During the course of Ormond’s tour through Ireland, he frequently found himself in company with those who knew the history of public affairs for years past, and were but too well acquainted with the political profligacy and shameful jobbing of Sir Ulick O’Shane.
Some of these gentlemen, knowing Mr. Ormond to be his ward, refrained, of course, from touching upon any subject relative to Sir Ulick; and when Ormond mentioned him, evaded the conversation, or agreed in general terms in praising his abilities, wit, and address. But, after a day or two’s journey from Castle Hermitage, when he was beyond his own and the adjoining counties, when he went into company with those who happened to know nothing of his connexion with Sir Ulick O’Shane, then he heard him spoken of in a very different manner. He was quite astonished and dismayed by the general abuse, as he thought it, which was poured upon him.
“Well, every man of abilities excites envy — every man who takes a part in politics, especially in times when parties run high, must expect to be abused: they must bear it; and their friends must learn to bear it for them.”
Such were the reflections with which Ormond at first comforted himself. As far as party abuse went, this was quite satisfactory; even facts, or what are told as facts, are so altered by the manner of seeing them by an opposite party, that, without meaning to traduce, they calumniate. Ormond entrenched himself in total disbelief, and cool assertion of his disbelief, of a variety of anecdotes he continually heard discreditable to Sir Ulick. Still he expected that, when he went into other company, and met with men of Sir Ulick’s own party, he should obtain proofs of the falsehood of these stories, and by that he might be able, not only to contradict, but to confute them. People, however, only smiled, and told him that he had better inquire no farther, if he expected to find Sir Ulick an immaculate character. Those who liked him best, laughed off the notorious instances of his public defection of principle, and of his private jobbing, as good jokes; proofs of his knowledge of the world — his address, his frankness, his being “not a bit of a hypocrite.” But even those who professed to like him best, and to be the least scrupulous with regard to public virtue, still spoke with a sort of facetious contempt of Sir Ulick, as a thorough~going friend of the powers that be — as a hack of administration — as a man who knew well enough what he was about. Ormond was continually either surprised or hurt by these insinuations. The concurrent testimony of numbers who had no interest to serve, or prejudice to gratify, operated upon him by degrees, so as to enforce conviction, and this was still more painful.
Harry became so sore and irritable upon this subject, that he was now every day in danger of entangling himself in some quarrel in defence of his guardian. Several times the master of the house prevented this, and brought him to reason, by representing that the persons who talked of Sir Ulick were quite ignorant of his connexion with him, and spoke only according to general opinion, and to the best of their belief, of a public character, who was fair game. It was, at that time, much the fashion among a certain set in Dublin, to try their wit upon each other in political and poetical squibs — the more severe and bitter these were, the more they were applauded: the talent for invective was in the highest demand at this period in Ireland; it was considered as the unequivocal proof of intellectual superiority. The display of it was the more admired, as it could not be enjoyed without a double portion of that personal promptitude to give the satisfaction of a gentleman, on which the Irish pride themselves: the taste of the nation, both for oratory and manners, has become of late years so much more refined, that when any of the lampoons of that day are now recollected, people are surprised at the licence of abuse which was then tolerated, and even approved of in fashionable society. Sir Ulick O’Shane, as a well-known public character, had been the subject of a variety of puns, bon-mots, songs, and epigrams, which had become so numerous as to be collected under the title of Ulysseana. Upon the late separation of Sir Ulick and his lady, a new edition, with a caricature frontispiece, had been published; unfortunately for Ormond, this had just worked its way from Dublin to this part of the country.
It happened one day, at a gentleman’s house where this Ulysseana had not yet been seen, that a lady, a visitor and a stranger, full of some of the lines which she had learned by heart, began to repeat them for the amusement of the tea-table. Ladies do not always consider how much mischief they may do by such imprudence; nor how they may hazard valuable lives, for the sake of producing a sensation, by the repetition of a severe thing. Ormond came into the room after dinner, and with some other gentlemen gathered round the tea-table, while the lady was repeating some extracts from the new edition of the Ulysseana. The master and mistress of the house made reiterated attempts to stop the lady; but, too intent upon herself and her second-hand wit to comprehend or take these hints, she went on reciting the following lines:—
To serve in parliament the nation,
Sir Ulick read his recantation:
At first he joined the patriot throng,
But soon perceiving he was wrong,
He ratted to the courtier tribe,
Bought by a title and a bribe;
But how that new found friend to bind,
With any oath — of any kind,
Disturb’d the premier’s wary mind.
“Upon his faith. — Upon his word,”
Oh! that, my friend, is too absurd.
“Upon his honour.”— Quite a jest.
“Upon his conscience.”— No such test.
“By all he has on earth.”—’Tis gone.
“By all his hopes of Heaven.”— They’re none.
