself, since the fates and my word, irrevocable as the Styx, have bound me to him, the purse-proud grazier and mean man — not a remnant of a gentleman! as the father was. Oh, my poor Dora!”
As King Corny heaved a heartfelt sigh, very difficult to force from his anti-sentimental bosom, Harry Ormond, with a plate of meat in his hand, whistling to his dog to follow him, ran down the steps.
“Leave feeding that dog, and come here to me, Harry,” said O’Shane, “and answer me truly such questions as I shall ask.”
“Truly— if I answer at all,” said Harry.
“Answer you must, when I ask you: every man, every gentleman, must answer in all honour for what he does.”
“Certainly, answer for what he does,” said Harry.
“For!— Phoo! Come, none of your tricks upon prepositions to gain time — I never knew you do the like — you’ll give me a worse opinion. I’m no schoolmaster, nor you a grammarian, I hope, to be equivocating on monosyllables.”
“Equivocate! I never equivocated, sir,” said Harry.
“Don’t begin now, then,” said Cornelius: “I’ve enough to put me out of humour already — so answer straight, like yourself. What’s this you’ve done to get the ill-will of White Connal, that’s just gone?”
Surprised and embarrassed, Ormond answered, “I trust I have not his ill-will, sir.”
“You have, sir,” said O’Shane.
“Is it possible?” cried Harry, “when we shook hands — You must have misunderstood, or have been misinformed. How do you know, my dear sir?”
“I know it from the man’s own lips, see! I can give you a straight answer at once. Now answer me, was there any quarrel between you? and what cause of offence did you give?”
“Excuse me, sir — those are questions which I cannot answer.”
“Your blush, young man, answers me enough, and too much. Mark me, I thought I could answer for your honour with my own, and I did so.”
“Thank you, sir, and you shall never have reason —”
“Don’t interrupt me, young man. What reason can I have to judge of the future, but from the past? I am not an idiot to be bothered with fair words.”
“Oh! sir, can you suspect?”
“I suspect nothing, Harry Ormond: I am, I thank my God, above suspicion. Listen to me. You know — whether I ever told it you before or not, I can’t remember — but whether or not, you know as well as if you were withinside of me — that in my heart’s core there’s not a man alive I should have preferred for my son-in-law to the man I once thought Harry Ormond, without a penny —”
“Once thought!”
“Interrupt me again, and I’ll lave you, sir. In confidence between ourselves, thinking as once I did, that I might depend on your friendship and discretion, equally with your honour, I confessed, I repented a rash promise, and let you see my regret deep enough that my son-in-law will never be what Dora deserves — I said, or let you see as much, no matter which; I am no equivocator, nor do I now unsay or retract a word. You have my secret; but remember when first I had the folly to tell it you, same time I warned you — I warned you, Harry, like the moth from the candle — I warned you in vain. In another tone I warn you now, young man, for the last time — I tell you my promise to me is sacred — she is as good as married to White Connal — fairly tied up neck and heels — and so am I, to all intents and purposes; and if I thought it were possible you could consider her, or make her by any means consider herself, in any other light, I will tell you what I would do — I would shoot myself; for one of us must fall, and I wouldn’t choose it should be you, Harry. That’s all.”
“Oh! hear me, sir,” cried Harry, seizing his arm as he turned away, “kill me if you will, but hear me — I give you my word you are from beginning to end mistaken. I cannot tell you the whole — but this much believe, Dora was not the cause of quarrel.”
“Then there was a quarrel. Oh, for shame! for shame! — you are not used to falsehood enough yet — you can’t carry it through — why did you attempt it with me?”
“Sir, though I can’t tell you the truth, the foolish truth, I tell you no falsehood. Dora’s name, a thought of Dora, never came in question between Mr. Connal and me, upon my honour.”
“Your honour!” repeated Cornelius, with a severe look — severe more in its sorrow than its anger. “O Harry Ormond! what signifies whether the name was mentioned? You know she was the thing — the cause of offence. Stop! I charge you — equivocate no more. If a lie’s beneath a gentleman, an equivocation is doubly beneath a man.”
Harry Ormond thought it hard to bear unmerited reproach and suspicion; found it painful to endure the altered eye of his once kind and always generous, and to him always dear, friend and benefactor. But Ormond had given a solemn promise to White Connal never to mention any thing that had passed between them to O’Shane; and he could not therefore explain these circumstances of the quarrel. Conscious that he was doing right, he kept his promise to the person he hated and despised, at the hazard, at the certainty, of displeasing the man he most loved in the world; and to whom he was the most obliged. While his heart yearned with tenderness towards his adopted father, he endured the reproach of ingratitude; and while he knew he had acted perfectly honourably, he suffered under the suspicion of equivocation and breach of confidence: he bore it all; and in reward he had the conviction of his own firmness, and an experience, upon trial, of his adherence to his word of honour. The trial may seem but trivial, the promise but weak: still it was a great trial to him, and he thought the promise as sacred as if it had been about an affair of state.
It happened some days after the conversation had passed between him and O’Shane, that Cornelius met O’Tara, the gentleman who had laid the bets about the cock-fight with Connal; and chancing to ask him what had prevented the intended battle, O’Tara told all he knew of the adventure. Being a good-natured and good-humoured man, he stated the matter as playfully as possible — acknowledged that they had all been foolish and angry; but that Harry Ormond and Moriarty had at last pacified them by proper apologies. Of what had passed afterwards, of the bullying, and the challenge, and the submission, O’Tara knew nothing; but King Corny having once been put on the right scent, soon made it all out. He sent for Moriarty, and cross-questioning him, heard the whole; for Moriarty had not been sworn to secrecy, and had very good ears. When he had been turned out of the stable, he had retreated only to the harness-room, and had heard all that had passed. King Corny was delighted with Harry’s spirit — and now he was Prince Harry again, and the generous, warm-hearted Cornelius went, in impatience, to seek him out, and to beg his pardon for his suspicions. He embraced him, called him son, and dear son — said he had now found out, no thanks to him, Connal’s cause of complaint, and it had nothing to do with Dora. —“But why could not you say so, man?”
He had said so repeatedly.
“Well, so I suppose it is to be made out clearly to be all my fault, that was in a passion, and could not hear, understand, or believe. Well, be it so; if I was unjust, I’ll make it up to you, for I’ll never believe my own ears, or eyes, against you, Harry, while I live, depend upon it:— if I heard you asking her to marry you, I would believe my ears brought me the words wrong; if I saw you even leading her into the church instead of the chapel, and the priest himself warning me of it, I’d say and think, Father Jos, ’tis a mistake — a vision — or a defect of vision. In short, I love and trust you as my own soul, Harry Ormond, for I did you injustice.”
This full return of kindness and confidence, besides the present delight it gave him, left a permanent and beneficial impression upon our young hero’s mind. The admiration he felt for O’Shane’s generous conduct, and the self-approbation he enjoyed in consequence of his own honourable firmness, had a great effect in strengthening and forming his character: it also rendered him immediately more careful in his whole behaviour towards Miss O’Shane. He was prudent till both aunt and niece felt indignant astonishment. There was some young lady with whom Harry had danced and walked, and of whom he had, without any design, spoken as a pleasing gentle girl. Dora recollected this praise, and joining it with his present distant behaviour toward herself, she was piqued and jealous; and then she became, what probably she would never otherwise have been, quite decided in her partiality for Harry Ormond. The proofs of this were soon so manifest, that many thought, and Miss O’Faley in particular, that Harry was grown stupid, blind, and deaf. He was net stupid, blind, or deaf — he had felt the full power of Dora’s personal charms, and his vanity had been flattered by the preference which Dora showed for him. Where vanity is the ruling passion, young men are easily flattered into being in love with any pretty, perhaps with any ugly girl, who is, or who affects to be, in love with them. But Harry Ormond had more tenderness of heart than vanity: against the suggestions of his vanity he had struggled successfully; but now his heart had a hard trial. Dora’s spirits were failing, her cheek growing pale, her tone of voice was quite softened; sighs would sometimes break forth — persuasive sighs! — Dora was no longer the scornful lady in rude health, but the interesting invalid — the victim going to be sacrificed. Dora’s aunt talked of the necessity of advice for her niece’s health. Great stress was laid on air and exercise, and exercise on horseback. Dora rode every day on the horse Harry Ormond broke in for her, the only horse she could now ride; and Harry understood its ways, and managed it so much better than any body else; and Dora was grown a coward, so that it was quite necessary he should ride or walk beside her. Harry Ormond’s tenderness of heart increased his idea of the danger. Her personal charms became infinitely more attractive to him; her defects of temper and character were forgotten and lost in his sense of pity and gratitude; and the struggle of his feelings was now violent.
One morning our young hero rose early, for he could no longer sleep, and he walked out, or, more properly, he rambled, or he strolled, or streamed out, and he took his way — no, his steps were irresistibly led — to his accustomed haunt by the water side, under the hawthorn bank, and there he walked and picked daisies, and threw stones into the lake, and he loitered on, still thinking of Dora and death, and of the circles in the water, and again of the victim and of the sacrifice, when suddenly he was roused from his reverie by a shrill whistle, that seemed to come from the wood above, and an instant afterwards he heard some one shouting, “Harry Ormond! — Harry Ormond!”
“Here!” answered Harry; and as the shouts were repeated he recognized the voice of O’Tara, who now came, whip in hand, followed by his dogs, running down the bank to him.
“Oh! Harry Ormond, I’ve brought great news with me for all at Corny Castle; but the ladies are not out of their nests, and King Corny’s Lord knows how far off. Not a soul or body to be had but yourself here, by good luck, and you shall have the first of the news, and the telling of it.”
“Thank you,” said Ormond; “and what is the news?”
“First and foremost,” said O’Tara, “you know birds of a feather flock together. White Connal, though, except for the cock-fighting, I never relished him, was mighty fond of me, and invited me down to Connal’s-town, where I’ve been with him this week — you know that much, I conclude.”
Harry owned he did not.
O’Tara wondered how he could help knowing it. “But so it was; we had a great cock-fight, and White Connal, who knew none of my secrets in the feeding line, was bet out and out, and angry enough he was; and then I offered to change birds with him, and beat him with his own Ginger by my superiority o’ feeding, which he scoffed at, but lookup the bet.”
Ormond sighed with impatience in vain — he was forced to submit, and to go through the whole detail of the cock-fight. “The end of it was, that White Connal was worsted by his own bird, and then mad angry was he. So, then,” continued O’Tara, “to get the triumph again on his side, one way or another, was the thing. I had the advantage of him in dogs, too, for he kept no hounds — you know he is close, and hounds lead to a gentlemanlike expense; but very fine horses he had, I’ll acknowledge, and, Harry Ormond, you can’t but remember that one which he could not manage the day he was out riding here with Miss Dora, and you changed with him.”
“I remember it well,” said Ormond.
“Ay, and he has got reason to remember it now, sure enough.”
“Has he had a fall?” said Ormond, stopping.
“Walk on, can’t ye — keep up, and I’ll tell you all regular.”
“There is King Corny!” exclaimed Ormond, who just then saw him come in view.
“Come on, then,” cried O’Tara, leaping over a ditch that was between them, and running up to King Corny. “Great news for you, King Corny, I’ve brought — your son-in-law elect, White Connal, is off.”
“Off — how?”
“Out of the world clean! Poor fellow, broke his neck with that horse he could never manage — on Sunday last. I left him for dead Sunday night — found him dead Monday morning — came off straight with the news to you.”
“Dead!” repeated Corny and Harry, looking at one another. “Heaven forbid!” said Corny, “that I should —”
“Heaven forbid!” repeated Harry; “but —”
“But good morning to you both, then,” said O’Tara: “shake hands either way, and I’ll condole or congratulate to-morrow as the case may be, with more particulars if required.”
O’Tara ran off, saying he would be back again soon; but he had great business to do. “I told the father last night.”
“I am no hypocrite,” said Corny. “Rest to the dead and all their faults! White Connal is out of my poor Dora’s way, and I am free from my accursed promise!” Then clasping his hands, “Praised be Heaven for that! — Heaven is too good to me! — Oh, my child! how unworthy White Connal of her! — Thank Heaven on my knees, with my whole heart, thank Heaven that I am not forced to the sacrifice! — My child, my darling Dora, she is free! — Harry Ormond, my dear boy, I’m free,” cried O’Shane, embracing Harry with all the warmth of paternal affection.
Ormond returned that embrace with equal warmth, and with a strong sense of gratitude: but was his joy equal to O’Shane’s? What were his feelings at this moment? They were in such confusion, such contradiction, he could scarcely tell. Before he heard of White Connal’s death, at the time when he was throwing pebbles into the lake, he desired nothing so much as to be able to save Dora from being sacrificed to that odious marriage; he thought, that if he were not bound in honour to his benefactor, he should instantly make that offer of his hand and heart to Dora, which would at once restore her to health, and happiness, and fulfil the wishes of her kind, generous father. But now, when all obstacles seemed to vanish — when his rival was no more — when his benefactor declared his joy at being freed from his promise — when he was embraced as O’Shane’s son, he did not feel joy: he was surprised to find it; but he could not. Now that he could marry Dora, now that her father expected that he should, he was not clear that he wished it himself. Quick as obstacles vanished, objections recurred: faults which he had formerly seen so strongly, which of late compassion had veiled from his view, reappeared; the softness of manner, the improvement of temper, caused by love, might be transient as passion. Then her coquetry — her frivolity. She was not that superior kind of woman which his imagination had painted, or which his judgment could approve of in a wife. How was he to explain this confusion of feeling to Corny? Leaning on his arm, he walked on towards the house. He saw Corny, smiling at his own meditations, was settling the match, and anticipating the joy to all he loved. Harry sighed, and was painfully silent.
“Shoot across like an arrow to the house,” cried Corny, turning suddenly to him, and giving him a kind push —“shoot off, Harry, and bring Dora to meet me like lightning, and the poor aunt, too —‘twould be cruel else! But what stops you, son of my heart?”
“Stay!” cried Corny, a sudden thought striking him, which accounted for Harry Ormond’s hesitation; “Stop, Harry! You are right, and I am a fool. There is Black Connal, the twin-brother — oh, mercy! — against us still. May be Old Connal will keep me to it still — as he couldn’t, no more than I could, foresee that when I promised Dora that was not then born, it would be twins — and as I said son, and surely I meant the son that would be born then — and twins is all as one as one, they say. Promise fettering still! Bad off as ever, may be,” said Cornelius. His whole countenance and voice changed; he sat down on a fallen tree, and rested his hands on his knees. “What shall we do now, Harry, with Black Connal?”
“He may be a very different man from White Connal — in every respect,” said Ormond.
O’Shane looked up for a moment, and then interpreting his own way, exclaimed, “That’s right, Harry — that thought is like yourself, and the very thought I had myself. We must make no declarations till we have cleared the point of honour. Not the most beautiful angel that ever took woman’s beautiful form — and that’s the greatest temptation man can meet — could tempt my Harry Ormond from the straight path of honour!”
Harry Ormond stood at this moment abashed by praise which he did not quite deserve. “Indeed, sir,” said he, “you give me too much credit.” “I cannot give you too much credit; you are an honourable young man, and I understand you through and through.”
That was more than Harry himself did. Corny went on talking to himself aloud, “Black Connal is abroad these great many years, ever since he was a boy — never saw him since a child that high — an officer he is in the Irish brigade now — black eyes and hair; that was why they called him Black Connal — Captain Connal now; and I heard the father say he was come to England, and there was some report of his going to be married, if I don’t mistake,” cried Corny, turning again to Harry, pleasure rekindling in his eye. “If that should be! there’s hope for us still; but I see you are right not to yield to the hope till we are clear. My first step, in honour, no doubt, must be across the lake this minute to the father — Connal of Glynn; but the boat is on the other side. The horn is, with my fishing-tackle, Harry, down yonder — run, for you can run — horn the boat, or if the horn be not there, sign to the boat with your handkerchief — bring it up here, and I will put across before ten minutes shall be over — my horse I will have down to the water’s edge by the time you have got the boat up — when an honourable tough job is to be done, the sooner the better.”
The horse was brought to the water’s edge, the boat came across, Corny and his horse were in; and Corny, with his own hands on the oar, pushed away from land: then calling to Harry, he bid him wait on the shore by such an hour, and he should have the first news.
“Rest on your oars, you, while I speak to Prince Harry.
“That you may know all, Harry, sooner than I can tell you, if all be safe, or as we wish it, see, I’ll hoist my neckcloth, white, to the top of this oar; if not, the black flag, or none at all, shall tell you. Say nothing till then — God bless you, boy!” Harry was glad that he had these orders, for he knew that as soon as Mademoiselle should be up, and hear of O’Tara’s early visit, with the message he said he had left at the house that he brought great news, Mademoiselle would soon sally forth to learn what that news might be. In this conjecture Ormond was not mistaken. He soon heard her voice “Mon-Dieu!-ing” at the top of the bank: he ducked — he dived — he darted through nettles and brambles, and escaped. Seen or unseen he escaped, nor stopped his flight even when out of reach of the danger. As to trusting himself to meet Dora’s eyes, “’twas what he dared not.”
He hid, and wandered up and down, till near dinner-time. At last, O’Shane’s boat was seen returning — but no white flag! The boat rowed nearer and nearer, and reached the spot where Harry stood motionless.
“Ay, my poor boy, I knew I’d find you so,” said O’Shane, as he got ashore. “There’s my hand, you have my heart — I wish I had another hand to give you — but it’s all over with us, I fear. Oh! my poor Dora! — and here she is coming down the bank, and the aunt! — Oh, Dora! you have reason to hate me!”
“To hate you, sir? Impossible!” said Ormond, squeezing his hand strongly, as he felt.
“Impossible! — true — for her to hate, who is all love and loveliness! — impossible too for you, Harry Ormond, who is all goodness!”
“Bon Dieu!” cried Mademoiselle, who was now within exclamation distance. “What a course we have had after you, gentlemen! Ladies looking for gentlemen! — C’est inou?! — What is it all? for I am dying with curiosity.”
Without answering Mademoiselle, the father, and Harry’s eyes, at the same moment, were fixed on one who was some steps behind, and who looked as if dying with a softer passion. Harry made a step forward to offer his arm, but stopped short; the father offered his, in silence.
“Can nobody speak to me? — Bien poli!” said Mademoiselle.
“If you please, Miss O’Faley, ma’am,” cried a hatless footman, who had run after the ladies the wrong way from the house: “if you please, ma’am, will she send up dinner now?”
“Oui, qu’on serve! — Yes, she will. Let her dish — by that time she is dished, we shall he in — and have satisfied our curiosity, I hope,” added she, turning to her brother-in-law.
“Let us dine first,” said Cornelius, “and when the cloth is removed, and the waiting-ears out of hearing, time enough to have our talk to ourselves.”