“How then secure him in our pay —
He can’t be trusted for a day?”
How? — When you want the fellow’s throat —
Pay by the job — you have his vote.
Sir Ulick himself, had he been present, would have laughed off the epigram with the best grace imaginable, and so, in good policy, ought Ormond to have taken it. But he felt it too much, and was not in the habit of laughing when he was vexed. Most of the company, who knew any thing of his connexion with Sir Ulick, or who understood the agonizing looks of the master and mistress of the house, politely refrained from smiles or applause; but a cousin of the lady who repeated the lines, a young man who was one of the hateful tribe of quizzers, on purpose to try Ormond, praised the verses to the skies, and appealed to him for his opinion.
“I can’t admire them, sir,” replied Ormond.
“What fault can you find with them?” said the young man, winking at the bystanders.
“I think them incorrect, in the first place, sir,” said Ormond, “and altogether indifferent.”
“Well, at any rate, they can’t be called moderate,” said the gentleman; “and as to incorrect, the substance, I fancy, is correctly true.”
“Fancy, sir! — It would be hard if character were to be at the mercy of fancy,” cried Ormond, hastily; but checking himself, he, in a mild tone, added, “before we go any farther, sir, I should inform you that I am a ward of Sir Ulick O Shane’s.”
“Oh! mercy,” exclaimed the lady, who had repeated the verses; “I am sure I did not know that, or I would not have said a word — I declare I beg your pardon, sir.”
Ormond’s bow and smile spoke his perfect satisfaction with the lady’s contrition, and his desire to relieve her from farther anxiety. So the matter might have happily ended; but her cousin, though he had begun merely with an intention to try Ormond’s temper, now felt piqued by his spirit, and thought it incumbent upon him to persist. Having drunk enough to be ill-humoured, he replied, in an aggravating and ill-bred manner, “Your being Sir Ulick O’Shane’s ward may make a difference in your feelings, sir, but I don’t see why it should make any in my opinion.”
“In the expression of that opinion at least, sir, I think it ought.”
The master of the house now interfered, to explain and pacify, and Ormond had presence of mind and command enough over himself, to say no more while the ladies were present: he sat down, and began talking about some trifle in a gay tone; but his flushed cheek, and altered manner, showed that he was only repressing other feelings. The carriages of the visitors were announced, and the strangers rose to depart. Ormond accompanied the master of the house to hand the ladies to their carriages. To mark his being in perfect charity with the fair penitent, he showed her particular attention, which quite touched her; and as he put her into her carriage, she, all the time, repeated her apologies, declared it should be a lesson to her for life, and cordially shook hands with him at parting. For her sake, he wished that nothing more should be said on the subject.
But, on his return to the hall, he found there the cousin, buttoning on his great coat, and seeming loath to depart: still in ill-humour, the gentleman said, “I hope you are satisfied with that lady’s apologies, Mr. Ormond.”
“I am, sir, perfectly.”
“That’s lucky: for apologies are easier had from ladies than gentlemen, and become them better.”
“I think it becomes gentlemen as well as ladies to make candid apologies, where they are conscious of being wrong — if there was no intention to give offence.”
“If is a great peace-maker, sir; but I scorn to take advantage of an if.”
“Am I to suppose then, sir,” said Ormond, “that it was your intention to offend me?”
“Suppose what you please, sir — I am not in the habit of explanation or apology.”
“Then, sir, the sooner we meet the better,” said Ormond. In consequence Ormond applied to an officer who had been present during the altercation, to be his second. Ormond felt that he had restrained his anger sufficiently — he was now as firm as he had been temperate. The parties met and fought: the man who deserved to have suffered, by the chance of this rational mode of deciding right and wrong, escaped unhurt; Ormond received a wound in his arm. It was only a flesh wound. He was at the house of a very hospitable gentleman, whose family were kind to him; and the inconvenience and pain were easily borne. In the opinion of all, in that part of the world, who knew the facts, he had conducted himself as well as the circumstances would permit; and, as it was essential, not only to the character of a hero, but of a gentleman at that time in Ireland, to fight a duel, we may consider Ormond as fortunate in not having been in the wrong. He rose in favour with the ladies, and in credit with the gentlemen, and he heard no more of the Ulysseana; but he was concerned to see paragraphs in all the Irish papers, about the duel that had been fought between M. N. Esq. jun. of —— and H. O. Esq., in consequence of a dispute that arose about some satirical verses, repeated by a lady on a certain well-known character, nearly related to one of the parties. A flaming account of the duel followed, in which there was the usual newspaper proportion of truth and falsehood: Ormond knew and regretted that this paragraph must meet the eyes of his guardian; and still more he was sorry that Dr. Cambray should see it. He knew the doctor’s Christian abhorrence of the whole system of duelling; and, by the statement in the papers, it appeared that that gallant youth, H. O. Esq., to whom the news-writer evidently wished to do honour, had been far more forward to provoke the fight than he had been, or than he ought to have been:— his own plain statement of facts, which he wrote to Dr. Cambray, would have set every thing to rights, but his letter crossed the doctor’s on the road. As he was now in a remote place, which the delightful mail coach roads had not then reached — where the post came in only three days in the week — and where the mail cart either broke down, lost a wheel, had a tired horse, was overturned, or robbed, at an average once a fortnight — our hero had no alternative but patience, and the amusement of calculating dates and chances upon his restless sofa. His taste for reading enabled him to pass agreeably some of the hours of bodily confinement, which men, and young men especially, accustomed to a great deal of exercise, liberty, and locomotion, generally find so intolerably irksome. At length his wound was well enough for him to travel — letters for him arrived: a warm, affectionate one from his guardian; and one from Dr. Cambray, which relieved his anxiety.