“Bien singulier, ces Anglois!” muttered Mademoiselle to herself, as they proceeded to the house. “Here is a young man, and the most polite of the silent company, who may well be in some haste for his dinner; for to my knowledge, he is without his breakfast.”
Harry had no appetite for dinner, but swallowed as much as Mademoiselle O’Faley desired. A remarkably silent meal it would have been, but for her happy volubility, equal to all occasions. At last came the long expected words, “Take away.” When all was taken away, and all were gone, but those who, as O’Shane said, would too soon wish unheard what they were dying to hear, he drew his daughter’s chair close to him, placed her so as “to save her blushes,” and began his story, by relating all that O’Tara had told.
“It was a sudden death — shocking!” Mademoiselle repeated several times; but both she and Dora recovered from the shock, or from the word “shocking!” and felt the delight of Dora’s being no longer a sacrifice.
After a general thanksgiving having been offered for her escape from the butor, Mademoiselle, in transports, was going on to say that now her niece was free to make a suitable match, and she was just turning to wonder that Harry Ormond was not that moment at her niece’s feet; and Dora’s eyes, raised slowly towards him and suddenly retracted, abashed and perplexed Harry indescribably; when Corny continued thus: “Dora is not free, nor am I free in honour yet, nor can I give any body freedom of tongue or heart until I know farther.”
Various exclamations of surprise and sorrow interrupted him.
“Am I never, never, to be free!” cried Dora: “Oh! am not I now at liberty?”
“Hear me, my child,” said her father; “I feel it as you do.”
“And what is it next — Qu’est-ce que c’est — this new obstacle? — What can it be?” said Mademoiselle.
The father then stated sorrowfully, that Old Connal of Glynn would by no means relinquish the promise, but considered it equally binding for the twin born with White Connal, considering both twins as coming under the promise to his son that was to be born. He said he would write immediately to his son, who was now in England.
“And now tell me what kind of a person is this new pretender, this Mr. Black Connal,” cried Mademoiselle.
“Of him we know nothing as yet,” said O’Shane; “but I hope, in Heaven, that the man that is coming is as different from the man that’s gone as black from white.”
Harry heard Dora breathe quick and quicker, but she said nothing.
“Then we shall get his answer to the father’s letter in eight days, I count,” said Mademoiselle; “and I have great hopes we shall never be troubled with him: we shall know if he will come or not, in eight days.”
“About that time,” said O’Shane: “but, sister O’Faley, do not nurse my child or yourself up with deceitful hopes. There’s not a man alive — not a Connal, surely, hearing what happiness he is heir to, but would come flying over post-haste. So you may expect his answer, in eight days — Dora, my darling, and God grant he may be —”
“No matter what he is, sir — I’ll die before I will see him,” cried Dora, rising, and bursting into tears.
“Oh, my child, you won’t die! — you can’t — from me, your father!” Her father threw his arms round her, and would have drawn her to him, but she turned her face from him: Harry was on the other side — her eyes met his, and her face became covered with blushes.
“Open the window, Harry!” said O’Shane, who saw the conflict; “open the window! — we all want it.”
Harry opened the window, and hung out of it gasping for breath.
“She’s gone — the aunt has taken her off — it’s over for this fit,” said O’Shane. “Oh, my child, I must go through with it! My boy, I honour as I love you — I have a great deal to say about your own affairs, Harry.”
“My affairs — oh! what affairs have I? Never think of me, dear sir —”
“I will — but can’t now — I am spent for this day — leave out the bottle of claret for Father Jos, and I’ll get to bed — I’ll see nobody, tell Father Jos — I’m gone to my room.”
The next morning O’Tara came to breakfast. Every person had a different question to ask him, except Dora, who was silent.
Corny asked what kind of man Black Connal was. Mademoiselle inquired whether he was most French or English; Ormond, whether he was going to be married.
To all these questions O’Tara pleaded ignorance: except with respect to the sports of the field, he had very little curiosity or intelligence.
A ray of hope again darted across the mind of Corny. From his knowledge of the world, he thought it very probable that a young officer in the French brigade would be well contented to be heir to his brother’s fortune, without encumbering himself with an Irish wife, taken from an obscure part of the country. Corny, therefore, eagerly inquired from O’Tara what became of White Connal’s property. O’Tara answered, that the common cry of the country was, that all White Connal’s profitable farms were leasehold property, and upon his own life. Poor Corny’s hopes were thus frustrated: he had nothing left to do for some days but to pity Harry Ormond, to bear with the curiosity and impatience of Mademoiselle, and with the froward sullenness of Dora, till some intelligence should arrive respecting the new claimant to her destined hand.
A few days afterwards, Sheelah, bursting into Dora’s room, exclaimed, “Miss Dora! Miss Dora! for the love of God, they are coming! They’re coming down the avenue, powdering along! Black Connal himself flaming away, with one in a gold hat, this big, galloping after, and all gold over, he is entirely! — Oh! what will become of us, Master Harry, now! Oh! it took the sight out of my eyes! — And yours as red as ferrets, dear! — Oh! the cratur. But come to the window and look out — nobody will mind — stretch out the body, and I’ll hold ye fast, never fear! — at the turn of the big wood do you see them behind the trees, the fir dales, glittering and flaming? Do you see them at all?”
“Too plainly,” said Dora, sighing; “but I did not expect he would come in such a grand style. I wonder —”
“Oh! so do I, greatly — mostly at the carriage. Never saw the like with the Connals, so grand — but the queer thing —”
“Ah! my dear Dore, un cabriolet!” cried Mademoiselle, entering in ecstacy. “Here is Monsieur de Connal for you in a French cabriolet, and a French servant riding on to advertise you and all. Oh! what are you twisting your neck, child? I will have no toss at him now — he is all the gentleman, you shall see: so let me set you all to rights while your father is receive. I would not have him see you such a horrible figure — not presentable! you look —”
“I do not care how I look — the worse the better,” said Dora: “I wish to look a horrible figure to him — to Black Connal.”
“Oh! put your Black Connals out of your head — that is always in your mouth: I tell you he is call M. de Connal. Now did I not hear him this minute announced by his own valet? — Monsieur de Connal presents his compliments — he beg permission to present himself — and there was I, luckily, to answer for your father in French.”
“French! sure Black Connal’s Irish born!” said Sheelah: “that much I know, any way.”
A servant knocked at the door with King Corny’s request that the ladies would come down stairs, to see, as the footman added to his master’s message, to see old Mr. Connal and the French gentleman.
“There! French, I told you,” said Mademoiselle, “and quite the gentleman, depend upon it, my dear — come your ways.”
“No matter what he is,” said Dora, “I shall not go down to see him; so you had better go by yourself, aunt.”
“Not one step! Oh! that would be the height of impolitesse and disobedience — you could not do that, my dear Dore; consider, he is not a man that nobody knows, like your old butor of a White Connal. Not signify how bad you treat him — like the dog; but here is a man of a certain quality, who knows the best people in Paris, who can talk, and tell every where. Oh! in conscience, my dear Dore, I shall not suffer these airs with a man who is somebody, and —”
“If he were the king of France,” cried Dora, “if he were Alexander the Great himself, I would not be forced to see the man, or marry him against my will!”
“Marry! Who talk of marry? Not come to that yet; ten to one he has no thought of you, more than politeness require.”
“Oh! as to that,” said Dora, “aunt, you certainly are mistaken there. What do you think he comes over to Ireland, what do you think he comes here for?”
“Hark! then,” said Sheelah, “don’t I hear them out of the window? Faith! there they are, walking and talking and laughing, as if there was nothing at all in it.”
“Just Heavens! What a handsome uniform!” said Miss O’Faley; “and a very proper-looking man,” said Sheelah.
“Well, who’d have thought Black Connal, if it’s him, would ever have turned out so fine a presence of a man to look at?”
“Very cavalier, indeed, to go out to walk, without waiting to see us,” said Dora.
“Oh! I will engage it was that dear father of yours hoisted him out.”
“Hoisted him out! Well, aunt, you do sometimes speak the oddest English. But I do think it strange that he should be so very much at his ease. Look at him — hear him — I wonder what he is saying — and Harry Ormond! — Give me my bonnet, Sheelah — behind you, quick. Aunt, let us go out of the garden door, and meet them out walking, by accident — that is the best way — I long to see how somebody will look.”
“Very good — now you look all life and spirit — perfectly charming! Look that manner, and I’ll engage he will fall in love with you.”
“He had better not, I can tell him, unless he has a particular pleasure in being refused,” said Dora, with a toss of her head and neck, and at the same time a glance at her looking-glass, as she passed quickly out of the room.
Dora and her aunt walked out, and accidentally met the gentlemen in their walk. As M. de Connal approached, he gave them full leisure to form their opinions as to his personal appearance. He had the air of a foreign officer — easy, fashionable, and upon uncommonly good terms with himself — conscious, but with no vulgar consciousness, of possessing a fine figure and a good face: his was the air of a French coxcomb, who in unconstrained delight, was rather proud to display, than anxious to conceal, his perfect self-satisfaction. Interrupting his conversation only when he came within a few paces of the ladies, he advanced with an air of happy confidence and Parisian gallantry, begging that Mr. O’Shane would do him the honour and pleasure to present him. After a bow, that said nothing, to Dora, he addressed his conversation entirely to her aunt, walking beside Mademoiselle, and neither approaching nor attempting to speak to Dora; he did not advert to her in the least, and seemed scarcely to know she was present. This quite disconcerted the young lady’s whole plan of proceedings — no opportunity was afforded her of showing disdain. She withdrew her arm from her aunt’s, though Mademoiselle held it as fast as she could — but Dora withdrew it resolutely, and falling back a step or two, took Harry Ormond’s arm, and walked with him, talking with as much unconcern, and as loudly as she could, to mark her indifference. But whether she talked or was silent, walked on with Harry Ormond, or stayed behind, whispered or laughed aloud, it seemed to make no impression, no alteration whatever in Monsieur de Connal: he went on conversing with Mademoiselle, and with her father, alternately in French and English. In English he spoke with a native Irish accent, which seemed to have been preserved from childhood; but though the brogue was strong, yet there were no vulgar expressions: he spoke good English, but generally with somewhat of French idiom. Whether this was from habit or affectation it was not easy to decide. It seemed as if the person who was speaking, thought in French, and translated it into English as he went on. The peculiarity of manner and accent — for there was French mixed with the Irish — fixed attention; and besides Dora was really curious to hear what he was saying, for he was very entertaining. Mademoiselle was in raptures while he talked of Paris and Versailles, and various people of consequence and fashion at the court. The Dauphiness! — she was then but just married — de Connal had seen all the fêtes and the fireworks — but the beautiful Dauphiness! — In answering a question of Mademoiselle’s about the colour of her hair, he for the first time showed that he had taken notice of Dora. “Nearly the colour, I think, of that young lady’s hair, as well as one can judge; but powder prevents the possibility of judging accurately.”
Dora was vexed to see that she was considered merely as a young lady: she exerted herself to take a part in the conversation, but Mr. Connal never joined in conversation with her — with the most scrupulous deference he stopped short in the middle of his sentence, if she began to speak. He stood aside, shrinking into himself with the utmost care, if she was to pass; he held the boughs of the shrubs out of her way, but continued his conversation with Mademoiselle all the time. When they came in from their walk, the same sort of thing went on. “It really is very extraordinary,” thought she: “he seems as if he was spell-bound — obliged by his notions of politeness to let me pass incognita.”
Mademoiselle was so fully engaged, chattering away, that she did not perceive Dora’s mortification. The less notice Connal took of her, the more Dora wished to attract his attention: not that she desired to please him — no, she only longed to have the pleasure of refusing him. For this purpose the offer must be made — and it was not at all clear that any offer would be made.
When the ladies went to dress before dinner, Mademoiselle, while she was presiding at Dora’s toilette, expressed how much she was delighted with M. de Connal, and asked what her niece thought of him? Dora replied that indeed she did not trouble herself to think of him at all — that she thought him a monstrous coxcomb — and that she wondered what could bring so prodigiously fine a gentleman to the Black Islands.
“Ask your own sense what brought him here! or ask your own looking-glass what shall keep him here!” said Miss O’Faley. “I can tell you he thinks you very handsome already; and when he sees you dress!”
“Really! he does me honour; he did not seem as if he had even seen me, more than any of the trees in the wood, or the chairs in the room.”
“Chairs! — Oh, now you fish for complimens! But I shall not tell you how like he thinks you, if you were mise à la Fran?oise, to la belle Comtesse de Barnac.”
“But is not it very extraordinary, he absolutely never spoke to me,” said Dora: “a very strange manner of paying his court!”
Mademoiselle assured Dora “that this was owing to M. de Connal’s French habits. The young ladies in Paris passing for nothing, scarcely ever appearing in society till they are married, the gentlemen have no intercourse with them, and it would be considered as a breach of respect due to a young lady or her mother, to address much conversation to her. And you know, my dear Dore, their marriages are all make up by the father, the mother, the friends — the young people themselves never speak, never know nothing at all about each one another, till the contract is sign: in fact, the young lady is the little round what you call cipher, but has no value in société at all, till the figure of de husband come to give it the value.”
“I have no notion of being a cipher,” said Dora: “I am not a French young lady, Monsieur de Connal.”
“Ah, but my dear Dore, consider what is de French wife! Ah! then come her great glory; then she reign over all hearts, and is in full liberté to dress, to go, to come, to do what she like, with her own carriage, her own box at de opera, and — You listen well, and I shall draw all that out for you, from M. de Connal.”
Dora languidly, sullenly begged her aunt would not give herself the trouble — she had no curiosity. But nevertheless she asked several questions about la Comtesse de Barnac; and all the time saying she did not in the least care what he thought or said of her, she drew from her aunt every syllable that M. de Connal had uttered, and was secretly mortified and surprised to find he had said so little. She could not dress herself to her mind to-day, and protesting she did not care how she looked, she resigned herself into her aunt’s hands. Whatever he might think, she should take care to show him at dinner that young ladies in this country were not ciphers.
At dinner, however, as before, all Dora’s preconcerted airs of disdain and determination to show that she was somebody, gave way, she did not know how, before M. de Connal’s easy assurance and polite indifference. His knowledge of the world, and his talents for conversation, with the variety of subjects he had flowing in from all parts of the world, gave him advantages with which there was no possibility of contending.
He talked, and carved — all life, and gaiety, and fashion: he spoke of battles, of princes, plays, operas, wine, women, cardinals, religion, politics, poetry, and turkeys stuffed with truffles — and Paris for ever! — Dash on! at every thing! — hit or miss — sure of the applause of Mademoiselle — and, as he thought, secure of the admiration of the whole company of natives, from le beau-père, at the foot of the table, to the boy who waited, or who did not wait, opposite to him, but who stood entranced with wonder at all that M. de Connal said, and all that he did — even to the fashion in which he stowed trusses of salad into his mouth with a fork, and talked — through it all.
And Dora, what did she think? — she thought she was very much mortified that there was room for her to say so little. The question now was not what she thought of M. de Connal, but what he thought of her. After beginning with various little mock defences, avertings of the head, and twists of the neck, of the shoulders and hips, compound motions resolvable into mauvaise honte and pride, as dinner proceeded, and Monsieur de Connal’s success was undoubted, she silently gave up her resolution “not to admire.”
Before the first course was over, Connal perceived that he had her eye: “Before the second is over,” thought he, “I shall have her ear; and by the time we come to the dessert, I shall be in a fair way for the heart.”
Though he seemed to have talked without any design, except to amuse himself and the company in general, yet in all he had said there had been a prospective view to his object. He chose his means well, and in Mademoiselle he found, at once, a happy dupe and a confederate. Without previous concert, they raised visions of Parisian glory which were to prepare the young lady’s imagination for a French lover or a French husband. M. de Connal was well aware that no matter who touched her heart, if he could pique her vanity.
After dinner, when the ladies retired, old Mr. Connal began to enter upon the question of the intended union between the families — Ormond left the room, and Corny suppressed a deep sigh. M. de Connal took an early opportunity of declaring that there was no truth in the report of his going to be married in England: he confessed that such a thing had been in question — he must speak with delicacy — but the family and connexions did not suit him; he had a strong prejudice, he owned, in favour of ancient family — Irish family; he had always wished to marry an Irish woman — for that reason he had avoided opportunities that might have occurred of connecting himself, perhaps advantageously, in France; he was really ambitious of the honour of an alliance with the O’Shanes. Nothing could be more fortunate for him than the friendship which had subsisted between his father and Mr. O’Shane. — And the promise? — Relinquish it! — Oh! that, he assured Mr. O’Shane, was quite impossible, provided the young lady herself should not make a decided objection — he should abide by her decision — he could not possibly think of pressing his suit, if there should appear any repugnance: in that case, he should be infinitely mortified — he should be absolutely in despair; but he should know how to submit — cost him what it would: he should think, as a man of honour, it was his part to sacrifice his wishes, to what the young lady might conceive to be for her happiness.
He added a profusion of compliments on the young lady’s charms, with a declaration of the effect they had already produced on his heart.
This was all said with a sort of nonchalance, which Corny did not at all like. But Mademoiselle, who was summoned to Corny’s private council, gave it as her opinion, that M. de Connal was already quite in love — quite as much as a French husband ever was. She was glad that her brother-in-law was bound by his promise to a gentleman who would really be a proper husband for her niece. Mademoiselle, in short, saw every thing couleur de rose; and she urged, that, since M. de Connal had come to Ireland for the express purpose of forwarding his present suit, he ought to be invited to stay at Corny Castle, that he might endeavour to make himself acceptable to Dora.
To this Corny acceded. He left Mademoiselle to make the invitation; for, he said, she understood French politeness, and all that, better than he did. The invitation was made and accepted, with all due expressions of infinite delight.
“Well, my dear Harry Ormond,” said Corny, the first moment he had an opportunity of speaking to Harry in private, “what do you think of this man?”
“What Miss O’Shane thinks of him is the question,” said Harry, with some embarrassment.
“That’s true — it was too hard to ask you. But I’ll tell you what I think: between ourselves, Black Connal is better than White, inasmuch as a puppy is better than a brute. We shall see what Dora will say or think soon — the aunt is over head and ears already: women are mighty apt to be taken, one way or other, with a bit of a coxcomb. Vanity — vanity! but still I know — I suspect, Dora has a heart: from me, I hope, she has a right to a heart. But I will say no more till I see which way the heart turns and settles, after all the little tremblings and variations: when it points steady, I shall know how to steer my course. I have a scheme in my head, but I won’t mention it to you, Harry, because it might end in disappointment: so go off to bed and to sleep, if you can; you have had a hard day to go through, my poor honourable Harry.”