“I must tell you, my dear young friend,” said Dr. Cambray, “that while you have been defending Sir Ulick O’Shane’s public character (of which, by-the-by, you know nothing), I have been defending your private character, of which I hope and believe I know something. The truth is always known in time, with regard to every character; and therefore, independently of other motives, moral and religious, it is more prudent to trust to time and truth for their defence, than to sword and pistol. I know you are impatient to hear what were the reports to your disadvantage, and from whom I had them. I had them from the Annalys; and they heard them in England, through various circuitous channels of female correspondents in Ireland. As far as we can trace them, we think that they originated with your old friend Miss Black. The first account Lady Annaly heard of you after she went to England, was, that you were living a most dissolute life in the Black Islands, with King Corny, who was described to be a profligate rebel, and his companion an ex-communicated catholic priest; king, priest, and Prince Harry, getting drunk together regularly every night of their lives. The next account which Lady Annaly received some months afterwards, in reply to inquiries she had made from her agent, was, that it was impossible to know any thing for certain of Mr. Harry Ormond, as he always kept in the Black Islands. The report was, that he had lately seduced a girl of the name of Peggy Sheridan, a respectable gardener’s daughter, who was going to be married to a man of the name of Moriarty Carroll, a person whom Mr. Ormond had formerly shot in some unfortunate drunken quarrel. The match between her and Moriarty had been broken off in consequence. The following year accounts were worse and worse. This Harry Ormond had gained the affections of his benefactor’s daughter, though, as he had been warned by her father, she was betrothed to another man. The young lady was afterwards, by her father’s anger, and by Ormond’s desertion of her, thrown into the arms of a French adventurer, whom Ormond brought into the house under pretence of learning French from him. Immediately after the daughter’s elopement with the French master, the poor father died suddenly, in some extraordinary manner, when out shooting with this Mr. Ormond; to whom a considerable landed property, and a large legacy in money, were, to every body’s surprise, found to be left in a will which he produced, and which the family did not think fit to dispute. There were strange circumstances told concerning the wake and burial, all tending to prove that this Harry Ormond had lost all feeling. Hints were further given that he had renounced the Protestant religion, and had turned Catholic for the sake of absolution.”
Many times during the perusal of this extravagant tissue of falsehoods, Ormond laid down and resumed the paper, unable to refrain from exclamations of rage and contempt; sometimes almost laughing at the absurdity of the slander. “After this,” thought he, “who can mind common reports? — and yet Dr. Cambray says that these excited some prejudice against me in the mind of Lady Annaly. With such a woman I should have thought it impossible. Could she believe me capable of such crimes? —me, of whom she had once a good opinion? —me, in whose fate she said she was interested?”
He took Dr. Cambray’s letter again, and read on: he found that Lady Annaly had not credited these reports as to the atrocious accusations; but they had so far operated as to excite doubts and suspicions. In some of the circumstances, there was sufficient truth to colour the falsehood. For example, with regard both to Peggy Sheridan, and Dora, the truth had been plausibly mixed with falsehood. The story of Peggy Sheridan, Lady Annaly had some suspicion might be true. Her ladyship, who had seen Moriarty’s generous conduct to Ormond, was indignant at his ingratitude. She was a woman prompt to feel strong indignation against all that was base; and, when her indignation was excited, she was sometimes incapable of hearing what was said on the other side of the question. Her daughter Florence, of a calmer temper and cooler judgment, usually acted as moderator on these occasions. She could not believe that Harry Ormond had been guilty of faults that were so opposite to those which they had seen in his disposition:— violence, not treachery, was his fault. But why, if there were nothing wrong, Lady Annaly urged — why did not he write to her, as she had requested he would, when his plans for his future life were decided? — She had told him that her son might probably be able to assist him. Why could not he write one line?