And poor honourable Harry had many hard days to go through. He had now to see how Dora’s mind was gradually worked upon, not by a new passion, for Mr. Connal never inspired or endeavoured to inspire passion, but by her own and her aunt’s vanity. Mademoiselle with constant importunity assailed her: and though Dora saw that her aunt’s only wish was to settle in Paris, and to live in a fine hotel; and though Dora was persuaded, that for this, her aunt would without scruple sacrifice her happiness and that of Harry Ormond; yet she was so dazzled by the splendid representation of a Parisian life, as not to see very distinctly what object she had herself in view. Connal’s flattery, too, though it had scarcely any pretence to the tone of truth or passion, yet contrasting with his previous indifference, gratified her. She was sensible that he was not attached to her as Harry Ormond was, but she flattered herself that she should quite turn his head in time. She tried all her power of charming for this purpose, at first chiefly with the intention of exciting Harry’s jealousy, and forcing him to break his honourable resolution. Harry continued her first object for some little time, but soon the idea of piquing him was merely an excuse for coquetry. She imagined that she could recede or advance with her new admirer, just as she thought proper; but she was mistaken: she had now to deal with a man practised in the game: he might let her appear to win, but not for nothing would he let her win a single move; yet he seemed to play so carelessly, as not in the least to alarm, or put her on her guard. The bystanders began to guess how the game would terminate: it was a game in which the whole happiness of Dora’s life was at stake, to say nothing of his own, and Ormond could not look on without anxiety — and, notwithstanding his outwardly calm appearance, without strong conflicting emotions. “If,” said he to himself, “I were convinced that this man would make her happy, I think I could be happy myself.” But the more he saw of Connal, the less he thought him likely to make Dora happy; unless, indeed, her vanity could quite extinguish her sensibility: then, Monsieur de Connal would be just the husband to suit her.
Connal was exactly what he appeared to be — a gay young officer, who had made his own way up in the world — a petit-ma?tre, who had really lived in good company at Paris, and had made himself agreeable to women of rank and fortune. He might, perhaps, as he said, with his figure, and fashion, and connexions, have made his fortune in Paris by marriage, had he had time to look about him — but a sudden run of ill-fortune at play had obliged him to quit Paris for a season. It was necessary to make his fortune by marriage in England or Ireland, and as expeditiously as possible. In this situation, Dora, with her own and her aunt’s property, was, as he considered it, an offer not to be rashly slighted; nor yet was he very eager about the matter — if he failed here, he should succeed elsewhere. This real indifference gave him advantages with Dora, which a man of feeling would perhaps never have obtained, or never have kept. Her father, though he believed in the mutable nature of woman, yet could scarcely think that his daughter Dora was of this nature. He could scarcely conceive that her passion for Harry Ormond — that passion which had, but a short time before, certainly affected her spirits, and put him in fear for her health — could have been conquered by a coxcomb, who cared very little whether he conquered or not.
How was this possible? Good Corny invented many solutions of the problem: he fancied one hour that his daughter was sacrificing herself from duty to him, or complaisance to her aunt; the next hour, he settled, and with more probability, that she was piqued by Harry Ormond’s not showing more passion. King Corny was resolved to know distinctly how the matter really was: he therefore summoned his daughter and aunt into his presence, and the person he sent to summon them was Harry Ormond.
“Come back with them, yourself, Harry — I shall want you also.”
Harry returned with both the ladies. By the countenance of Cornelius O’Shane, they all three augured that he had something of importance to say, and they stood in anxious expectation. He went to the point immediately.
“Dora, I know it is the custom on some occasions for ladies never to tell the truth — therefore I shall not ask any question that I think will put your truth to the test. I shall tell you my mind, and leave you to judge for yourself. Take as long or as short a time to know your own mind as you please — only know it clearly, and send me your answer by your aunt. All I beg is, that when the answer shall be delivered to me, this young man may be by. Don’t interrupt me, Dora — I have a high opinion of him,” said he, keeping his eye upon Dora’s face.
“I have a great esteem, affection, love for him:” he pronounced the words deliberately, that he might see the effect on Dora; but her countenance was as undecided as her mind — no judgment could be formed from its changes. “I wish Harry Ormond,” continued he, “to know all my conduct: he knows that, long ago, I made a foolish promise to give my daughter to a man I knew nothing about.”
Mademoiselle was going to interrupt, but Cornelius O’Shane silenced her. “Mademoiselle — sister O’Faley, I will do the best I can to repair that folly — and to leave you at liberty, Dora, to follow the choice of your heart.”
He paused, and again studied her countenance, which was agitated.
“Her choice is your choice — her father’s choice is always the choice of the good daughter,” said Mademoiselle.
“I believe she is a good daughter, and that is the particular reason I am determined to be as good a father as I can to her.”
Dora wept in silence — and Mademoiselle, a good deal alarmed, wanted to remove Harry Ormond out of the young lady’s sight: she requested him to go to her apartment for a smelling-bottle for her niece.
“No, no,” said King Corny, “go yourself, sister O’Faley, if you like it, but I’ll not let Harry Ormond stir — he is my witness present. Dora is not fainting — if you would only let her alone, she would do well. Dora, listen to me: if you don’t really prefer this Black Connal for a husband to all other men, as you are to swear at the altar you do, if you marry him —”
Dora was strongly affected by the solemn manner of her father’s appeal to her.
“If,” continued her father, “you are not quite clear, my dear child, that you prefer him to other men, do not marry him. I have a notion I can bring you off without breaking my word: listen. I would willingly give half my fortune to secure your happiness, my darling. If I do not mistake him, Mr. Connal would, for a less sum, give me back my promise, and give you up altogether, my dear Dora.”
Dora’s tears stopped, Mademoiselle’s exclamations poured forth, and they both declared they were certain that Mr. Connal would not, for any thing upon earth that could be offered to him, give up the match.
Corny said he was willing to make the trial, if they pleased. Mademoiselle seemed to hesitate; but Dora eagerly accepted the proposal, thanked her father for his kindness, and declared that she should be happy to have, and to abide by, this test of Mr. Connal’s love. If he were so base as to prefer half her fortune to herself, she should, she said, think herself happy in having escaped from such a traitor.
Dora’s pride was wakened, and she now spoke in a high tone: she always, even in the midst of her weaknesses, had an ambition to show spirit.
“I will put the test to him myself, within this hour,” said Corny; “and before you go to bed this night, when the clock strikes twelve, all three of you be on this spot, and I will give you his answer. But stay, Harry Ormond, we have not had your opinion — would you advise me to make this trial?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“But if I should lose half of Dora’s fortune?”
“You would think it well bestowed, I am sure, sir, in securing her from an unhappy marriage.”
“But then she might not, perhaps, so easily find another lover with half a fortune — that might make a difference, hey, Harry?”
“Impossible, I should think, sir, that it could make the least difference in the affection of any one who really — who was really worthy of Miss O’Shane.”
The agitation into which Harry Ormond was thrown, flattered and touched Dora for the moment; her aunt hurried her out of the room.
Cornelius O’Shane rang, and inquired where Mr. Connal was? In his own apartment, writing letters, his servant believed. O’Shane sent to beg to see him, as soon as he was at leisure.
At twelve o’clock Dora, Mademoiselle, and Ormond, were all in the study, punctually as the clock was striking.
“Well, what is M. de Connal’s answer?” cried Mademoiselle.
“If he hesitate, my dear Dore, give him up dat minute.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Dora: “I have too much spirit to do otherwise. What’s his answer, father?”
“His answer, my dear child, has proved that you knew him better than I did — he scorns the offer of half your fortune — for your whole fortune he would not give you up.”
“I thought so,” cried Dora, triumphantly.
“I thought so,” echoed Mademoiselle.
“I did him injustice,” cried Ormond. “I am glad that M. de Connal has proved himself worthy of you, Dora, since you really approve of him — you have not a friend in the world, next to your father, who wishes your happiness more sincerely than I do.”
He hurried out of the room.
“There’s a heart for you!” said Corny.
“Not for me,” said Mademoiselle: “he has no passion in him.”
“I give you joy, Dora,” said her father. “I own I misjudged the man — on account of his being a bit of a coxcomb. But if you can put up with that, so will I— when I have done a man injustice, I will make it up to him every way I can. Now let him, he has my consent, be as great a coxcomb as ever wore red heels. I’ll put up with it all, since he really loves my child. I did not think he would have stood the test.”
Nor would he, had not he been properly prepared by Mademoiselle — she had, before M. de Connal went to Corny, sent him a little billet, which told him the test that would be proposed, and thus prevented all possibility of her dear niece’s being disappointed in her lover or her husband.
Vain of showing that he was not in the slightest degree jealous, Connal talked to Ormond in the freest manner imaginable, touching with indifference even on the very subject which Ormond, from feelings of delicacy and honour, had anxiously avoided. Connal seemed to be perfectly aware how matters had stood before his arrival between Dora and our young hero. “It was all very well,” he said, “quite natural — in the common course of things — impossible it should have been otherwise. A young woman, who saw no one else, must inevitably fall in love with the first agreeable young man who made love to her, or who did not make love to her — it was quite equal to him which. He had heard wonders from his father-in-law elect on that last topic, and he was willing to oblige him, or any other gentleman or lady, by believing miracles.”
Ormond, extremely embarrassed by the want of delicacy and feeling with which this polished coxcomb spoke, had, however, sufficient presence of mind to avoid, either by word or look, making any particular application of what was said.
“You have really prodigious presence of mind, and discretion, and tact, for a young man who has, I presume, had so little practice in these affairs,” said Connal; “but don’t constrain yourself longer. I speak frankly to take off all embarrassment on your part — you see there exists none on mine — never, for a moment: no, how can it possibly signify,” continued he, “to any man of common sense, who, or what a woman liked before she saw him? You don’t think a man, who has seen any thing of the world, would trouble himself to inquire whether he was, or was not, the first love of the woman he is going to marry. To marry— observe the emphasis — distinguish — distinguish, and seriously let us calculate.”
Ormond gave no interruption to his calculations, and the petit-ma?tre, in a tone of philosophic fatuity, asked, “Of the numbers of your English or Irish wives — all excellent — how many, I pray you, do you calculate are now married to the man they first, fell in love with, as they call it? My good sir, not five per cent., depend on it. The thing is morally impossible, unless girls are married out of a convent, as with us in France, and very difficult even then; and after all, what are the French husbands the better for it? I understand English husbands think themselves best off. I don’t pretend to judge; but they seem to prefer what they call domestic happiness to the French esprit de société. Still, this may be prejudice of education — of country: each nation has its taste. Every thing is for the best in this world, for people who know how to make the best of it. You would not think, to look at me, I was so philosophic: but even in the midst of my military career I have thought — thought profoundly. Every body in France thinks now,” said M. de Connal, taking a pinch of snuff with a very pensive air.
“Every body in France thinks now!” repeated Ormond.
“Every man of a certain rank, that is to say.”
“That is to say, of your rank,” said Ormond.
“Nay, I don’t give myself as an example; but — you may judge — I own I am surprised to find myself philosophizing here in the Black Islands — but one philosophizes every where.” “And you would have more time for it here, I should suppose, than in Paris?”
“Time, my dear sir — no such thing! Time is merely in idea; but Tais-toi Jean Jacques! Tais-toi Condillac! To resume the chain of our reasoning — love and marriage — I say it all comes to much the same thing in France and in these countries — after all. There is more gallantry, perhaps, before marriage in England, more after marriage in France — which has the better bargain? I don’t pretend to decide. Philosophic doubt for me, especially in cases where ’tis not worth while to determine; but I see I astonish you, Mr. Ormond.”
“You do, indeed,” said Ormond, ingenuously.
“I give you joy — I envy you,” said M. de Connal, sighing.
“After a certain age, if one lives in the world, one can’t be astonished — that’s a lost pleasure.”
“To me who have lived out of the world it is a pleasure, or rather a sensation — I am not sure whether I should call it a, pleasure — that is not likely to be soon exhausted,” said Ormond. “A sensation! and you are not sure whether you should call it a pleasure. Do you know you’ve a genius for metaphysics?”
“I!” exclaimed Ormond.
“Ah! now I have astonished you again. Good! whether pleasurable or not, trust me, nothing is so improving to a young man as to be well astonished. Astonishment I conceive to be a sort of mental electric shock — electric fire; it opens at once and enlightens the understanding: and really you have an understanding so well worth enlightening — I do assure you, that your natural acuteness will, whenever and wherever you appear, make you un homme marquant.“
“Oh! spare me, Mr. Connal,” said Ormond. “I am not used to French compliment.”
“No, upon my honour, without compliment, in all English bonhommie,” (laying his hand upon his heart)—“upon the honour of a gentleman, your remarks have sometimes perfectly astonished me.”
“Really!” said Ormond; “but I thought you had lived so much in the world, you could not be astonished.”
“I thought so, I own,” said Connal; “but it was reserved for M. Ormond to convince me of my mistake, to revive an old pleasure — more difficult still than to invent a new one! In recompense I hope I give you some new ideas — just throw out opinions for you. Accept — reject — reject now — accept an hour, a year hence, perhaps — just as it strikes — merely materials for thinking, I give you.”
“Thank you,” said Ormond; “and be assured they are not lost upon me. You have given me a great deal to think of seriously.”
“Seriously! — no; that’s your fault, your national fault. Permit me: what you want chiefly in conversation — in every thing, is a certain degree of — of — you have no English word —lightness.”
“Légèreté, perhaps you mean,” said Ormond.
“Precisely. I forgot you understood French so well. Légèreté— untranslatable! — You seize my idea.”
He left Ormond, as he fancied, in admiration of the man who, in his own opinion, possessed the whole theory and practice of the art of pleasing, and the science of happiness.
M. de Connal’s conversation and example might have produced a great effect on the mind of a youth of Ormond’s strong passions, lively imagination, and total ignorance of the world, if he had met this brilliant officer in different society. Had he seen Connal only as a man shining in company, or considered him merely as a companion, he must have been dazzled by his fashion, charmed by his gaiety, and imposed upon by his decisive tone.
Had such a vision lighted on the Black Islands, and appeared to our hero suddenly, in any other circumstances but those in which it did appear, it might have struck and overawed him; and without inquiring “whether from heaven or hell,” he might have followed wherever it led or pointed the way. But in the form of a triumphant rival — without delicacy, without feeling, neither deserving nor loving the woman he had won — not likely to make Dora happy — almost certain to make her father miserable — there was no danger that Black Connal could ever obtain any ascendancy over Ormond; on the contrary, Connal was useful in forming our hero’s character. The electric shock of astonishment did operate in a salutary manner in opening Harry’s understanding: the materials for thinking were not thrown away: he did think — even in the Black Islands; and in judging of Connal’s character, he made continual progress in forming his own: he had motive for exercising his judgment — he was anxious to study the man’s character on Dora’s account.
Seeing his unpolished friend, old Corny, and this finished young man of the world, in daily contrast, Ormond had occasion to compare the real and the factitious, both in matter and manner: he distinguished, and felt often acutely, the difference between that politeness of the heart, which respects and sympathizes with the feelings of others, and that conventional politeness, which is shown merely to gratify the vanity of him by whom it is displayed. In the same way he soon discriminated, in conversation, between Corny’s power of original thinking, and M. de Connal’s knack of throwing old thoughts into new words; between the power of answering an argument, and the art of evading it by a repartee. But it was chiefly in comparing different ideas of happiness and modes of life, that our young hero’s mind was enlarged by Connal’s conversation — whilst the comparison he secretly made between this polished gentleman’s principles and his own, was always more satisfactory to his pride of virtue, than Connal’s vanity could have conceived to be possible.
One day some conversation passed between Connal and his father-in-law elect, as he now always called him, upon his future plans of life.
Good Corny said he did not know how to hope that, during the few years he had to live, Connal would not think of taking his daughter from him to Paris, as, from some words that had dropped from Mademoiselle, he had reason to fear.
“No,” Connal said, “he had formed no such cruel intention: the Irish half of Mademoiselle must have blundered on this occasion. He would do his utmost, if he could with honour, to retire from the service; unless the service imperiously called him away, he should settle in Ireland: he should make it a point even, independently of his duty to his own father, not to take Miss O’Shane from her country and her friends.”
The father, open-hearted and generous himself, was fond to believe what he wished: and confiding in these promises, the old man forgave all that he did not otherwise approve of in his future son-in-law, and thanked him almost with tears in his eyes; still repeating, as his natural penetration remonstrated against his credulity, “But I could hardly have believed this from such a young man as you, Captain Connal. Indeed, how you could ever bring yourself to think of settling in retirement is wonderful to me; but love does mighty things, brings about great changes.”
French commonplaces of sentiment upon love, and compliments on Dora’s charms and his own sensibility, were poured out by Connal, and the father left the room satisfied.
Connal then, throwing himself back in his chair, burst out a laughing, and turning to Ormond, the only person in the room, said, “Could you have conceived this?”
“Conceived what, sir?” said Ormond.
“Conceived this King Corny’s capacity for belief? What! — believe that I will settle in his Black Islands! — I! — As well believe me to be half marble, half man, like the unfortunate in the Black Islands of the Arabian Tales. Settle in the Black Islands! — No: could you conceive a man on earth could be found so simple as to credit such a thing?”
“Here is another man on earth who was simple enough to believe it,” said Ormond, “and to give you credit for it.”
“You!” cried Connal —“That’s too much! — Impossible!”
“But when you said it — when I heard you promise it to Mr. O’Shane —”
“Oh, mercy! — Don’t kill me with laughing!” said he, laughing affectedly: “Oh! that face of yours — there is no standing it. You heard me promise— and the accent on promise. Why, even women, now-a-days, don’t lay such an emphasis on a promise.”
“That, I suppose, depends on who gives it.” said Ormond.
“Rather on who receives it,” said Connal: “but look here, you who understand the doctrine of promises, tell me what a poor conscientious man must do who has two pulling him different ways?”
“A conscientious man cannot have given two diametrically opposite promises.”
“Diametrically! — Thank you for that word — it just saves my lost conscience. Commend me always to an epithet in the last resource for giving one latitude of conscience in these nice cases — I have not given two diametrically opposite — no, I have only given four that cross one another. One to your King Corny; another to my angel, Dora; another to the dear aunt; and a fourth to my dearer self. First promise to King Corny, to settle in the Black Islands; a gratuitous promise, signifying nothing — read Burlamaqui: second promise to Mademoiselle, to go and live with her at Paris; with her— on the face of it absurd! a promise extorted too under fear of my life, of immediate peril of being talked to death — see Vatel on extorted promises — void: third promise to my angel, Dora, to live wherever she pleases; but that’s a lover’s promise, made to be broken — see Love’s Calendar, or, if you prefer the bookmen’s authority, I don’t doubt that, under the head of promises made when a man is not in his right senses, some of those learned fellows in wigs would bring me off sain et sauf: but now for my fourth promise — I am a man of honour — when I make a promise intending to keep it, no man so scrupulous; all promises made to myself come under this head; and I have promised myself to live, and make my wife live, wherever I please, or not to live with her at all. This promise I shall bold sacred. Oblige me with a smile, Mr. Ormond — a smile of approbation.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Connal, that is impossible — I am sincere.”
“So am I, and sincerely you are too romantic. See things as they are, as a man of the world, I beseech you.”
“I am not a man of the world, and I thank God for it,” cried Ormond.
“Thank your God for what you please,” said Connal; “but in disdaining to be a man of the world, you will not, I hope, refuse to let me think you a man of common sense.”
“Think what you please of me,” said Ormond, rather haughtily; “what I think of myself is the chief point with me.”
“You will lose this little brusquerie of manner,” said Connal, “when you have mixed more with mankind. Providentially, we are all made dependent on one another’s good opinion. Even I, you see, cannot live without yours.”
Whether from vanity, from the habit of wishing to charm every body in every house he entered, especially any one who made resistance; or whether he was piqued and amused with Ormond’s frank and natural character, and determined to see how far he could urge him, Connal went on, though our young hero gave him no encouragement to hope that he should win his good opinion.
“Candidly,” said he, “put yourself in my place for a moment: I was in England, following my own projects; I was not in love with the girl as you — well, pardon — as anybody might have been — but I was at a distance, that makes all the difference: I am sent for over by two fathers, and I am told that in consequence of my good or evil fortune in being born a twin, and of some inconceivable promise between two Irish fathers over a punch-bowl, I am to have the refusal, I should rather say the acceptance, of a very pretty girl with a very pretty fortune. Now, except just at the moment when the overture reached me, it could not have been listened to for a moment by such a man as I am.”
“Insufferable coxcomb,” said Ormond to himself.
“But, to answer a question, which I omitted to answer just now to my father-in-law — what could induce me to come over and think of settling in the Black Islands? I answer — for I am determined to win your confidence by my candour — I answer in one word, un billard— a billiard-table. To tell you all, I confess —”
“Confess nothing, I beg, Mr. Connal, to me, that you do not wish to be known to Mr. O’Shane: I am his friend — he is my benefactor.”
“You would not repeat — you are a gentleman, and a man of honour.”
“I am; and as such I desire, on this occasion, not to hear what I ought neither to repeat nor to keep secret. It is my duty not to leave my benefactor in the dark as to any point.”
“Oh! come — come,” interrupted Connal, “we had better not take it on this serious tone, lest, if we begin to talk of duty, we should presently conceive it to be our duty to run one another through the body, which would be no pleasure.”
“No pleasure,” said Ormond; “but if it became a duty, I hope, on all occasions, I should be able to do whatever I thought a duty. Therefore to avoid any misunderstanding, Mr. Connal, let me beg that you will not honour me farther with your confidence. I cannot undertake to be the confidant of any one, of whom I have never professed myself to be the friend.”
“Ca suffit,” said Connal, lightly. “We understand one another now perfectly’— you shall in future play the part of prince, and not of confidant. Pardon me, I forgot your highness’s pretensions;” so saying, he gaily turned on his heel, and left the room.
From this time forward little conversation passed between Mr. Connal and Ormond — little indeed between Ormond and Dora. With Mademoiselle, Ormond had long ceased to be a favourite, and even her loquacity now seldom addressed itself to him. He was in a painful situation; — he spent as much of his time as he could at the farm his friend had given him. As soon as O’Shane found that there was no truth in the report of Black Connal’s intended marriage in England, that he claimed in earnest his promise of his daughter, and that Dora herself inclined to the new love, his kind heart felt for poor Harry.
Though he did not know all that had passed, yet he saw the awkwardness and difficulty of Ormond’s present situation, and, whatever it might cost him to part with his young friend, with his adopted son, Corny determined not to detain him longer.
“Harry Ormond, my boy,” said he to him one day, “time for you to see something of the world, also for the world to see something of you; I’ve kept you here for my own pleasure too long: as long as I had any hope of settling you as I wished ’twas a sufficient excuse to myself; but now I have none left — I must part with you: and so, by the blessing, God helping me to conquer my selfishness, and the yearnings of my heart towards you, I will. I mean,” continued he, “to send you far from me — to banish you for your good from the Black Islands entirely. Nay, don’t you interrupt me, nor say a word; for if you do, I shall be too soft to have the heart to do you justice. You know you said yourself, and I felt it for you, that it was best you should leave this. Well, I have been thinking of you ever since, and licking different projects into shape for you — listening too to every thing Connal threw out; but all he says that way is in the air — no substance, when you try to have and to hold — too full of himself, that youngster, to be a friend to another.”
“There is no reason why he should be my friend, sir,” said Ormond —“I do not pretend to be his; and I rejoice in not being under any obligations to him.”
“Right! — and high! — just as I feel for you. After all, I approve of your own wish to go into the British service in preference to any foreign service, and you could not be of the Irish brigade — Harry.”
“Indeed, sir, I infinitely prefer,” said Ormond, “the service of my own country — the service in which my father — I know nothing of my father, but I have always heard him spoken of as a good officer; I hope I shall not disgrace his name. The English service for me, sir, if you please.”
“Why, then, I’m glad you see things as I do, and are not run away with by uniform, and all that. I have lodged the needful in the bank, to purchase a commission for you, my son. Now! no more go to thank me, if you love me, Harry, than you would your own father. I’ve written to a friend to choose a regiment in which there’d be as little danger as possible for you.”
“As little danger as possible!” repeated Harry, surprised.
“Phoo! you don’t think I mean as little danger of fighting. I would not wrong you so. No — but as little danger of gambling. Not that you’re inclined to it, or any thing else that’s bad — but there is no knowing what company might lead the best into; and it is my duty and inclination to look as close to all these things as if for my own son.”
“My kind father — no father could be kinder,” cried Harry, quite overpowered.
“So then you go as soon as the commission comes — that’s settled; and I hope I shall be able to bear it, Harry, old as I am. There may perhaps be a delay of a little time longer than you could wish.”
“Oh! sir, as long as you wish me to stay with you —”
“Not a minute beyond what’s necessary. I mention the cause of delay, that you may not think I’m dallying for my own sake. You remember General Albemarle, who came here one day last year — election time, canvassing — the general that had lost the arm.”
“Perfectly, sir, I remember your answer —‘I will give my interest to this empty sleeve.’”
“Thank you — never a word lost upon you. Well, now I have hopes that this man — this general, will take you by the hand; for he has a hand left yet, and a powerful one to serve a friend; and I’ve requested him to keep his eye upon you, and I have asked his advice: so we can’t stir till we get it, and that will be eight days, or ten, say. My boy, you must bear on as you are — we have the comfort of the workshop to ourselves, and some rational recreation; good shooting we will have soon too, for the first time this season.”
Among the various circumstances which endeared Harry to our singular monarch, his skill and keenness as a sportsman were not inconsiderable: he knew where all the game in the island was to be found; so that, when his good old patron was permitted by the gout to take the field, Harry’s assistance saved him a vast deal of unnecessary toil, and gratified him in his favourite amusement, whilst he, at the same time, sympathized in the sport. Corny, besides being a good shot, was an excellent mechanic: he beguiled the hours, when there was neither hunting nor shooting, in a workshop which was furnished with the best tools. Among the other occupations at the work-bench, he was particularly skilful in making and adjusting the locks of guns, and in boring and polishing the inside of their barrels to the utmost perfection: he had contrived and executed a tool for the enlarging the barrel of a gun in any particular part, so as to increase its effect in adding to the force of the discharge, and in preventing the shot from scattering too widely.
The hope of the success of his contrivance, and the prospect of going out with Harry on the approaching first of September, solaced King Corny, and seemed to keep up his spirits, through all the vexation he felt concerning Connal and this marriage, which evidently was not to his taste. It was to Dora’s, however, and was becoming more evidently so every hour — and soon M. Connal pressed, and Mademoiselle urged, and Dora named — the happy day — and Mademoiselle, in transports, prepared to go to Dublin, with her niece, to choose the wedding-clothes, and, Connal to bespeak the equipages.
Mademoiselle was quick in her operations when dress was in question: the preparations for the delightful journey were soon made — the morning for their departure came — the carriage and horses were sent over the water early — and O’Shane and Harry afterwards accompanied the party in the boat to the other side of the lake, where the carriage waited with the door open. Connal, after handing in Mademoiselle, turned to look for his destined bride — who was taking leave of her father — Harry Ormond standing by. The moment she quitted her father’s embrace, Father Jos poured with both his hands on her head the benedictions of all the saints. Released from Father Jos, Captain Connal hurried her on: Harry held out his hand to her as she passed. “Good bye, Dora — probably I shall never see you again.”
“Oh, Harry!” said she, one touch of natural feeling stopping her short — “Oh, Harry! — Why?” Bursting into tears, she drew her hand from Connal, and gave it to Harry: Harry received the hand openly and cordially, shook it heartily, but took no advantage and no notice of the feelings by which he saw her at that moment agitated.
“Forgive!” she began.
“Good bye, dear Dora. God bless you — may you be as happy — half as happy, as I wish you to be!”
“To be sure she will — happy as the day is long,” said Mademoiselle, leaning out of the carriage: “why will you make her cry, Mr. Ormond, spoiling her eyes at parting? Come in to me — Dora, M. de Connal is waiting to hand you, mon enfant.”
“Is her dressing-box in, and all right?” asked Captain Connal, as he handed Dora into the carriage, who was still weeping.
“Bad compliment to M. de Connal, mon amie. Vrai scandale!” said Mademoiselle, pulling up the glass, while Dora sunk back in the carriage, sobbing without restraint.
“Good morning,” said Connal, who had now mounted his Mr. Ormond, “Adieu, Mr. Ormond — command me in any way you please. Drive on!”
The evening after the departure of the happy trio, who were gone to Dublin to buy wedding-dresses, the party remaining at Castle Corny consisted only of King Corny, Ormond, and Father Jos. When the candles were lighted, his majesty gave a long and loud yawn, Harry set the backgammon table for him, and Father Jos, as usual, settled himself in the chimney corner; “And now Mademoiselle’s gone,” said he, “I shall take leave to indulge myself in my pipe.”
“You were on the continent this morning, Father Jos,” said Cornelius. “Did ye learn any news for us? Size ace! that secures two points.”
“News! I did,” said Father Jos.
“Why not tell it us, then?”
“I was not asked. You both seemed so wrapped up, I waited my time and opportunity. There’s a new parson come to Castle Hermitage.”
“What new person?” said King Corny. “Doublets, aces, Harry.”
“A new parson I’m talking of,” said Father Jos, “that has just got the living there; and they say Sir Ulick’s mad about it, in Dublin, where he is still.”
“Mad! — Three men up — and you can’t enter, Harry. Well, what is he mad about?”
“Because of the presentation to the living,” replied the priest, “which government wouldn’t make him a compliment of, as he expected.”
“He is always expecting compliments from government,” said Corny, “and always getting disappointments. Such throws as you have, Harry — Sixes! again — Well, what luck! — all over with me — It is only a hit at any rate! But what kind of man,” continued he, “is this new clergyman?”
“Oh! them parsons is all one kind,” said Father Jos.
“All one kind! No, no more than our own priests,” said Corny. “There’s good and bad, and all the difference in life.”
“I don’t know any thing at all about it,” said Father Jos, sullenly; “but this I know, that no doubt he’ll soon be over here, or his proctor, looking for the tithes.”
“I hope we will have no quarrels,” said Corny.
“They ought to be abolished,” said Father Jos, “the tithes, that is, I mean.”
“And the quarrels, too, I hope,” said Ormond.
“Oh! It’s not our fault if there’s quarrels,” said Father Jos.
“Faults on both sides generally in all quarrels,” said Corny.
“In lay quarrels, like enough,” said Father Jos. “In church quarrels, it don’t become a good Catholic to say that.”
“What?” said Corny.
“That,” said the priest.
“Which?” said Corny.
“That which you said, that there’s faults on both sides; sure there’s but one side, and that’s our own side, can be in the right there can’t be two right sides, can there? and consequently I there won’t be two wrong sides, will there? — Ergo, there cannot, by a parity of rasoning, be two sides in the wrong.”
“Well, Harry, I’ll take the black men now, and gammon you,” said Corny. “Play away, man — what are you thinking of? is it of what Father Jos said? ’tis beyond the limits of the human understanding.”
Father Jos puffed away at his pipe for some time.
“I was tired and ashamed of all the wrangling for two-pence with the last man,” said King Corny, “and I believe I was sometimes too hard and too hot myself; but if this man’s a gentleman, I think we shall agree. Did you hear his name, or any thing at all about him, Father?”
“He is one of them refugee families, the Huguenots, banished France by the adict of Nantz, they say, and his name’s Cambray.”
“Cambray!” exclaimed Ormond.
“A very good name,” said O’Shane; “but what do you know of it, Harry?”
“Only, sir, I happened to meet with a Dr. Cambray the winter I was in Dublin, whom I thought a very agreeable, respectable, amiable man — and I wonder whether this is the same person.”
“There is something more now, Harry Ormond, I know by your face,” said Corny: “there’s some story of or belonging to Dr. Cambray — what is it?”
“No story, only a slight circumstance — which, if you please, I’d rather not tell you, sir,” said Ormond.
“That is something very extraordinary, and looks mysterious,” said Father Jos.
“Nothing mysterious, I assure you,” said Ormond — “a mere trifle, which, if it concerned only myself, I would tell directly.”
“Let him alone, father,” said King Corny; “I am sure he has a good reason — and I’m not curious: only let me whisper this in your ear to show you my own penetration, Harry — I’d lay my life” (said he, stretching over and whispering), “I’d lay my life Miss Annaly has something to do with it.”
“Miss Annaly! — nothing in the world — only — yes, I recollect she was present.”
“There now — would not any body think I’m a conjuror? a physiognomist is cousin to (and not twice removed from) a conjuror.”
“But I assure you, though you happened to guess right partly as to her being present, you are totally mistaken, sir, as to the rest.”
“My dear Harry, totally means wholly: if I’m right in a part, I can’t be mistaken in the whole. I am glad to make you smile, any way — and I wish I was right altogether, and that you was as rich as Croesus into the bargain; but stay a bit, if you come home a hero from the wars — that may do — ladies are mighty fond of heroes.”
It was in vain that Ormond assured his good old imaginative friend that he was upon a wrong scent. Cornelius stopped to humour him; but was convinced that he was right: then turned to the still smoking Father Jos, and went on asking questions about Dr. Cambray.
“I know nothing at all about him,” said Father Jos, “but this, that Father M’Cormuck has dined with him, if I’m not misinformed, oftener than I think becoming in these times — making too free! And in the chapel last Sunday, I hear he made a very extraordinary address to his flock — there was one took down the words, and handed them to me: after remarking on the great distress of the season — first and foremost about the keeping of fast days the year — he allowed the poor of his flock, which is almost all, to eat meat whenever offered to them, because, said he, many would starve — now mark the obnoxious word —‘if it was not for their benevolent Protestant neighbours, who make soup and broth for them.’”
“What is there obnoxious in that?” said Cornelius.
“Wait till you hear the end —‘and feed and clothe the distressed.’”
“That is not obnoxious either, I hope,” said Ormond, laughing.
“Young gentleman, you belong to the establishment, and are no judge in this case, permit me to remark,” said Father Jos; “and I could wish Mr. O’Shane would hear to the end, before he joins in a Protestant laugh.”
“I’ve heard of a ‘Protestant wind’ before,” said Harry, “but not of a Protestant laugh.”
“Well, I’m serious, Father Jos,” said Corny; “let me hear to the end what makes your face so long.”
“‘And, I am sorry to say, show more charity to them than their own people, the rich Catholics, sometimes do.’ If that is not downright slander, I don’t know what is,” said Father Jos.
“Are you sure it is not truth, Father?” said Corny.
“And if it was, even, so much the worse, to be telling it in the chapel, and to his flock — very improper in a priest, very extraordinary conduct!”
Father Jos worked himself up to a high pitch of indignation, and railed and smoked for some time, while O’Shane and Ormond joined in defending M’Cormuck, and his address to his flock — and even his dining with the new clergyman of the parish. Father Jos gave up and had his punch. The result of the — whole was, that Ormond proposed to pay his respects the next morning to Dr. Cambray.
“Very proper,” said O’Shane: “do so — fit you should — you are of his people, and you are acquainted with the gentleman — and I’d have you go and show yourself safe to him, that we’ve made no tampering with you.”
Father Jos could not say so much, therefore he said nothing.
O’Shane continued, “A very exact church-goer at the little church there you’ve always been, at the other side of the lake — never hindered — make what compliment you will proper for me — say I’m too old and clumsy for morning visitings, and never go out of my islands. But still I can love my neighbour in or out of them, and hope, in the name of peace, to be on good terms. Sha’n’t be my fault if them tithes come across. Then I wish that bone of contention was from between the two churches. Meantime, I’m not snarling, if others is not craving: and I’d wish for the look of it, for your sake, Harry, that it should be all smooth; so say any thing you will for me to this Dr. Cambray — though we are of a different faith, I should do any thing in rason.”
“Rason! what’s that about rason?” said Father Jos: “I hope faith comes before rason.”
“And after it, too, I hope, Father,” said Corny.
Father Jos finished his punch, and went to sleep upon it.
Ormond, next morning, paid his visit — Dr. Cambray was not at home; but Harry was charmed with the neatness of his house, and with the amiable and happy appearance of his family. He had never before seen Mrs. Cambray or her daughters, though he had met the doctor in Dublin. The circumstance which Harry had declined mentioning, when Corny questioned him about his acquaintance with Dr. Cambray, was very slight, though Father Jos had imagined it to be of mysterious importance. It had happened, that among the dissipated set of young men with whom Marcus O’Shane and Harry had passed that winter in Dublin, a party had one Sunday gone to hear the singing at the Asylum, and had behaved in a very unbecoming manner during the service. Dr. Cambray preached — he spoke to the young gentlemen afterwards with mild but becoming dignity. Harry Ormond instantly, sensible of his error, made proper apologies, and erred no farther. But Marcus O’Shane in particular, who was not accustomed to endure anything, much less any person, that crossed his humour, spoke of Dr. Cambray afterwards with vindictive bitterness, and with all his talents of mimicry endeavoured to make him ridiculous. Harry defended him with a warmth of ingenuous eloquence which did him honour; and with truth, courage, and candour, that did him still more, corrected some of Marcus’s mis-statements, declaring that they had all been much to blame. Lady Annaly and her daughter were present, and this was one of the circumstances to which her ladyship had alluded, when she said that some things had occurred that had prepossessed her with a favourable opinion of Ormond’s character. Dr. Cambray knew nothing of the attack or the defence till some time afterwards; and it was now so long ago, and Harry was so much altered since that time, that it was scarcely to be expected the doctor should recollect even his person. However, when Dr. Cambray came to the Black Islands to return his visit, he did immediately recognize Ormond, and seemed so much pleased with meeting him again, and so much interested about him, that Corny’s warm heart was immediately won. Independently of this, the doctor’s persuasive benevolent politeness could not have failed to operate, as it usually did, even on a first acquaintance, in pleasing and conciliating even those who were of opposite opinions.