Ormond had heard that her son was ill, and that her mind was so absorbed with anxiety, that he could not at first venture to intrude upon her with his selfish concerns. This was his first and best reason; but afterwards, to be sure, when he heard that the son was better, he might have written. He wrote at that time such a sad scrawl of a hand — he was so little used to letter-writing, that he was ashamed to write. Then it was too late after so long a silence, &c. Foolish as these reasons were, they had, as we have said before, acted upon our young hero; and have, perhaps, in as important circumstances, prevented many young men from writing to friends, able and willing to serve them. It was rather fortunate for Ormond that slander did not stop at the first plausible falsehoods: when the more atrocious charges came against him, Miss Annaly, who had never deserted his cause, declared her absolute disbelief. The discussions that went on, between her and her mother, kept alive their interest about this young man. He was likely to have been forgotten during their anxiety in the son’s illness; but fresh reports had brought him to their recollection frequently; and when their friend, Dr. Cambray, was appointed to the living of Castle Hermitage, his evidence perfectly reinstated Harry in Lady Annaly’s good opinion. As if to make amends for the injustice she had done him by believing any part of the evil reports, she was now anxious to see him again. A few days after Dr. Cambray wrote, Ormond received a very polite and gratifying letter from Lady Annaly, requesting that, as “Annaly” lay in his route homewards, he would spend a few days there, and give her an opportunity of making him acquainted with her son. It is scarcely necessary to say that this invitation was eagerly accepted.
Upon his arrival at Annaly, Ormond found that Dr. Cambray and all his family were there.
“Yes, all your friends,” said Lady Annaly, as Ormond looked round with pleasure, “all your friends, Mr. Ormond — you must allow me an old right to be of that number — and here is my son, who is as well inclined, as I hope you feel, to pass over the intermediate formality of new acquaintanceship, and to become intimate with you as soon as possible.”
Sir Herbert Annaly confirmed, by the polite cordiality of his manner, all that his mother promised; adding that their mutual friend Dr. Cambray had made him already so fully acquainted with Mr. Ormond, that though he had never had the pleasure of seeing him before, he could not consider him as a stranger.
Florence Annaly was beautiful, but not one of those beauties who strike at first sight. Hers was a face which neither challenged nor sued for admiration. There was no expression thrown into the eyes or the eyebrows, no habitual smile on the lips — the features were all in natural repose; the face never expressed any thing but what the mind really felt. But if any just observation was made in Miss Annaly’s company, any stroke of genius, that countenance instantly kindled into light and life: and if any noble sentiment was expressed, if any generous action was related, then the soul within illumined the countenance with a ray divine. When once Ormond had seen this, his eye returned in hopes of seeing it again — he had an indescribable interest and pleasure in studying a countenance, which seemed so true an index to a noble and cultivated mind, to a heart of delicate, but not morbid sensibility. His manners and understanding had been formed and improved, beyond what could have been expected, from the few opportunities of improvement he had till lately enjoyed. He was timid, however, in conversation with those of whose information and abilities he had a high opinion, so that at first he did not do himself justice; but in his timidity there was no awkwardness; it was joined with such firmness of principle, and such a resolute, manly character, that he was peculiarly engaging to women.
During his first visit at Annaly he pleased much, and was so much pleased with every individual of the family, with their manners, their conversation, their affection for each other, and altogether with their mode of living, that he declared to Dr. Cambray he never had been so happy in his whole existence. It was a remarkable fact, however, that he spoke much more of Lady Annaly and Sir Herbert than of Miss Annaly.
He had never before felt so very unwilling to leave any place, or so exceedingly anxious to be invited to repeat his visit. He did receive the wished-for invitation; and it was given in such a manner as left him no doubt that he might indulge his own ardent desire to return, and to cultivate the friendship of this family. His ardour for foreign travel, his desire to see more of the world, greatly abated; and before he reached Castle Hermitage, and by the time he saw his guardian, he had almost forgotten that Sir Ulick had traced for him a course of travels through the British islands and the most polished parts of the Continent.
He now told Sir Ulick that it was so far advanced in the season, that he thought it better to spend the winter in Ireland.
“In Dublin instead of London?” said Sir Ulick, smiling; “very patriotic, and very kind to me, for I am sure I am your first object; and depend upon it few people, ladies always excepted, will ever like your company better than I do.”
Then Sir Ulick went rapidly over every subject, and every person, that could lead his ward farther to explain his feelings; but now, as usual, he wasted his address, for the ingenuous young man directly opened his whole heart to him.
“I am impatient to tell you, sir,” said he, “how very kindly I was received by Lady Annaly.”