“There, now,” said Corny, when the doctor was gone, “there, now, is a sincere minister of the Gospel for you, and a polite gentleman into the bargain. Now that’s politeness that does not trouble me — that’s not for show — that’s for us, not himself, mark! — and conversation! Why that man has conversation for the prince and the peasant — the courtier and the anchorite. Did not he find plenty for me, and got more out of me than I thought was in me — and the same if I’d been a monk of La Trappe, he would have made me talk like a pie. Now there’s a man of the high world that the low world can like, very different from —”
Poor Corny paused, checked himself, and then resumed —“Principles, religion, and all no hinderance! — liberal and sincere too! Well, I only wish — Father Jos, no offence — I only wish, for Dr. Cambray’s sake, and the Catholic church’s sake, I was, for one day, Archbishop of Canterbury, or Primate of all Ireland, or whatever else makes the bishops in your church, and I’d skip over dean and archdeacon, and all, and make that man — clean a bishop before night.”
Harry smiled, and wished he had the power as well as the good-will.
Father Jos said, “A man ought to be ashamed not to think of his own first.”
“Now, Harry, don’t think I’d make a bishop lightly,” continued King Corny; “I would not — I’ve been a king too long for that; and though only a king of my own fashion, I know what’s fit for governing a country, observe me! — Cousin Ulick would make a job of a bishop, but I would not — nor I wouldn’t to please my fancy. Now don’t think I’d make that man a bishop just because he noticed and praised my gimcracks and inventions, and substitutes.”
Father Jos smiled, and demurely abased his eye.
“Oh! then you don’t know me as well as you think you do, father,” said O’Shane. “Nor what’s more, Harry, not his noting down the two regiments to make inquiry for friends for you, Harry, shouldn’t have bribed me to partiality — though I could have kissed his shoe-ties for it.”
“Mercy on you!” said Father Jos: “this doctor has bewitched you.”
“But did you mind, then,” persisted Corny, “the way he spoke of that cousin of mine, Sir Ulick, who he saw I did not like, and who has been, as you tell us, bitter against him, and even against his getting the living. Well, the way this Doctor Cambray spoke then pleased me — good morals without preaching — there’s do good to your enemies— the true Christian doctrine — and the hardest point. Oh! let Father Jos say what he will, there’s the man will be in heaven before many — heretic or no heretic, Harry!”
Father Jos shrugged up his shoulders, and then fixing the: glass in his spectacles, replied, “We shall see better when we come to the tithes.”
“That’s true,” said Corny.
He walked off to his workshop, and took down his fowling-piece to put the finishing stroke to his work for the next day, which was to be the first day of partridge-shooting: he looked forward with delight — anticipating the gratification he should have in going out shooting with Harry, and trying his new fowling-piece. “But I won’t go out to-morrow till the post has come in; for my mind couldn’t enjoy the sport till I was satisfied whether the answer could come about your commission, Harry: my mind misgives me — that is, my calculation tells me, that it will come to-morrow.”
Good Corny’s calculations were just: the next morning the little post-boy brought answers to various letters which he had written about Ormond — one to Ormond from Sir Ulick O’Shane, repeating his approbation of his ward’s going into the army, approving of all the steps Cornelius had taken — especially of his intention of paying for the commission.
“All’s well,” Cornelius said. The next letter was from Cornelius’s banker, saying that the five hundred pound was lodged, ready. “All well.” The army-agent wrote, “that he had commissions in two different regiments, waiting Mr. O’Shane’s choice and orders per return of post, to purchase in conformity.”—“That’s all well.” General Albemarle’s answer to Mr. O’Shane’s letter was most satisfactory: in terms that were not merely officially polite, but kind, “he assured Mr. O’Shane that he should, as far as it was in his power, pay attention to the young gentleman, whom Mr. O’Shane had so strongly recommended to his care, and by whose appearance and manner the general said he had been prepossessed, when he saw him some months ago at Corny Castle. There was a commission vacant in his son’s regiment, which he recommended to Mr. Ormond.”
“The very thing I could have wished for you, my dear boy — you shall go off the day after to-morrow — not a moment’s delay — I’ll answer the letters this minute.”
But Harry reminded him that the post did not go out till the next day, and urged him not to lose this fine day — this first day of the season for partridge shooting.
“Time enough for my business after we come home — the post does not go out till morning.”
“That’s true: come off, then — let’s enjoy the fine day sent us; and my gun, too — I forgot; for I do believe, Harry, I love you better even than my gun,” said the warm-hearted Corny. “Call Ormond. Moriarty; let us have him with us — he’ll enjoy it beyond all: one of the last day’s shooting with his own Prince Harry! — but, poor fellow, we’ll not tell him that.”
Moriarty and the dogs were summoned, and the fineness of the day, and the promise of good sport, put Moriarty in remarkably good spirits. By degrees King Corny’s own spirits rose, and he forgot that it was the last day with Prince Harry, and he enjoyed the sport. After various trials of his new fowling-piece, both the king and the prince agreed that it succeeded to admiration. But even in the midst of his pride in his success, and his joy in the sport, his superior fondness for Harry prevailed, and showed itself in little, almost delicate instances of kindness, which could hardly have been expected from his unpolished mind. As they crossed a bog, he stooped every now and then, and plucked different kinds of bog-plants and heaths.
“Here, Harry,” said he, “mind these for Dr. Cambray. Remember yesterday his mentioning that a daughter of his was making a botanical collection, and there’s Sheelah can tell you all the Irish names and uses. Some I can note for you myself; and here, this minute — by great luck! the very thing he wanted! — the andromeda, I’ll swear to it: throw away all and keep this — carry it to her to-morrow — for I will have you make a friend of that Dr. Cambray; and no way so sure or fair to the father’s heart as by proper attention to the daughter — I know that by myself. Hush, now, till I have that partridge! — Whirr! — Shot him clean, my dear gun! — Was not that good, Harry?”
Thus they continued their sport till late; and returning, loaded with game, had nearly reached the palace, when Corny, who had marked a covey, quitted Harry, and sent his dog to spring it, at a distance much greater than the usual reach of a common fowling-piece. Harry heard a shot, and a moment afterwards a violent shout of despair; — he knew the voice to be that of Moriarty, and running to the spot from whence it came, he found his friend, his benefactor, weltering in his blood. The fowling-piece, overloaded, had burst, and a large splinter of the barrel had fractured the skull, and had sunk into the brain. As Moriarty was trying to raise his head, O’Shane uttered some words, of which all that was intelligible was the name of Harry Ormond. His eye was fixed on Harry, but the meaning of the eye was gone. He squeezed Harry’s hand, and an instant afterwards O’Shane’s hand was powerless. The dearest, the only real friend Harry Ormond had upon earth was gone for ever!
A boy passing by saw what had happened, and ran to the house, calling as he went to some workmen, who hastened to the place, where they heard the howling of the dogs. Ormond neither heard nor saw — till Moriarty said, “He must be carried home;” and some one approaching to lift the body, Ormond started up, pushed the man back, without uttering a syllable — made a sign to Moriarty, and between them they carried the body home. Sheelah and the women came out to meet them, wringing their hands, and uttering loud lamentations. Ormond, bearing his burden as if insensible of what he bore, walked onward, looking at no one, answering none, but forcing his way straight into the house, and on — till they came to O’Shane’s bedchamber, which was upon the ground-floor — there laid him on his bed. The women had followed, and all those who had gathered on the way rushed in to see and to bewail. Ormond looked up, and saw the people about the bed, and made a sign to Moriarty to keep them away, which he did, as well as he could. But they would not be kept back — Sheelah, especially, pressed forward, crying loudly, till Moriarty, with whom she was struggling, pointed to Harry. Struck with his fixed look, she submitted at once. “Best leave him!“ said she. She put every body out of the room before her, and turning to Ormond, said, they would leave him “a little space of time till the priest should come, who was at a clergy dinner, but was sent for.”
When Ormond was left alone he locked the door, and kneeling beside the dead, offered up prayers for the friend he had lost, and there remained some time in stillness and silence, till Sheelah knocked at the door, to let him know that the priest was come. Then retiring, he went to the other end of the house, to be out of the way. The room to which he went was that in which they had been reading the letters just before they went out that morning. There was the pen which Harry had taken from his hand, and the answer just begun.
“Dear General, I hope my young friend, Harry Ormond —”
That hand could write no more! — that warm heart was cold! The certainty was so astonishing, so stupifying, that Ormond, having never yet shed a tear, stood with his eyes fixed on the paper, he knew not how long, till he felt some one touch his hand. It was the child, little Tommy, of whom O’Shane was so fond, and who was so fond of him. The child, with his whistle in his hand, stood looking up at Harry, without speaking. Ormond gazed on him for a few instants, then snatched him in his arms, and burst into an agony of tears. Sheelah, who had let the child in, now came and carried him away. “God be thanked for them tears,” said she, “they will bring relief;” and so they did. The necessity for manly exertion — the sense of duty — pressed upon Ormond’s recovered reason. He began directly, and wrote all the letters that were necessary to his guardian and to Miss O’Faley, to communicate the dreadful intelligence to Dora. The letters were not finished till late in the evening. Sheelah came for them, and leaving the door and the outer door to the hall open, as she came in, Ormond saw the candles lighted, and smelt the smell of tobacco and whiskey, and heard the sound of many voices.
“The wake, dear, which is beginning,” said she, hastening back to shut the doors, as she saw him shudder. “Bear with it, Master Harry,” said she: “hard for you! — but bear with us, dear; ’tis the custom of the country; and what else can we do but what the forefathers did? — how else for us to show respect, only as it would be expected, and has always been? — and great comfort to think we done our best for him that is gone, and comfort to know his wake will be talked of long hereafter, over the fires at night, of all the people that is there without — and that’s all we have for it now: so bear with it, dear.”
This night, and for two succeeding nights, the doors of Corny Castle remained open for all who chose to come.
Crowds, as many, and more, than the castle could hold, flocked to King Corny’s wake, for he was greatly beloved.
There was, as Sheelah said, “plenty of cake, and wine, and tea, and tobacco, and snuff — every thing handsome as possible, and honourable to the deceased, who was always open-handed and open-hearted, and with open house too.”
His praises, from time to time, were heard, and then the common business of the country was talked of — and jesting and laughter went on — and all night there were tea-drinkings for the women, and punch for the men. Sheelah, who inwardly grieved most, went about incessantly among the crowd, serving all, seeing that none, especially them who came from a distance, should be neglected — and that none should have to complain afterwards, “or to say that any thing at all was wanting or niggardly.” Mrs. Betty, Sheelah’s daughter, sat presiding at the tea-table, giving the keys to her mother when wanted, but never forgetting to ask for them again. Little Tommy took his cake and hid himself under the table, close by his mother, Mrs. Betty; and could not be tempted out but by Sheelah, whom he followed, watching for her to go in to Mr. Harry: when the door opened, he held by her gown, and squeezed in under her arm — and when she brought Mr. Harry his meals, she would set the child up at the table with him for company— and to tempt him to take something.
Ormond had once promised his deceased friend, that if he was in the country when he died, he would put him into his coffin. He kept his promise. The child hearing a noise, and knowing that Mr. Harry had gone into the room, could not be kept out; the crowd had left that room, and the child looked at the bed with the curtains looped up with black — and at the table at the foot of the bed, with the white cloth spread over it, and the seven candlesticks placed upon it. But the coffin fixed his attention, and he threw himself upon it, clinging to it, and crying bitterly upon King Corny, his dear King Corny, to come back to him.
It was all Sheelah could do to drag him away: Ormond, who had always liked this boy, felt now more fond of him than ever, and resolved that he should never want a friend.
“You are in the mind to attend the funeral, sir, I think you told me?” said Sheelah.
“Certainly,” replied Ormond.
“Excuse me, then,” said Sheelah, “if I mention — for you can’t know what to do without. There will be high mass, may be you know, in the chapel. And as it’s a great funeral, thirteen priests will be there, attending. And when the mass will be finished, it will be expected of you, as first of kin considered, to walk up first with your offering — whatsoever you think fit, for the priests — and to lay it down on the altar; and then each and all will follow, laying down their offerings, according as they can. I hope I’m not too bold or troublesome, sir.”
Ormond thanked her for her kindness — and felt it was real kindness. He, consequently, did all that was expected from him handsomely. After the masses were over, the priests, who could not eat any thing before they said mass, had breakfast and dinner joined. Sheelah took care “the clergy was well served.” Then the priests — though it was not essential that all should go, did all, to Sheelah’s satisfaction, accompany the funeral the whole way, three long miles, to the burying-place of the O’Shanes; a remote old abbey-ground, marked only by some scattered trees, and a few sloping grave-stones. King Corny’s funeral was followed by an immense concourse of people, on’ horseback and on foot; men, women, and children: when they passed by the doors of cabins, a set of the women raised the funeral cry — not a savage howl, as is the custom in some parts of Ireland, but chanting a melancholy kind of lament, not without harmony, simple and pathetic. Ormond was convinced, that in spite of all the festivity at the wake, which had so disgusted him, the poor people mourned sincerely for the friend they had lost.
We forgot to mention that Dr. Cambray went to the Black Islands the day after O’Shane’s death, and did all he could to prevail upon Ormond to go to his house while the wake was going on, and till the funeral should be over. But Ormond thought it right to stay where he was, as none of the family were there, and there was no way in which he could so strongly mark, as Sheelah said, his respect for the dead. Now that it was all over, he had at least the consolation of thinking that he had not shrunk from any thing that was, or that he conceived to be, his duty. Dr. Cambray was pleased with his conduct, and at every moment he could spare went to see him, doing all he could to console him, by strengthening in Ormond’s mind the feelings of religious submission to the will of Heaven, and of pious hope and confidence. Ormond had no time left him for the indulgence of sorrow — business pressed upon him.
Cornelius O’Shane’s will, which Sir Ulick blamed Harry for not mentioning in the first letter, was found to be at his banker’s in Dublin. All his property was left to his daughter, except the farm, which he had given to Ormond; this was specially excepted, with legal care: also a legacy of five hundred pounds was left to Harry; a trifling bequest to Sir Ulick, being his cousin; and legacies to servants. Miss O’Faley was appointed sole executrix — this gave great umbrage to Sir Ulick O’Shane, and appeared extraordinary to many people; but the will was in due form, and nothing could be done against it, however much might be said.
Miss O’Faley, without taking notice of any thing Ormond said of the money, which had been lodged in the bank to pay for his commission, wrote as executrix to beg of him to do various business for her — all which he did; and fresh letters came with new requests, inventories to be taken, things to be sent to Dublin, money to be received and paid, stewards’ and agents’ accounts to be settled, business of all kinds, in short, came pouring in — upon him, a young man unused to it, and with a mind peculiarly averse from it at this moment. But when he found that he could be of service to any one belonging to his benefactor, he felt bound in gratitude to exert himself to the utmost. These circumstances, however disagreeable, had an excellent effect upon his character, giving him habits of business which were ever afterwards of use to him. It was remarkable that the only point in his letters which had concerned his own affairs still continued unanswered. Another circumstance hurt his feelings — instead of Miss O’Faley’s writing to make her own requests, Mr. Connal was soon deputed by Mademoiselle to write for her. He spoke of the shock the ladies had felt, and the distressing circumstances in which they were; all in commonplace phrases, which Ormond despised, and from which he could judge nothing of Dora’s real feelings.
“The marriage must, of course,” Mr. Connal said, “be put off for some time; and as it would be painful to the ladies to return to Corny Castle, he had advised their staying in Dublin; and they and he feeling assured that, from Mr. Ormond’s regard for the family, they might take the liberty of troubling him, they requested so and so, and the executrix begged he would see this settled and that settled at last, with gradually forgotten apologies, falling very much into the style of a person writing to an humble friend or dependent, bound to consider requests as commands.”
Our young hero’s pride was piqued on the one side, as much as his gratitude was alive on the other.
Sir Ulick O’Shane wrote to Harry that he was at this time peculiarly engaged with affairs of his own. He said, that as to the material point of the money lodged for the commission, he would see the executrix, and do what he could to have that settled; but as to all lesser points, Sir Ulick said, he really had not leisure to answer letters at present. He enclosed a note to Dr. Cambray, whom he recommended it to his ward to consult, and whose advice and assistance he now requested for him in pressing terms.
In consequence of this direct application from the young gentleman’s guardian, Dr. Cambray felt himself authorized and called upon to interfere, where, otherwise, delicacy might have prevented him. It was fortunate for Ormond that he had Dr. Cambray’s counsel to guide him, or else he would, in the first moments of feeling, have yielded too much to the suggestions of both gratitude and pride.
In the first impulse of generous pride, Ormond wanted to give up the farm which his benefactor had left him, because he wished that no possible suspicion of interested motives having influenced his attachment to Cornelius O’Shane should exist, especially with Mr. Connal, who, as the husband of Dora, would soon be the lord of all in the Black Islands.
On the other hand, when Mr. Connal wrote to him, that the executrix, having no written order from the deceased to that effect, could not pay the five hundred pounds, lodged in the bank, for his commission, Ormond was on the point of flying out with intemperate indignation. “Was not his own word sufficient? Was not the intention of his benefactor apparent from the letters? Would not this justify any executor, any person of common sense or honour?”
Dr. Cambray, his experienced and placid counsellor, brought all these sentiments to due measure by mildly showing what was law and justice, and what was fit and proper in each case; putting jealous honour, and romantic generosity, as they must be put, out of the question in business.
He prevented Ormond from embroiling himself with Connal about the legacy, and from giving up his farm. He persuaded him to decline having any thing to do with the affairs of the Black Islands.
A proper agent was appointed, who saw Ormond’s accounts settled and signed, so that no blame or suspicion could rest upon him.
“There seems no probability, Mr. Ormond,” said Dr. Cambray, “of your commission being immediately purchased. Your guardian, Sir Ulick O’Shane, will be detained some time longer, I understand, in Dublin. You are in a desolate situation here — you have now done all that you ought to do — leave these Black Islands, and come to Vicar’s Dale: you will find there a cheerful family, and means of spending your time more agreeably, perhaps more profitably, than you can have here. I am sensible that no new friends can supply to you the place of him you have lost; but you will find pleasure in the perception, that you have, by your own merit, attached to you one friend in me, who will do all in his power to soothe and serve you. — Will you trust yourself to me?” added he, smiling, “You have already found that I do not flatter. Will you come to us? — The sooner the better — to-morrow, if you can.”