“She is very kind,” said Sir Ulick: “I suppose, in general, you have found yourself pretty well received wherever you have gone — not to flatter you too much on your mental or personal qualifications, and, no disparagement to Dr. Cambray’s letters of introduction or my own, five or six thousand a~year are, I have generally observed, a tolerably good passport into society, a sufficient passe-partout.” “Passe-partout! — not partout— not quite sufficient at Annaly, you cannot mean, sir —”
“Oh! I cannot mean any thing, but that Annaly is altogether the eighth wonder of the world,” said Sir Ulick, “and all the men and women in it absolutely angels — perfect angels.”
“No, sir, if you please, not perfect; for I have heard — though I own I never saw it — that perfection is always stupid: now certainly that the Annalys are not.”
“Well, well, they shall be as imperfect as you like — any thing to please you.”
“But, sir, you used to be so fond of the Annalys. I remember.”
“True, and did I tell you that I had changed my opinion?”
“Your manner, though not your words, tells me so.”
“You mistake: the fact is — for I always treat you, Harry, with perfect candour — I was hurt and vexed by their refusal of my son. But, after all,” added he, with a deep sigh, “it was Marcus’s own fault — he has been very dissipated. Miss Annaly was right, and her mother quite right, I own. Lady Annaly is one of the most respectable women in Ireland — and Miss Annaly is a charming girl — I never saw any girl I should have liked so much for my daughter-in-law. But Marcus and I don’t always agree in our tastes — I don’t think the refusal there, was half as great a mortification and disappointment to him, as it was to me.”
“You delight me, dear sir,” cried Ormond; “for then I may feel secure that if ever in future — I don’t mean in the least that I have any present thought — it would be absurd — it would be ridiculous — it would be quite improper — you know I was only there ten days; but I mean if, in future, I should ever have any thoughts — any serious thoughts —”
“Well, well,” said Sir Ulick, laughing at Ormond’s hesitation and embarrassment, “I can suppose that you will have thoughts of some kind or other, and serious thoughts in due course; but, as you justly observe, it would be quite ridiculous at present.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” interrupted Harry, “but it would even at present be an inexpressible satisfaction to me to know, that if in future such a thing should occur, I should be secure, in the first place, of your approbation.”
“As to that, my dear boy,” said Sir Ulick, “you know in a few days you will be at years of discretion — then my control ceases.”
“Yes, sir; but not my anxiety for your approbation, and my deference for your opinion.”
“Then,” said Sir Ulick, “and without circumlocution or nonsense, I tell you at once, Harry Ormond, that Florence Annaly is the woman in the world I should like best to see your wife.”
“Thank you, sir, for this explicit answer — I am sure towards me nothing can have been more candid and kind than your whole conduct has ever been.”
“That’s true, Harry,” exclaimed Sir Ulick. “Tell me about this duel — you have fought a duel in defence of my conduct and character, I understand, since I saw you. But, my dear fellow, though I am excessively obliged to you, I am exceedingly angry with you: how could you possibly be so hot-heated and silly as to take up any man for relishing the Ulysseana? Bless ye! I relish it myself — I only laugh at such things: believe me, ’tis The best way.”
“I am sure of it, sir, if one can; and, indeed, I have had pretty good proof that one should despise reports and scandal of all kinds — easier for oneself sometimes than for one’s friends.”
“Yes, my dear Ormond, by the time you have been half as long living in the great and the political world as I have been, you will be quite case-hardened, and will hear your friends abused, without feeling it in the least. Believe me, I once was troubled with a great deal of susceptibility like yours — but after all, ’tis no bad thing for you to have fought a duel — a feather in your cap with the ladies, and a warning to all impertinent fellows to let you alone — but you were wounded, the newspaper said — I asked you where, three times in my letters — you never condescended to answer me — answer me now, I insist upon it.”
“In my arm, sir — a slight scratch.”
“Slight scratch or not, I must hear all about it — come, tell me exactly how the thing began and ended — tell me all the rascals said of me. — You won’t? — then I’ll tell you: they said, ‘I am the greatest jobber in Ireland — that I do not mind how I throw away the public money — in short, that I am a sad political profligate.’— Well! well! I am sure, after all, they did me the justice to acknowledge, that in private life no man’s honour is more to be depended on.”
“They did do you that justice, sir,” said Ormond; “but pray ask me no farther questions — for, frankly, it is disagreeable to me — and I will tell you no more.”
“That’s frank,” said Sir Ulick, “and I as frankly assure you I am perfectly satisfied.”
“Then, to return to the Annalys,” said Ormond, “I never saw Sir Herbert till now — I like him — I like his principles — his love of his country — and his attachment to his family.”
“He’s a very fine fellow — no better fellow than Herbert Annaly. But as for his attachment to his family, who thanks him for that? Who could help it, with such a family? And his love for his country — every body loves his country.”
“More or less, I suppose,” said Ormond.
“But, upon my word, I entirely agree with you about Sir Herbert, though I know he is prejudiced against me to the last degree”
“If he be, I don’t know it, sir — I never found it out.”
“He will let it out by and by — I only hope he will not prejudice you against me.”
“That is not very easily done, sir.”
“As you have given some proof, my dear boy, and I thank you for it. But the Annalys would go more cautiously to work — I only put you on your guard — Marcus and Sir Herbert never could hit it off together; and I am afraid the breach between us and the Annalys must he widened, for Marcus must stand against Sir Herbert at the next election, if he live — Pray how is he?”
“Not strong, sir — he has a hectic colour — as I was very sorry to see.”
“Ay, poor fellow — he broke some blood-vessel, I think Marcus told me, when they were in England.”
“Yes, sir — so Lady Annaly told me — it was in over-exerting himself to extinguish a fire.”
“A very fine spirited fellow he is, no doubt,” said Sir Ulick; “but, after all, that was rather a foolish thing, in his state of health. By-the-by, as your guardian, it is my duty to explain the circumstances of this family — in case you should hereafter have any serious thoughts; as you say, you should know what comforted Marcus in his disappointment there. There is, then, some confounded flaw in that old father’s will, through which the great Herbert estate slips to an heir-at-law, who has started up within this twelvemonth. Miss Annaly, who was to have been a nonpareil of an heiress in case of the brother’s death, will have but a moderate fortune; and the poor dowager will be but scantily provided for, after all the magnificence which she has been used to, unless he lives to make up something handsome for them. I don’t know the particulars, but I know that a vast deal depends on his living till he has levied certain fines, which he ought to have levied, instead of amusing himself putting out other people’s fires. But I am excessively anxious about it, and now on your account as well as theirs; for it would make a great difference to you, if you seriously have any thoughts of Miss Annaly.”
Ormond declared this could make no difference to him, since his own fortune would be sufficient for all the wishes of such a woman as he supposed Miss Annaly to be. The next day Marcus O’Shane arrived from England. This was the first time that Ormond and he had met since the affair of Moriarty, and the banishment from Castle Hermitage. The meeting was awkward enough, notwithstanding Sir Ulick’s attempts to make it otherwise: Marcus laboured under the double consciousness of having deserted Harry in past adversity, and of being jealous of his present prosperity. Ormond at first went forward to meet him more than half way with great cordiality, but the cold politeness of Marcus chilled him; and the heartless congratulations, and frequent allusions in the course of the first hour, to Ormond’s new fortune and consequence, offended our young hero’s pride. He grew more reserved, the more complimentary Marcus became, especially as in all his compliments there was a mixture of persiflage, which Marcus supposed, erroneously, that Ormond’s untutored, unpractised ear would not perceive.
Harry sat silent, proudly indignant. He valued himself on being something, and somebody, independently of his fortune — he had worked hard to become so — he had the consciousness about him of tried integrity, resolution, and virtue; and was it to be implied that he was somebody, only in consequence of his having chanced to become heir to so many thousands a year? Sir Ulick, whose address was equal to most occasions, was not able to manage so as to make these young men like one another. Marcus had an old jealousy of Harry’s favour with his father, of his father’s affection for Harry: and at the present moment, he was conscious that his father was with just cause much displeased with him. Of this Harry knew nothing, but Marcus suspected that his father had told Ormond every thing, and this increased the awkwardness and ill-humour that Marcus felt; and notwithstanding all his knowledge of the world, and conventional politeness, he showed his vexation in no very well-bred manner. He was now in particularly bad humour, in consequence of a scrape, as he called it, which he had got into, during his last winter in London, respecting an intrigue with a married lady of rank. Marcus, by some intemperate expressions, had brought on the discovery, of which, when it was too late, he repented. A public trial was likely to be the consequence — the damages would doubtless be laid at the least at ten thousand pounds. Marcus, however, counting, as sons sometimes do in calculating their father’s fortune, all the credit, and knowing nothing of the debtor side of the account, conceived his father’s wealth to be inexhaustible. Lady O’Shane’s large fortune had cleared off all debts, and had set Sir Ulick up in a bank, which was in high credit; then he had shares in a canal and in a silver mine — he held two lucrative sinecure places — and had bought estates in three counties: but the son did not know, that for the borrowed purchase-money of two of the estates Sir Ulick was now paying high and accumulating interest; so that the prospect of being called upon for ten thousand pounds was most alarming. In this exigency Sir Ulick, who had long foreseen how the affair was likely to terminate, had his eye upon his ward’s ready money. It was for this he had been at such peculiar pains to ingratiate himself with Ormond. Affection, nevertheless, made him hesitate; he was unwilling to injure or to hazard his property — very unwilling to prey upon his generosity — still more so after the late handsome manner in which Ormond had hazarded his life in defence of his guardian’s honour.