It scarcely need be said, that this invitation was most cordially accepted. Next day Ormond was to leave the Black Islands. Sheelah was in despair when she found he was going: the child hung upon him so that he could hardly get out of the house, till Moriarty promised to return for the boy, and carry him over in the boat often, to see Mr. Ormond. Moriarty would not stay in the islands himself, he said, after Harry went: he let the cabin and little tenement which O’Shane had given him, and the rent was to be paid him by the agent. Ormond went, for the last time, that morning, to Ormond’s Vale, to settle his own affairs there: he and Moriarty took an unusual path across this part of the island to the waterside, that they might avoid that which they had followed the last time they were out, on the day of Corny’s death. They went, therefore, across a lone tract of heath-bog, where, for a considerable time, they saw no living being.
On this bog, of which Cornelius O’Shane had given Moriarty a share, the grateful poor fellow had, the year before, amused himself with cutting in large letters of about a yard long the words
“LONG LIVE KING CORNY.”
He had sowed the letters with broom-seed in the spring, and had since forgotten ever to look at them; but they were now green, and struck the eye.
“Think then of this being all the trace that’s left of him on the face of the earth!” said Moriarty. “I’m glad that I did even that same.”
After crossing this lone bog, when they came to the waterside, they found a great crowd of people, seemingly all the inhabitants of the islands, assembled there, waiting to take leave of Master Harry; and each of them was cheered by a kind word and a look, before they would let him step into the boat.
“Ay, go to the continent,” said Sheelah, “ay, go to fifty continents, and in all Ireland you’ll not find hearts warmer to you than those of the Black Islands, that knows you best from a child, Master Harry dear.”
Ormond was received with much kindness in Dr. Cambray’s family, in which he felt himself at ease, and soon forgot that he was a stranger: his mind, however, was anxious about his situation, as he longed to get into active life. Every morning, when the post came in, he hoped there would be a letter for him with his commission; and he was every morning regularly surprised and disappointed, on finding that there was none. In the course of each ensuing day, however, he forgot his disappointment, and said he believed he was happier where he was than he could be any where else. The regular morning question of “Any letters for me?” was at last answered by “Yes; one franked by Sir Ulick O’Shane.” “Ah! no commission — I feel no enclosure — single letter — no! double.” Double or single, it was as follows:—
“DEAR HARRY,
“At last I have seen the executrix and son-in-law, whom that great genius deceased, my well-beloved cousin in folly, King Corny, chose for himself. As to that thing, half mud, half tinsel, half Irish, half French, Miss, or Mademoiselle, O’Faley, that jointed doll, is — all but the eyes, which move of themselves in a very extraordinary way — a mere puppet, pulled by wires in the hands of another. The master showman, fully as extraordinary in his own way as his puppet, kept, while I was by, as much as possible behind the scenes. The hand and ruffle of the French petit-maitre, and the prompter’s voice, however, were visible and audible enough for me. In plain English, I suppose it is no news to you to hear that Mdlle. O’Faley is a fool, and Monsieur de Connal, Captain O’Connal, Black Connal, or by whatever other alias he is to be called, is properly a puppy. I am sorry, my dear boy, to tell you that the fool has let the rogue get hold of the five hundred pounds lodged in the bank — so no hopes of your commission for three months, or at the least two months to come. My dear boy, your much-lamented friend and benefactor (is not that the style?), King Corny, who began, I think, by being, years ago, to your admiration, his own tailor, has ended, I fear to your loss, by being his own lawyer: he has drawn his will so that any attorney could drive a coach and six through it — so ends ‘every man his own lawyer.’ Forgive me this laugh, Harry. By-the-bye, you, my dear ward, will be of age in December, I think — then all my legal power of interference ceases.
“Meantime, as I know you will be out of spirits when you read this, I have some comfort for you and myself, which I kept for a bonne-bouche — you will never more see Lady O’Shane, nor I either. Articles of separation — and I didn’t trust myself to be my own lawyer — have been signed between us: so I shall see her ladyship sail for England this night — won’t let any one have the pleasure of putting her on board but myself — I will see her safe off, and feel well assured nothing can tempt her to return — even to haunt me — or scold you. This was the business which detained me in Dublin — well worth while to give up a summer to secure, for the rest of one’s days, liberty to lead a bachelor’s merry life, which I mean to do at Castle Hermitage or elsewhere, now and from henceforth — Miss Black in no ways notwithstanding. Miss Black, it is but justice to tell you, is now convinced of my conjugal virtues, and admires my patience as much as she used to admire Lady O’Shane’s. She has been very useful to me in arranging my affairs in this separation —in consequence, I have procured a commission of the peace for a certain Mr. M’Crule, a man whom you may remember to have seen or heard at the bottom or corner of the table at Castle Hermitage, one of the Cromwellians, a fellow with the true draw-down of the mouth, and who speaks, or snorts, through his nose. I have caused him, not without some difficulty, to ask Miss Black to be his helpmate (Lord help him and forgive me!); and Miss Black, preferring rather to stay in Ireland and become Mrs. M’Crule than to return to England and continue companion to Lady O’Shane, hath consented (who can blame her?) to marry on the spur of the occasion — to-morrow — I giving her away — you may imagine with what satisfaction. What with marriages and separations, the business of the nation, my bank, my canal, and my coal-mines, you may guess my hands have been full of business. Now, all for pleasure! next week I hope to be down enjoying my liberty at Castle Hermitage, where I shall be heartily glad to have my dear Harry again. Marcus in England still — the poor Annalys in great distress about the son, with whom, I fear, it is all over. No time for more. Measure my affection by the length of this, the longest epistle extant in my hand-writing.
“My dear boy, yours ever,
“Ulick O’Shane.”
The mixed and crossing emotions which this letter was calculated to excite having crossed, and mixed, and subsided a little, the predominating feeling was expressed by our young hero with a sigh, and this reflection: “Two months at the least! I must wait before I can have my commission — two months more in idleness the fates have decreed.”
“That last is a part of the decree that depends on yourself, not on the fates. Two months you must wait, but why in idleness?” said Dr. Cambray.
The kind and prudent doctor did not press the question — he was content with its being heard, knowing that it would sink into the mind and produce its effect in due season. Accordingly, after some time, after Ormond had exhaled impatience, and exhausted invective, and submitted to necessity, he returned to reason with the doctor. One evening, when the doctor and his family had returned from walking, and as the tea-urn was just coming in bubbling and steaming, Ormond set to work at a corner of the table, at the doctor’s elbow.
“My dear doctor, suppose I was now to read over to you my list of books.”
“Suppose you were, and suppose I was to fall asleep,” said the doctor.
“Not the least likely, sir, when you are to do any thing kind for a friend — may I say friend?”
“You may. Come, read on — I am not proof against flattery, even at my age — well, read away.”
Ormond began; but at that moment there drove past the windows a travelling chariot and four.
“Sir Ulick O’Shane, as I live!” cried Ormond, starting up. “I saw him — he nodded to me. Oh! no, impossible — he said he would not come till next week — Where’s his letter? — What’s the date? — Could it mean this week? — No, he says next week quite plainly — What can be the reason?”
A note for Mr. Ormond was brought in, which had been left by one of Sir Ulick O’Shane’s servants as they went by.
“My commission, after all,” cried Harry. “I always knew, I always said, that Sir Ulick was a good friend.”
“Has he purchased the commission?” said Dr. Cambray.
“He does not actually say so, but that must be what his note means,” said Ormond.
“Means! but what does it say? — May I see it?”
“It is written in such a hurry, and in pencil, you’ll not be able to make it out.”
The doctor, however, read aloud —
“If Mr. Harry Ormond will inquire at Castle Hermitage, he will hear of something to his advantage.
U. O’SHANE.”
“Go off this minute,” said Mrs. Cambray, “and inquire at Castle Hermitage what Mr. Harry Ormond may hear to his advantage, and let us learn it as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Harry; and ere the words were well uttered, a hundred steps were lost.
With more than his usual cordiality, Sir Ulick O’Shane received him, came out into the hall to meet his dear Harry, his own dear boy, to welcome him again to Castle Hermitage.
“We did not expect you, sir, till next week — this is a most agreeable surprise. Did you not say —”
“No matter what I said — you see what I have done,” interrupted Sir Ulick; “and now I must introduce you to a niece of mine, whom you have never yet seen — Lady Norton, a charming, well-bred, pleasant little widow, whose husband died, luckily for her and me, just when they had run out all their large fortune. She is delighted to come to me, and is just the thing to do the honours of Castle Hermitage — used to the style; but observe, though she is to rule my roast and my boiled, she is not to rule me or my friends — that is a preliminary, and a special clause for Harry Ormond’s being a privileged ami de la maison. Now, my dear fellow, you understand how the land lies; and depend upon it, you’ll like her, and find her every way of great advantage to you.”
So, thought Harry, is this all the advantage I am to hear of?
Sir Ulick led on to the drawing-room, and presented him to a fashionable~looking lady, neither young nor old, nothing in any respect remarkable.
“Lady Norton, Harry Ormond — Harry Ormond, my niece, Lady Norton, who will make this house as pleasant to you, and to me, and to all my friends, as it has been unpleasant ever since — in short, ever since you were out of it, Harry.”
Lady Norton, with gracious smile and well-bred courtesy, received Harry in a manner that promised the performance of all for which Sir Ulick had engaged. Tea came; and the conversation went on chiefly between Sir Ulick and Lady Norton on their own affairs, about invitations and engagements they had made, before they left Dublin, with various persons who were coming down to Castle Hermitage. Sir Ulick asked, “When are the Brudenells to come to us, my dear? — Did you settle with the Lascelles? — and Lady Louisa, she must be here with the vice-regal party — arrange that, my dear.”
Lady Norton had settled every thing; she took out an elegant memorandum~book, and read the arrangements to Sir Ulick. Between whiles, Sir Ulick turned to Ormond and noted the claims of those persons to distinction, and as several ladies were named, exclaimed, “Charming woman! — delightful little creature! — The Darrells; Harry, you’ll like the Darrells too! — The Lardners, all clever, pleasant, and odd, will entertain you amazingly, Harry! — But Lady Millicent is the woman — nothing at all has been seen in this country like her! — most fascinating! Harry, take care of your heart.”
Then, as to the men — this man was clever — and the other was quite a hero — and the next the pleasantest fellow — and the best sportsman — and there were men of political eminence — men who had distinguished themselves on different occasions by celebrated speeches — and particularly promising rising young; men, with whom he must make Ormond intimately acquainted. Now Sir Ulick closed Lady Norton’s book, and taking it from her hand, said, “I am tiring you, my dear — that’s enough for to-night — we’ll settle all the rest to-morrow: you must be tired after your journey — I whirled you down without mercy — you look fatigued and sleepy.”
Lady Norton said, “Indeed, she believed she was a little tired, and rather sleepy.”
Her uncle begged she would not sit up longer from compliment; accordingly, apologizing to Mr. Ormond, and “really much fatigued,” she retired. Sir Ulick walked up and down the room, meditating for some moments, while Harry renewed his intimacy with an old dog, who, at every pause in the conversation, jumping up on him, and squealing with delight, had claimed his notice.
“Well, my boy,” exclaimed Sir Ulick, stopping short, “aren’t you a most extraordinary fellow? Pray did you get my note?”
“Certainly, sir, and came instantly in consequence.”
“And yet you have never inquired what it is that you might hear to your advantage.”
“I— I thought I had heard it, sir.”
“Heard it, sir!” repeated Sir Ulick: “what can you mean?”
“Simply, sir, that I thought the advantage you alluded to was the introduction you did me just now the favour to give me to Lady Norton; you said, her being here would be a great advantage to me, and that led me to conclude —”
“Well, well! you were always a simple good fellow — confiding in my friendship — continue the same — you will, I am confident. But had you no other thought?”
“I had,” said Harry, “when first I read your note, I had, I own, another thought.”
“And what might it be?”
“I thought of my commission, sir.”
“What of your commission?”
“That you had procured it for me, sir.”
“Since you ask me, I tell you honestly, that if it had been for your interest, I would have purchased that commission long ago; but there is a little secret, a political secret, which I could not tell you before — those who are behind the scenes cannot always speak — I may tell it to you now confidentially, but you must not repeat it, especially from me — that peace is likely to continue; so the army is out of the question.”
“Well, sir, if that be the case — you know best.”
“I do — it is, trust me; and as things have turned out — though I could not possibly foresee what has happened — every thing is for the best: I have come express from town to tell you news that will surprise you beyond measure.”
“What can you mean, sir?”
“Simply, sir, that you are possessed, or soon will be possessed of — But come, sit down quietly, and in good earnest let me explain to you. You know your father’s second wife, the Indian woman, the governor’s mahogany~coloured daughter — she had a prodigious fortune, which my poor friend, your father, chose, when dying, to settle upon her, and her Indian son; leaving you nothing but what he could not take from you, the little paternal estate of three hundred pounds a year. Well, it has pleased Heaven to take your mahogany-coloured step-mother and your Indian brother out of this world; both carried off within a few days of each other by a fever of the country — much regretted, I dare say, in the Bombay Gazette, by all who knew them.
“But as neither you nor I had that honour, we are not, upon this occasion, called upon for any hypocrisy, farther than a black coat, which I have ordered for you at my tailor’s. Have also noted and answered, in conformity, the agent’s letter of 26th July, received yesterday, containing the melancholy intelligence: farther, replied to that part of his last, which requested to know how and where to transmit the property, which, on the Indian mother and brother’s demise, falls, by the will of the late Captain Ormond, to his European son, Harry Ormond, esq., now under the guardianship of Sir Ulick O’Shane, Castle Hermitage, Ireland.”
As he spoke, Sir Ulick produced the agent’s letter, and put it into his ward’s hand, pointing to the “useful passages.” Harry, glancing his eye over them, understood just enough to be convinced that Sir Ulick was in earnest, and that he was really heir to a very considerable property.
“Well! Harry Ormond, esq.,” pursued Sir Ulick, “was I wrong when I told you that if you would inquire at Castle Hermitage you would hear of something to your advantage?”
“I hope in Heaven,” said Ormond, “and pray to Heaven that it may be to my advantage! — I hope neither my head nor my heart may be turned by sudden prosperity.”
“Your heart — oh! I’ll answer for your heart, my noble fellow,” said Sir Ulick; “but I own you surprise me by the coolness of head you show.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” said Ormond, “I must run this minute to tell Dr. Cambray and all my friends at Vicar’s Dale.”
“Certainly — quite right,” said Sir Ulick —“I won’t detain you a moment,” said he — but he still held him fast. “I let you go to-night, but you must come to me to-morrow.”
“Oh! sir, certainly.”
“And you will bid adieu to Vicar’s Dale, and take up your quarters at Castle Hermitage, with your old guardian.”
“Thank you, sir — delightful! But I need not bid adieu to Vicar’s Dale — they are so near, I shall see them every day.”
“Of course,” said Sir Ulick, biting his lip; “but I was thinking of something.”
“Pray,” continued Sir Ulick, “do you like a gig, a curricle, or a phaeton best, or what carriage will you have? there is Tom Darrel’s in London now, who can bring it over for you. Well, we can settle that to-morrow.”
“If you please — thank you, kind Sir Ulick — how can you think so quickly of every thing?”
“Horses, too — let me see,” said Sir Ulick, drawing Harry back to the fire-place —“Ay, George Beirne is a judge of horses — he can choose for you, unless you like to choose for yourself. What colour — black or bay?”
“I declare, sir, I don’t know yet — my poor head is in such a state — and the horses happen not to be uppermost.”
“I protest, Harry, you perfectly astonish me, by the sedateness of your mind and manner. You are certainly wonderfully formed and improved since I saw you last — but, how! in the name of wonder, in the Black Islands, how I cannot conceive,” said Sir Ulick.
“As to sedateness, you know, sir, since I saw you last, I may well be sobered a little, for I have suffered — not a little,” said Harry.
“Suffered! how?” said Sir Ulick, leaning his arm on the mantel-piece opposite to him, and listening with an air of sympathy —“suffered! I was not aware —”
“You know, sir, I have lost an excellent friend.”
“Poor Corny — ay, my poor cousin, as far as he could, I am sure, he wished to be a friend to you.”
“He wished to be, and was,” said Ormond.
“It would have been better for him and his daughter too,” resumed Sir Ulick, “if he had chosen you for his son-in-law, instead of the coxcomb to whom Dora is going to be married: yet I own, as your guardian, I am well pleased that Dora, though a very pretty girl, is out of your way — you must look higher — she was no match for you.”
“I am perfectly sensible, sir, that we should never have been happy together.”
“You are a very sensible young man, Ormond — you make me admire you, seriously — I always foresaw what you would be Ah! if Marcus — but we’ll not talk of that now. Terribly dissipated — has spent an immensity of money already — but still, when he speaks in parliament he will make a figure. But good bye, good night; I see you are in a hurry to get away from me.”
“From you! Oh! no, sir, you cannot think me so ungrateful. I have not expressed, because I have not words — when I feel much, I never can say any thing; yet believe me, sir, I do feel your kindness, and all the warm fatherly interest you have this night shown that you have for me:— but I am in a hurry to tell my good friends the Cambrays, who I know are impatient for my return, and I fear I am keeping them up beyond their usual hour.”
“Not at all — besides — good Heavens! can’t they sit up a quarter of an hour, if they are so much interested? — Stay, you really hurry my slow wits — one thing more I had to say — pray, may I ask to which of the Miss Cambrays is it that you are so impatient to impart your good fortune?”
“To both, sir,” said Ormond —“equally.”
“Both! — you unconscionable dog, polygamy is not permitted in these countries — Both! no, try again for a better answer; though that was no bad one at the first blush.”
“I have no other answer to give than the plain truth, sir: I am thinking neither of polygamy nor even of marriage at present. These young ladies are both very amiable, very handsome, and very agreeable; but, in short, we are not thinking of one another — indeed, I believe they are engaged.”
“Engaged! — Oh! then you have thought about these young ladies enough to find that out. Well, this saves your gallantry — good night.”
Sir Ulick had this evening taken a vast deal of superfluous pains to sound a mind, which lay open before him, clear to the very bottom; but because it was so clear, be could not believe that he saw the bottom. He did not much like Dr. Cambray — Father Jos was right there. Dr. Cambray was one of those simple characters which puzzled Sir Ulick — the idea of these Miss Cambrays, of the possibility of his ward’s having formed an attachment that might interfere with his views, disturbed Sir Ulick’s rest this night. His first operation in the morning was to walk down unexpectedly early to Vicar’s Dale. He found Ormond with Dr. Cambray, very busy, examining a plan which the doctor had sketched for a new cottage for Moriarty — a mason was standing by, talking of sand, lime, and stones. “But the young ladies, where are they?” Sir Ulick asked.
Ormond did not know. Mrs. Cambray, who was quietly reading, said she supposed they were in their gardens; and not in the least suspecting Sir Ulick’s suspicions, she was glad to see him, and gave credit to his neighbourly good-will for the earliness of this visit, without waiting even for the doctor to pay his respects first, as he intended to do at Castle Hermitage.