Sir Ulick, who perceived the first evening that Marcus and Ormond met, that the former was not going the way to assist these views, pointed out to him how much it was for his interest to conciliate Ormond, and to establish himself in his good opinion; but Marcus, though he saw and acknowledged this, could not submit his pride and temper to the necessary restraint. For a few hours he would display his hereditary talents, and all his acquired graces; but the next hour his ill-humour would break out towards his inferiors, his father’s tenants and dependents, in a way which Ormond’s generous spirit could not bear. Before he went to England, even from his boyish days, his manners had been habitually haughty and tyrannical to the lower class of people. Ormond and he had always differed and often quarrelled on this subject. Ormond hoped to find his manners altered in this respect by his residence in a more polished country. But the external polish he had acquired had not reached the mind: high-bred society had taught him only to be polite to his equals; he was now still more disposed to be insolent to his inferiors, especially to his Irish inferiors. He affected to consider himself as more than half an Englishman; and returning from London in all the distress and disgrace to which he had reduced himself by criminal indulgence in the vices of fashionable, and what he called refined, society, he vented his ill-humour on the poor Irish peasants — the natives, as he termed them in derision. He spoke to them as if they were slaves — he considered them as savages. Marcus had, early in life, almost before he knew the real distinctions, or more than the names of the different parties in Ireland, been a strong party man. He called himself a government man; but he was one of those partisans, whom every wise and good administration in Ireland has discountenanced and disclaimed. He was, in short, one of those who make their politics an excuse to their conscience for the indulgence of a violent temper.
Ormond was indignant at the inveterate prejudice that Marcus showed against a poor man, whom he had injured, but who had never injured him. The moment Marcus saw Moriarty Carroll again, and heard his name mentioned, he exclaimed and reiterated, “That’s a bad fellow — I know him of old — all those Carrolls are rascals and rebels.”
Marcus looked with a sort of disdainful spleen at the house which Ormond had fitted up for Moriarty.
“So, you stick to this fellow still! — What a dupe, Ormond, this Moriarty has made of you!” said Marcus; “but that’s not my affair. I only wonder how you wheedled my father out of the ground for the garden here.”
“There was no wheedling in the case,” said Ormond: “your father gave it freely, or I should not have accepted it.”
“You were very good to accept it, no doubt,” said Marcus, in an ironical tone: “I know I have asked my father for a garden to a cottage before now, and have been refused.”
Sir Ulick came up just as this was said, and, alarmed at the tone of voice, used all his address to bring his son back to good temper; and he might have succeeded, but that Peggy Carroll chanced to appear at that instant.
“Who is that?” cried Marcus —“Peggy Sheridan, as I live! is it not?”
“No, please your honour, but Peggy Sheridan that was — Peggy Carroll that is,” said Peggy, curtsying, with a slight blush, and an arch smile.
“So, you have married that Moriarty at last.”
“I have, please your honour — he is a very honest boy — and I’m very happy — if your honour’s pleased.”
“Who persuaded your father to this, pray, contrary to my advice?”
“Nobody at all, plase your honour,” said Peggy, looking frightened.
“Why do you say that, Peggy,” said Ormond, “when you know it was I who persuaded your father to give his consent to your marriage with Moriarty?”
“You! Mr. Ormond! — Oh, I comprehend it all now,” said Marcus, with his sneering look and tone: “no doubt you had good reasons.”
Poor Peggy blushed the deepest crimson.
“I understand it all now,” said Marcus —“I understand you now, Harry.”
Ormond’s anger rose, and with a look of high disdain, he replied, “You understand me, now! No, nor ever will, nor ever can. Our minds are unintelligible to each other.”
Then turning from him, Ormond walked away with indignant speed.
“Peggy, don’t I see something like a cow yonder, getting her bread at my expense?” said Sir Ulick, directing Peggy’s eye to a gap in the hedge by the road-side. “Whose cow is that at the top of the ditch, half through my hedge?”
“I can’t say, please your honour,” said Peggy, “if it wouldn’t be Paddy M’Grath’s — Betty M’Gregor!” cried she, calling to a bare-footed girl, “whose cow is yonder?”
“Oh, marcy! but if it isn’t our own red rogue — and when I tied her legs three times myself, the day!” said the girl, running to drive away the cow.
“Oh! she strays and trespasses strangely, the red cow, for want of the little spot your honour promised her,” said Peggy.
“Well, run and save my hedge from her now, my pretty Peggy, and I will find the little spot for her to-morrow,” said Sir Ulick.
Away ran Peggy after the cow — while lowering Marcus cursed them all three. Pretty Peg he swore ought to be banished the estate — the cow ought to be hamstrung instead of having a spot promised her; “but this is the way, sir, you ruin the country and the people,” said he to his father.