“Oh! as to that,” Sir Ulick said, “he did not intend to live on terms of ceremony with Dr. Cambray — he was impatient to take the first opportunity of thanking the doctor for his attentions to his ward.”
Sir Ulick’s quick eye saw on the table in Harry’s handwriting the list of books to be read. He took it up, looked it over, and with a smile asked, “Any thoughts of the church, Harry?”
“No, sir; it would be rather late for me to think of the church. I should never prepare myself properly.”
“Besides,” said Sir Ulick, “I have no living in my gift; but if,” continued he, in a tone of irony, “if, as I should opine from the list I hold in my hand — you look to a college living, my boy — if you are bent upon reading for a fellowship — I don’t doubt but with Dr. Cambray’s assistance, and with some grinder and crammer, we might get you cleverly through all the college examinations. And doctor, if he did not, in going through some of the college courses, die of a logical indigestion, or a classical fever, or a metaphysical lethargy, he might shine in the dignity of Trin. Coll. Dub., and, mad Mathesis inspiring, might teach eternally how the line AB is equal to the line CD— or why poor X Y Z are unknown quantities. Ah! my dear boy, think of the pleasure, the glory of lecturing classes of ignoramuses, and dunces yet unborn!”
Harry, no way disconcerted, laughed good-humouredly with his guardian, and replied, “At present, sir, my ambition reaches no farther than to escape myself from the class of dunces and ignoramuses. I am conscious that at present I am very deficient.”
“In what, my dear boy? — To make your complaint English, you must say deficient in some thing or other —’tis an Iricism to say in general that you are very deficient.”
“There is one of my particular deficiencies then you see, sir — I am deficient in English.”
“You are not deficient in temper, I am sure,” said Sir Ulick: “come, come, you may be tolerably well contented with yourself.”
“Ignorant as I am! — No,” said Ormond, “I will never sit down content in ignorance. Now that I have the fortune of a gentleman, it would be so much the more conspicuous, more scandalous — now that I have every way the means, I will, by the blessing of Heaven, and with the help of kind friends, make myself something more and something better than I am.”
“Gad! you are a fine fellow, Harry Ormond,” cried Sir Ulick: “I remember having once, at your age, such feelings and notions myself.”
“Very unlike the first thoughts and feelings many young men would have on coming into unexpected possession of a fortune,” said Dr. Cambray.
“True,” said Sir Ulick, “and we must keep his counsel, that he may not be dubbed a quiz — not a word of this sort, Harry, for the Darrells, the Lardners, or the Dartfords.”
“I don’t care whether they dub me a quiz or not,” said Harry, hastily: “what are Darrells, Lardners, or Dartfords to me?”
“They are something to me,” said Sir Ulick.
“Oh! I beg pardon, sir — I didn’t know that — that makes it quite another affair.”
“And, Harry, as you are to meet these young men, I thought it well to try how you could bear to be laughed at — I have tried you in this very conversation, and found you, to my infinite satisfaction, ridicule proof — better than even bullet proof— much better. No danger that a young man of spirit should be bullied out of his opinion and principles, but great danger that he might be laughed out of them — and I rejoice, my dear ward, to see that you are safe from this peril.”
Benevolent pleasure shone in Dr. Cambray’s countenance, when he heard Sir Ulick speak in this manner.
“You will dine with us, Dr. Cambray?” said Sir Ulick. “Harry, you will not forget Castle Hermitage?”
“Forget Castle Hermitage! as if I could, where I spent my happy childhood — that paradise, as it seemed to me the first time — when, a poor little orphan boy, I was brought from my smoky cabin. I remember the day as well as if it were this moment — when you took me by the hand, and led me in, and I clung to you.”
“Cling to me still! cling to me ever,” interrupted Sir Ulick, “and I will never fail you — no, never,” repeated he, grasping Harry’s hand, and looking upon him with an emotion of affection, strongly felt, and therefore strongly expressed.
“To be sure I will,” said Harry.
“And I hope,” added Sir Ulick, recovering the gaiety of his tone, “that at Castle Hermitage a paradise will open for your youth as it opened for your childhood.”
Mrs. Cambray put in a word of hope and fear about Vicar’s Dale. To which Ormond answered, “Never fear, Mrs. Cambray — trust me — I know my own interest too well.”
Sir Ulick turning again as he was leaving the room, said with an air of frank liberality, “We’ll settle that at once — we’ll divide Harry between us — or we’ll divide his day thus: the mornings I leave you to your friends and studies for an hour or two Harry, in this Vale of Eden — the rest of the day we must have you — men and books best mixed — see Bacon, and see every clever man that ever wrote or spoke. So here,” added Sir Ulick, pointing to a map of history, which lay on the table, “you will have The Stream of Time, and with us Le Courant du Jour.“
Sir Ulick departed. During the whole of this conversation, and of that of the preceding night, while he seemed to be talking at random of different things, unconnected and of opposite sorts, he had carefully attended to one object. Going round the whole circle of human motives — love, ambition, interest, ease, pleasure, he had made accurate observation on his ward’s mind; and reversing the order, he went round another way, and repeated and corrected his observations. The points he had strongly noted for practical use were, that for retaining influence over his ward, he must depend not upon interested motives of any kind, nor upon the force of authority or precedent, nor yet on the power of ridicule, but principally upon feelings of honour, gratitude, and generosity. Harry now no longer crossed any of his projects, but was become himself the means of carrying many into execution. The plan of a match for Marcus with Miss Annaly was entirely at an end. That young lady had given a decided refusal; and some circumstances, which we cannot here stop to explain, rendered Marcus and his father easy under that disappointment. No jealousy or competition existing, therefore, any longer between his son and ward, Sir Ulick’s affection for Ormond returned in full tide; nor did he reproach himself for having banished Harry from Castle Hermitage, or for having formerly neglected, and almost forgotten him for two or three years. Sir Ulick took the matter up just as easily as he had laid it down — he now looked on Harry not as the youth whom he had deserted, but as the orphan boy whom he had cherished in adversity, and whom he had a consequent right to produce and patronize in prosperity. Beyond, or beneath all this, there was another reason why Sir Ulick took so much pains, and felt so much anxiety, to establish his influence over his ward. This reason cannot yet be mentioned — he had hardly revealed it to himself — it was deep down in his soul — to be or not to be — as circumstances, time, and the hour, should decide.
After having lived so long in retirement, our young hero, when he was to go into company again, had many fears that his manners would appear rustic and unfashioned. With all these apprehensions as to his manners there was mixed a large proportion of pride of character, which tended rather to increase than to diminish his apparent timidity. He dreaded that people would value him, or think that he valued himself, for his newly acquired fortune, instead of his good qualities: he feared that he should be flattered; and he feared that he should like flattery. In the midst of all these various and contradictory apprehensions, he would perhaps have been awkward and miserable, had he been introduced into society by one who had less knowledge of the world, or less knowledge of the human heart, than Sir Ulick O’Shane possessed. Sir Ulick treated him as if he had always lived in good company. Without presupposing any ignorance, he at the same time took care to warn him of any etiquette or modern fashion, so that no one should perceive the warning but themselves. He neither offended Ormond’s pride by seeming to patronize or produce him, nor did he let his timidity suffer from uncertainty or neglect. Ormond’s fortune was never adverted to, in any way that could hurt his desire to be valued for his own sake; but he was made to feel that it was a part, and a very agreeable part, of his personal merit. Managed in this kind and skilful manner, he became perfectly at ease and happy. His spirits rose, and he enjoyed every thing with the warmth of youth, and with the enthusiasm of his natural character.
The first evening that “the earthly paradise” of Castle Hermitage re-opened upon his view, he was presented to all the well-dressed, well-bred belles. Black, brown, and fair, for the first hour appeared to him all beautiful. His guardian standing apart, and seeming to listen to a castle secretary, who was whispering to him of state affairs, observed all that was passing.
Contrary to his guardian’s expectations, however, Ormond was the next morning faithful to his resolution, and did not appear among the angels at the breakfast-table at Castle Hermitage. “It won’t last a good week,” said Sir Ulick to himself. But that good week, and the next, it lasted. Harry’s studies, to be sure, were sometimes interrupted by floating visions of the Miss Darrells, Dartfords, and Lardners. He every now and then sung bits of their songs, repeated their bon-mots, and from time to time laying down his book, started up and practised quadrille steps, to refresh himself, and increase his attention. His representations of all he saw and heard at Castle Hermitage, and his frank and natural description of the impression that every thing and every body made upon him, were amusing and interesting to his friends at Vicar’s Dale. It was not by satire that he amused them, but by simplicity mixed with humour and good sense — good sense sometimes half opening his eyes, and humour describing what he saw with those eyes, half open, half shut.
“Pray what sort of people are the Darrells and Dartfords?” said Mrs. Cambray.
“Oh! delightful — the girls especially — sing like angels.”
“Well, the ladies I know are all angels with you at present — that you have told us several times.”
“It’s really true, I believe — at least as far as I can see: but you know I have not had time to see farther than the outside yet.”
“The gentlemen, however — I suppose you have seen the inside of some of them?”
“Certainly — those who have any thing inside of them — Dartford, for instance.”
“Well, Mr. Dartford, he is the man Sir Ulick said was so clever.”
“Very clever — he is — I suppose, though I don’t really recollect any thing remarkable that I have heard him say. But the wit must be in him — and he lets out a good deal of his opinions — of his opinion of himself a little too much. But he is much admired.”
“And Mr. Darrell — what of him?”
“Very fashionable. But indeed all I know about him is, that his dress is quite the thing, and that he knows more about dishes and cooks than I could have conceived any man upon earth of his age could know — but they say it’s the fashion — he is very fashionable, I hear.”
“But is he conceited?”
“Why, I do not know — his manner might appear a little conceited — but in reality he must be wonderfully humble — for he certainly values his horses far above himself — and then he is quite content if his boot-tops are admired. By-the-bye, there is a famous invaluable receipt he has for polishing those boot-tops, which is to make quite another man of me — if I don’t forget to put him in mind about it.”
“And Mr. Lardner?”
“Oh! a pleasant young man — has so many good songs, and good stories, and is so good-natured in repeating them. But I hope people won’t make him repeat them too often, for I can conceive one might be tired, in time.”
During the course of the first three weeks, Harry was three times in imminent danger of falling in love — first, with the beautiful, and beautifully dressed, Miss Darrell, who danced, sung, played, rode, did every thing charmingly, and was universally admired. She was remarkably good-humoured, even when some of her companions were rather cross. Miss Darrell reigned queen of the day, and queen of the ball, for three days and three nights, unrivalled in our young hero’s eyes; but on the fourth night, Ormond chancing to praise the fine shape of one of her very dear friends, Miss Darrell whispered, “She owes that fine shape to a finely padded corset. Oh! I am clear of what I tell you — she is my intimate friend.”
From that moment Ormond was cured of all desire to be the intimate friend of this fair lady. The second peerless damsel, whose praises he sounded to Dr. Cambray, between the fits of reading Middleton’s Cicero, was Miss Eliza Darrell, the youngest of the three sisters: she was not yet come out, though in the mean time allowed to appear at Castle Hermitage; and she was so na?ve, and so timid, and so very bashful, that Sir Ulick was forced always to bring her into the room leaning on his arm; — she could really hardly walk into a room — and if any body looked at her, she was so much distressed — and there were such pretty confusions and retreatings, and such a manoeuvring to get to the side-table every day, and “Sir Ulick so terribly determined it should not be.” It was all naturally acted, and by a young pretty actress. Ormond, used only to the gross affectation of Dora, did not suspect that there was any affectation in the case. He pitied her so much, that Sir Ulick was certain “love was in the next degree.” Of this the young lady herself was still more secure; and in her security she forgot some of her graceful timidity. It happened that, in standing up for country dances one night, some dispute about precedency occurred. Miss Eliza Darrell was the honourable Eliza Darrell; and some young lady, who was not honourable, in contempt, defiance, neglect, or ignorance, stood above her. The timid Eliza remonstrated in no very gentle voice, and the colour came into her face —“the eloquent blood spoke” too plainly. She! — the gentle Eliza! — pushed for her place, and with her honourable elbows made way for herself; for what will not even well-bred belles do in a crowd? Unfortunately, well-bred beaux are bound to support them. Ormond was on the point of being drawn into a quarrel with the partner of the offending party, when Sir Ulick appearing in the midst, and not seeming to know that any thing was going wrong, broke up the intended set of country dances, by insisting upon it that the Miss Darrells had promised him a quadrille, and that they must dance it then, as there was but just time before supper. Harry, who had seen how little his safety was in the eye of the gentle Eliza, in comparison with the most trifling point of her offended pride, was determined in future not to expose himself to similar danger. The next young lady who took his fancy was of course as unlike the last as possible: she was one of the remarkably pleasant, sprightly, clever, most agreeable Miss Lardners. She did not interest him much, but she amused him exceedingly. Her sister had one day said to her, “Anne, you can’t be pretty, so you had better be odd.” Anne took the advice, set up for being odd, and succeeded. She was a mimic, a wit, and very satirical; and as long as the satire touched only those for whom he did not care, Ormond was extremely diverted. He did not think it quite feminine or amiable, but still it was entertaining: there was also something flattering in being exempted from this general reprobation and ridicule. Miss Lardner was intolerant of all insipid people —flats, as she called them. How far Ormond might have been drawn on by this laughing, talking, satirical, flattering wit, there is no saying; but luckily they fell out one evening about old Lady Annaly. Miss Lardner was not aware that Ormond knew, much less could she have conceived, that he liked her ladyship. Miss Lardner was mimicking her, for the amusement of a set of young ladies who were standing round the fire after dinner, when Harry Ormond came in: he was not quite as much diverted as she expected.
“Mr. Ormond does not know the original— the copy is lost upon him,” said Miss Lardner; “and happy it is for you,” continued she, turning to him, “that you do not know her, for Lady Annaly is as stiff and tiresome an original as ever was seen or heard of; — and the worst of it is, she is an original without originality.”
“Lady Annaly!” cried Ormond, with surprise, “surely not the Lady Annaly I know.”
“There’s but one that I know of — Heaven forbid that there were two! But I beg your pardon, Mr. Ormond, if she is a friend of yours — I humbly beg your forgiveness — I did not know your taste was so very good!—.Lady Annaly is a fine old lady, certainly — vastly respectable; and I so far agree with Mr. Ormond, that of the two paragons, mother and daughter, I prefer the mother. Paragons in their teens are insufferable:— patterns of perfection are good for nothing in society, except to be torn to pieces.”
Miss Lardner pursued this diversion of tearing them to pieces, still flattering herself that her present wit and drollery would prevail with Ormond, as she had found it prevail with most people against an absent friend. But Ormond thought upon this occasion she showed more flippancy than wit, and more ill-nature than humour. He was shocked at the want of feeling and reverence for age with which she, a young girl, just entering into the world, spoke of a person of Lady Annaly’s years and high character. In the heat of attack, and in her eagerness to carry her point against the Annalys, the young lady, according to custom, proceeded from sarcasm to scandal. Every ill-natured report she had ever heard against any of the family, she now repeated with exaggeration and asseverations — vehement in proportion to the weakness of proof. She asserted that Lady Annaly, with all her high character, was very hard-hearted to some of her nearest family connexions. Sweet Lady Millicent! — Oh! how barbarously she used her! — Miss Annaly too she attacked, as a cold-blooded jilt. If the truth must be told, she had actually broken the heart of a young nobleman, who was fool enough to be taken in by her sort of manner: and the son, the famous Sir Herbert Annaly! he was an absolute miser: Miss Lardner declared that she knew, from the best authority, most shameful instances of his shabbiness.
The instances were stated, but Ormond could not believe these stories; and what was more, he began to doubt the good faith of the person by whom they were related. He suspected that she uttered these slanders, knowing them to be false.
Miss Lardner observing that Ormond made no farther defence, but now stood silent, and with downcast eyes, flattered herself that she had completely triumphed. Changing the subject, she would have resumed with him her familiar, playful tone; but all chance of her ever triumphing over Ormond’s head or heart was now at an end: so finished the third of his three weeks’ fancies. Such evanescent fancies would not have been worth mentioning, but for the effect produced on his mind; though they left scarcely any individual traces, they made a general and useful impression. They produced a permanent contempt for scandal, that common vice of idle society. He determined to guard against it cautiously himself; and ever after, when he saw a disposition to it in any woman, however highly-bred, highly~accomplished, or highly-gifted, he considered her as a person of mean mind, with whom he could never form any connexion of friendship or love.
The Lardners, Darrells, Dartfords, vanished, and new figures were to appear in the magic lantern at Castle Hermitage. Sir Ulick thought a few preliminary observations necessary to his ward. His opinion of Ormond’s capacity and steadiness had considerably diminished, in consequence of his various mistakes of character, and sudden changes of opinion; for Sir Ulick, with all his abilities, did not discriminate between want of understanding, and want of practice. Besides, he did not see the whole: he saw the outward boyish folly — he did not see the inward manly sense; he judged Ormond by a false standard, by comparison with the young men of the world of his own age. He knew that none of these, even of moderate capacity, could have been three times in three weeks so near being taken in— not one would have made the sort of blunders, much less would any one, having made them, have acknowledged them as frankly as Ormond did. It was this imprudent candour which lowered him most in his guardian’s estimation. From not having lived in society, Harry was not aware of the signs and tokens of folly or wisdom by which the world judge; the opinion of the bystanders had not habitual power over him. While the worldly young men guarded themselves with circumspect self-love against every external appearance of folly, Harry was completely unguarded: they lived cheaply upon borrowed wisdom; he profited dearly, but permanently, by his own experience.
“My dear boy,” said Sir Ulick, “are you aware that his Excellency the Lord Lieutenant is coming to Castle Hermitage to-morrow?”
“Yes, sir; so I heard you say,” replied Harry. “What sort of a man is he?”
“Man!” repeated Sir Ulick, smiling. “In the first place, he is a very great man, and may be of great service to you.”
“How so, sir? I don’t want any thing from him. Now I have a good fortune of my own, what can I want from any man — or if I must not say man, any great man?”
“My dear Harry, though a man’s fortune is good, it may be better for pushing it.”
“And worse, may it not, sir? Did not I hear you speaking last night of Lord Somebody, who had been pushing his fortune all his life, and died pennyless?”
“True, because he pushed ill; if he had pushed well, he would have got into a good place.”
“I thank Heaven, I can get that now without any pushing.”
“You can! — yes, by my interest perhaps you mean.”
“No; by my own money, I mean.”
“Bribery and corruption! Harry. Places are not in this country to be bought — openly — these are things one must not talk of: and pray, with your own money — if you could — what place upon earth would you purchase?”
“The only place in the world I should wish for, sir, would be a place in the country.”
Sir Ulick was surprised and alarmed; but said not a word that could betray his feelings.
“A place of my own,” continued Ormond, “a comfortable house and estate, on which I could live independently and happily, with some charming amiable woman.”
“Darrell, Dartford, Lardner, which?” said Sir Ulick, with a sarcastic smile.
“I am cured of these foolish fancies, sir.”
“Well, there is another more dangerous might seize you, against which I must warn you, and I trust one word of advice you will not take amiss.”
“Sir, I am very much obliged to you: how could I take advice from you as any thing but a proof of friendship?”
“Then, my dear boy, I must tell you, in confidence, what you will find out the first night you are in his company, that his Excellency drinks hard.”
“No danger of my following his example,” said Harry. “Thank you, sir, for the warning; but I am sure enough of myself on this point, because I have been tried — and when I would not drink to please my own dear King Corny, there is not much danger of my drinking to please a Lord Lieutenant, who, after all, is nothing to me.”
“After all,” said Sir Ulick; “but you are not come to after all yet — you know nothing about his Excellency yet.”
“Nothing but what you have told me, sir: if he drinks hard, I think he sets no very good example as a Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.”
“What oft was thought, perhaps, but ne’er so bluntly expressed,” said Sir Ulick.
Sir Ulick was afterwards surprised to see the firmness with which his ward, when in company with persons of the first rank and fashion, resisted the combined force of example, importunity, and ridicule. Dr. Cambray was pleased, but not surprised; for he had seen in his young friend other instances of this adherence to whatever he had once been convinced was right. Resolution is a quality or power of mind totally independent of knowledge of the world. The habit of self-control can be acquired by any individual, in any situation. Ormond had practised and strengthened it, even in the retirement of the Black Islands.
Other and far more dangerous trials were now preparing for him; but before we go on to these, it may be expected that we should not pass over in silence the vice-regal visit — and yet what can we say about it? All that Ormond could say was, that “he supposed it was a great honour, but it was no great pleasure.”
The mornings, two out of five, being rainy, hung very heavily on hand in spite of the billiard-room. Fine weather, riding, shooting, or boating, killed time well enough till dinner; and Harry said he liked this part of the business exceedingly, till he found that some great men were very cross, if they did not shoot as many little birds as he did. Then came dinner, the great point of relief and reunion! — and there had been late dinners, and long dinners, and great dinners, fine plate, good dishes, and plenty of wine, but a dearth of conversation — the natural topics chained up by etiquette. One half of the people at table were too prudent, the other half too stupid, to talk. Sir Ulick talked away indeed; but even he was not half so entertaining as usual, because he was forced to bring down his wit and humour to court quality. In short, till the company had drunk a certain quantity of wine, nothing was said worth repeating, and afterwards nothing repeatable.
After the vice-regal raree show was over, and that the grand folk had been properly bowed into their carriages, and had fairly driven away, there was some diversion to be had. People, without yawning, seemed to recover from a dead sleep; the state of the atmosphere was changed; there was a happy thaw; the frozen words and bits and ends of conversations were repeated in delightful confusion. The men of wit, in revenge for their prudent silence, were now happy and noisy beyond measure. Ormond was much entertained: he had an opportunity of being not only amused but instructed by conversation, for all the great dealers in information, who had kept up their goods while there was no market, now that there was a demand, unpacked, and brought them out in profusion. There was such a rich supply, and such a quick and happy intercourse of wit and knowledge, as quite delighted, almost dazzled, his eyes; but his eyes were strong. He had a mind untainted with envy, highly capable of emulation. Much was indeed beyond, or above, the reach of his present powers; but nothing was beyond his generous admiration — nothing above his future hopes of attainment. The effect and more than the effect, which Sir Ulick had foreseen, was produced on Ormond’s mind by hearing the conversation of some of those who had distinguished themselves in political life; he caught their spirit — their ambition: his wish was no longer merely to see the world, but to distinguish himself in it. His guardian saw the noble ambition rising in his mind. Oh! at that instant, how could he think of debasing it to servile purposes — of working this great power only for paltry party ends?
New circumstances arose, which unexpectedly changed the course of our hero’s mind. There was a certain Lady Millicent, whose name Lady Norton had read from her memorandum-book among the list of guests expected at Castle Hermitage. Sir Ulick, as Ormond recollected, had pronounced her to be a charming, elegant, fascinating creature. Sir Ulick’s praise was sometimes exaggerated, and often lavished from party motives, or given half in jest and half in earnest, against his conscience. But when he did speak sincerely, no man’s taste or judgment as to female beauty, manners, and character, could be more safely trusted.
He was sincere in all he said of Lady Millicent’s appearance and manners; but as to the rest, he did not think himself bound to tell all he knew about her.
Her ladyship arrived at Castle Hermitage. Ormond saw her, and thought that his guardian had not in the least exaggerated as to her beauty, grace, or elegance.
She was a very young widow, still in mourning for her husband, a gallant officer, who had fallen the preceding year at a siege in Flanders.
Lady Millicent, as Lady Norton said, had not recovered, and she feared never would recover from the shock her health had received at the time of her husband’s death. This account interested Ormond exceedingly for the young widow.
There was something peculiarly engaging in the pensive softness and modesty of her manner. It appeared free from affectation. Far from making any display of her feelings, she seemed as much as possible to repress them, and to endeavour to be cheerful, that she might not damp the gaiety of others. Her natural disposition, Lady Norton said, was very sprightly; and however passive and subdued she might appear at present, she was of a high independent spirit, that would, on any great occasion, think and act for itself. Better and better — each trait suited Ormond’s character more and more: his own observation confirmed the high opinion which the praises of her friend tended to inspire. Ormond was particularly pleased with the indulgent manner in which Lady Millicent spoke of her own sex; she was free from that propensity to detraction which had so disgusted him in his last love. Even of those by whom, as it had been hinted to him, she had been hardly treated, she spoke with gentleness and candour. Recollecting Miss Lardner’s assertion, that “Lady Annaly had used Lady Millicent barbarously,” he purposely mentioned Lady Annaly, to hear what she would say. “Lady Annaly,” said she, “is a most respectable woman — she has her prejudices — who is there that has not? — It is unfortunate for me that she has been prepossessed against me. She is one of my nearest connexions by marriage — one to whom I might have looked in difficulty and distress — one of the few persons whose assistance and interference I would willingly have accepted, and would even have stooped to ask; but unhappily — I can tell you no more,” said she, checking herself: “it is every way an unfortunate affair; and,” added she, after a deep sigh, “the most unfortunate part of it is, that it is my own fault.”
That Ormond could hardly believe; and whether it were or not, whatever the unfortunate affair might be, the candour, the gentleness, with which she spoke, even when her feelings were obviously touched and warm, interested him deeply in her favour. He had heard that the Annalys were just returning to Ireland, and he determined to go as soon as possible to see them: he hoped they would come to Castle Hermitage, and that this coolness might be made up. Meantime the more he saw of Lady Millicent, the more he was charmed with her. Sir Ulick was much engaged with various business in the mornings, and Lady Norton, Lady Millicent, and Ormond, spent their time together: walking, driving in the sociable, or boating on the lake, they were continually together. Lady Norton, a very good kind of well-bred little woman, was a nonentity in conversation; but she never interrupted it, nor laid the slightest restraint on any one by her presence, which, indeed, was usually forgotten by Ormond. His conversation with Lady Millicent generally took a sentimental turn. She did not always speak sense, but she talked elegant nonsense with a sweet persuasive voice and eloquent eyes: hers was a kind of exalted sentimental morality, referring every thing to feeling, and to the notion of sacrifice, rather than to a sense of duty, principle, or reason. She was all for sensibility and enthusiasm — enthusiasm in particular — with her there was no virtue without it. Acting from the hope of making yourself or others happy, or from any view of utility, was acting merely from low selfish motives. Her “point of virtue was so high, that ordinary mortals might well console themselves by perceiving the impossibility of ever reaching it.” Exalted to the clouds, she managed matters as she pleased there, and made charming confusion. When she condescended to return to earth, and attempted to define — no, not to define — definitions were death to her imagination! — but to describe her notions, she was nearly unintelligible. She declared, however, that she understood herself perfectly well; and Ormond, deceived by eloquence, of which he was a passionate admirer, thought that he understood when he only felt. Her ideas of virtue were carried to such extremes, that they touched the opposite vices — in truth, there was nothing to prevent them; for the line between right and wrong, that line which should be strongly marked, was effaced: so delicately had sentiment shaded off its boundaries. These female metaphysics, this character of exalted imagination and sensitive softness, was not quite so cheap and common some years ago, as it has lately become. The consequences to which it practically leads were not then fully foreseen and understood. At all times a man experienced in female character, who had any knowledge of the world, even supposing he had no skill in metaphysics, would easily have seen to what all this tends, and where it usually terminates; and such a man would never have thought of marrying Lady Millicent. But Ormond was inexperienced: the whole, matter and manner, was new to him; he was struck with the delicacy and sensibility of the fair sophist, and with all that was ingenious and plausible in the doctrine, instead of being alarmed by its dangerous tendency. It should be observed, in justice to Lady Millicent, that she was perfectly sincere — if we may use the expression of good faith in absurdities. She did not use this sentimental sophistry, as it has since been too often employed by many, to veil from themselves the criminality of passion, or to mark the deformity of vice: there was, perhaps, the more immediate hazard of her erring from ignorance and rashness; but there was also, in her youth and innocence, a chance that she might instinctively start back the moment she should see the precipice.
One evening Sir Ulick was talking of Lord Chesterfield’s Letters, a book at that time much in vogue, but which the good sense and virtue of England soon cast into disrepute; and which, in spite of the charms of wit and style, in spite of many sparkling and some valuable observations mixed with its corruption, has since sunk, fortunately for the nation, almost into oblivion. But when these private letters were first published, and when my lord, who now appears so stiff and awkward, was in the fashion of the day, there was no withstanding it. The book was a manual of education — with the vain hope of getting cheaply second-hand knowledge of the world, it was read universally by every young man entering life, from the nobleman’s son, while his hair was powdering, to the ‘prentice thumbing it surreptitiously behind the counter. Sir Ulick O’Shane, of course, recommended it to his ward: to Lady Millicent’s credit, she inveighed against it with honest indignation.
“What!” said Sir Ulick, smiling, “you are shocked at the idea of Lord Chesterfield’s advising his pupil at Paris to prefer a reputable affair with a married woman, to a disreputable intrigue with an opera girl! Well, I believe you are right as an Englishwoman, my dear Lady Millicent; and I am clear, at all events, that you are right, as a woman, to blush so eloquently with virtuous indignation:— Lady Annaly herself could not have spoken and looked the thing better.”
“So I was just thinking,” said Ormond.
“Only the difference, Harry, between a young and an elderly woman,” said Sir Ulick. “Truths divine come mended from the lips of youth and beauty.”
His compliment was lost upon Lady Millicent. At the first mention of Lady Annaly’s name she had sighed deeply, and had fallen into reverie — and Ormond, as he looked at her, fell into raptures at the tender expression of her countenance. Sir Ulick tapped him on the shoulder, and drawing him a little on one side, “Take care of your heart, young man,” whispered he: “no serious attachment here — remember, I warn you.” Lady Norton joined them, and nothing more was said.
“Take care of my heart,” thought Ormond: “why should I guard it against such a woman? — what better can I do with it than offer it to such a woman?”
A thought had crossed Ormond’s mind which recurred at this instant. From the great admiration Sir Ulick expressed for Lady Millicent, and the constant attention — more than gallant — tender attention, which Sir Ulick paid her, Ormond was persuaded that, but for that half of the broken chain of matrimony which still encumbered him whom it could not bind, Sir Ulick would be very glad to offer Lady Millicent not only his heart but his hand. Suspecting this partiality, and imagining a latent jealousy, Ormond did not quite like to consult his guardian about his own sentiments and proceedings. He wished previously to consult his impartial and most safe friend, Dr. Cambray. But Dr. Cambray had been absent from home ever since the arrival of Lady Millicent. The doctor and his family had been on a visit to a relation at a distance. Ormond, impatient for their return, had every day questioned the curate; and at last, in reply to his regular question of “When do you expect the doctor, sir?” he heard the glad tidings of “We expect him to-morrow, or next day, sir, positively.”
The next day, Ormond, who was now master of a very elegant phaeton and beautiful gray horses, and, having for some time been under the tuition of that knowing whip Tom Darrell, could now drive to admiration, prevailed upon Lady Millicent to trust herself with him in his phaeton — Sir Ulick came up just as Ormond had handed Lady Millicent into the carriage, and, pressing on his ward’s shoulder, said, “Have you the reins safe?”
“Yes.”
“That’s well — remember now, Harry Ormond,” said he, with a look which gave a double meaning to his words, “remember, I charge you, the warning I gave you last niwht — drive carefully — pray, young sir, look before you — no rashness! — young horses these,” added he, patting the horses —“pray be careful, Harry.”
Ormond promised to be very careful, and drove off.
“I suppose,” thought he, “my guardian must have some good reason for this reiterated caution; I will not let her see my sentiments till I know his reasons; besides, as Dr. Cambray returns to-morrow, I can wait another day.”
Accordingly, though not without putting considerable restraint upon himself, Ormond talked of the beauties of nature, and of indifferent matters. The conversation rather nagged, and sometimes on her ladyship’s side as well as on his. He fancied that she was more reserved than usual, and a little embarrassed. He exerted himself to entertain her — that was but common civility; — he succeeded, was pleased to see her spirits rise, and her embarrassment wear off. When she revived, her manner was this day so peculiarly engaging, and the tones of her voice so soft and winning, that it required all Ormond’s resolution to refrain from declaring his passion. Now, for the first time, he conceived a hope that he might make himself agreeable to her; that he might, in time, soothe her grief, and restore her to happiness. Her expressions were all delicately careful to imply nothing but friendship — but a woman’s friendship insensibly leads to love. As they were returning home after a delightful drive, they entered upon this subject, so favourable to the nice casuistry of sentiment, and to the enthusiastic eloquence of passion — when, at an opening in the road, a carriage crossed them so suddenly, that Ormond had but just time to pull up his horses.
“Dr. Cambray, I declare: the very man I wished to see.”
The doctor, whose countenance had been full of affectionate pleasure at the first sight of his young friend, changed when he saw who was in the phaeton with him. The doctor looked panic-struck.
“Lady Millicent, Dr. Cambray,” Ormond began the introduction; but each bowing, said, in a constrained voice, “I have the honour of knowing —” “I have the pleasure of being acquainted —”
The pleasure and honour seemed to be painful and embarrassing to both.
“Don’t let us detain you,” said the doctor; “but I hope, Mr. Ormond, you will let me see you as soon as you can at Vicar’s Dale.”
“You would not doubt that, my dear doctor,” said Ormond, “if you knew how impatient I have been for your return — I will be with you before you are all out of the carriage.”
“The sooner the better,” said the doctor.
“The sooner the better,” echoed the friendly voices of Mrs. Cambray and her daughter.
Ormond drove on; but from this moment, till they reached Castle Hermitage, no more agreeable conversation passed between him and his fair companion. It was all constrained.
“I was not aware that Dr. Cambray had the honour of being acquainted with Lady Millicent,” said Ormond.
“O yes! I had the pleasure some time ago,” replied Lady Millicent, “when he was in Dublin — not lately — I was a great favourite of his once.”
“Once, and always, I should have thought.”
“Dr. Cambray’s a most amiable, respectable man,” said her ladyship: “he must be a great acquisition in this neighbourhood — a good clergyman is valuable every where; in Ireland most especially, where the spirit of conciliation is much wanted. ’Tis unknown how much a good clergyman may do in Ireland.”
“Very true — certainly.”
So with a repetition of truisms, interspersed with reflections on the state of Ireland, tithes, and the education of the poor, they reached Castle Hermitage.
“Lady Millicent, you look pale,” said Sir Ulick, as he handed her out.
“Oh, no, I have had a most delightful drive.”
Harry just stayed to say that Dr. Cambray was returned, and that he must run to see him, and off he went. He found the doctor in his study.
“Well, my dear doctor,” said Ormond, in breathless consternation, “what is the matter?”
“Nothing, I hope,” said the doctor, looking earnestly in Ormond’s face; “and yet your countenance tells me that my fears are well founded.”
“What is it you fear, sir?”
“The lady who was in the phaeton with you, Lady Millicent, I fear —”
“Why should you fear, sir? — Oh! tell me at once — what do you know of her?”
“At once, then, I know her to be a very imprudent, though hope she is still an innocent woman.”
“Innocent!” repeated Ormond. “Good Heavens! is it possible that there can be any doubt? Imprudent! My dear doctor, perhaps you have been misinformed.”
“All I know on the subject is this,” said Dr. Cambray: “during Lord Millicent’s absence on service, a gentleman of high rank and gallantry paid assiduous attention to Lady Millicent. Her relation and friend, Lady Annaly, advised her to break off all intercourse with this gentleman in such a decided manner, as to silence scandal. Lady Millicent followed but half the advice of her friend; she discountenanced the public attentions of her admirer, but she took opportunities of meeting him at private parties: Lady Annaly again interfered — Lady Millicent was offended: but the death of her husband saved her from farther danger, and opened her eyes to the views of a man, who thought her no longer worthy his pursuit, when he might have her for life.”
Ormond saw that there was no resource for him but immediately to quit Castle Hermitage; therefore, the moment he returned, he informed Sir Ulick of his determination, pointing out to him the impropriety of his remaining in the society of Lady Millicent, when his opinion of her character and the sentiments which had so strongly influenced his behaviour, were irrevocably changed. This was an unexpected blow upon Sir Ulick: he had his private reasons for wishing to detain Ormond at Castle Hermitage till he was of age, to dissipate his mind by amusement and variety, and to obtain over it an habitual guidance.
Ormond proposed immediately to visit the continent: by the time he should arrive at Paris, Dora would be settled there, and he should be introduced into the best company. The subtle Sir Ulick, perceiving that Ormond must change his quarters, advised him to see something of his own country before he went abroad. In the course of a few days, various letters of recommendation were procured for him from Sir Ulick and his connexions; and, what was of still more consequence, from Dr. Cambray and his friends.
During this interval, Ormond once more visited the Black Islands; scenes which recalled a thousand tender, and a few embittering, recollections. He was greeted with heartfelt affection by many of the inhabitants of the island, with whom he had passed some of his boyish days. Of some scenes he had to be ashamed, but of others he was justly proud; and from every tongue he heard the delightful praises of his departed friend and benefactor.
His little farm had been well managed during his absence; the trees he had planted began to make some appearance; and, upon the whole, his visit to the Black Islands revived his generous feelings, and refreshed those traces of early virtue which had been engraven on his heart.
At Castle Hermitage every thing had been prepared for his departure; and upon visiting his excellent friend at the vicarage, he found the whole family heartily interested in his welfare, and ready to assist him, by letters of introduction to the best people in every part of Ireland which Ormond intended to visit.