“Be that as it may, I do not ruin myself as you do, Marcus,” replied the cool Sir Ulick. “Never mind the cow — nonsense! I am not thinking of a cow.”
“Nor I neither, sir.”
“Then follow Harry Ormond directly, and make him understand that he misunderstood you,” said Sir Ulick.
“Excuse me, sir — I cannot bend to him,” said Marcus.
“And you expect that he will lend you ten thousand pounds at your utmost need?”
“The money, with your estate, can be easily raised elsewhere, sir,” said Marcus.
“I tell you it cannot, sir,” said the father.
“I cannot bend to Ormond, sir: to any body but him — any thing but that — my pride cannot stoop to that.”
“Your pride! —‘pride that licks the dust,’” thought Sir Ulick. It was in vain for the politic father to remonstrate with the headstrong son. The whole train which Sir Ulick had laid with so much skill, was, he feared, at the moment when his own delicate hand was just preparing to give the effective touch, blown up by the rude impatience of his son. Sir Ulick, however, never lost time or opportunity in vain regret for the past. Even in the moment of disappointment, he looked to the future. He saw the danger of keeping two young men together, who had such incompatible tempers and characters. He was, therefore, glad when he met Ormond again, to hear him propose his returning to Annaly, and he instantly acceded to the proposal.
“Castle Hermitage, I know, my dear boy, cannot be as pleasant to you just now, as I could wish to make it: we have nobody here now, and Marcus is not all I could wish him,” said Sir Ulick, with a sigh. “He had always a jealousy of my affection for you, Harry — it cannot be helped — we do not choose our own children — but we must abide by them — you must perceive that things are not going on quite rightly between my son and me.”
“I am sorry for it, sir; especially as I am convinced I can do no good, and therefore wish not to interfere.”
“I believe you are right — though I part from you with regret.”
“I shall be within your reach, sir, you know: whenever you wish for me, if ever I can be of the least use to you, summon me, and I am at your orders.”
“Thank you! but stay one moment,” said Sir Ulick, with a sudden look of recollection: “you will be of age in a few days, Harry — we ought to settle accounts, should not we?”
“Whenever you please, sir — no hurry on my part — but you have advanced me a great deal of money lately — I ought to settle that.”
“Oh, as to that — a mere trifle. If you are in no hurry, I am in none; for I shall have business enough on my hands during these few days, before Lady Norton fills the house again with company — I am certainly a little hurried now.”
“Then, sir, do not think of my business — I cannot be better off, you know, than I am — I assure you I am sensible of that. Never mind the accounts — only send for me whenever I can be of any use or pleasure to you. I need not make speeches: I trust, my dear guardian — my father, when I was left fatherless — I trust you believe I have some gratitude in me.”
“I do,” cried Sir Ulick, much moved; “and, by Heaven, it is impossible to — I mean — in short, it is impossible not to love you, Harry Ormond.”
There are people who can go on very smoothly with those whose principles and characters they despise and dislike. There are people who, provided they live in company, are happy, and care but little of what the company is composed. But our young hero certainly was not one of these contented people. He was perhaps too much in the other extreme. He could not, without overt words or looks of indignation, endure the presence of those whose characters or principles he despised — he could not, even without manifest symptoms of restlessness or ennui, submit long to live with mere companions; he required to have friends; nor could he make a friend from ordinary materials, however smooth the grain, or however fine the polish they might take. Even when the gay world at Castle Hermitage was new to him — amused and enchanted as he was at first with that brilliant society, he could not have been content or happy without his friends at Vicar’s Dale, to whom, once at least in the four-and-twenty hours, he found it necessary to open his heart. We may then judge how happy he now felt in returning to Annaly: after the sort of moral constraint which he had endured in the company of Marcus O’Shane, we may guess what an expansion of heart took place.
The family union and domestic happiness which he saw at Annaly, certainly struck him at this time more forcibly, from the contrast with what he had just seen at Castle Hermitage. The effect of contrast, however, is but transient. It is powerful as a dramatic resource, but in real life it is of no permanent consequence. There was here a charm which operates with as great certainty, and with a power secure of increasing instead of diminishing from habit — the charm of domestic politeness, in the every day manners of this mother, son, and daughter, towards each other, as well as towards their guests. Ormond saw and felt it irresistibly. He saw the most delicate attentions combined with entire sincerity, perfect ease, and constant respect; the result of the early habits of good-breeding acting upon the feelings of genuine affection. The external polish, which Ormond now admired, was very different from that varnish which often is hastily applied to hide imperfections. This polish was of the substance itself, to be obtained only by long use; but, once acquired, lasting for ever: not only beautiful, but serviceable, preserving from the injuries of time and from the dangers of familiarity.
What influence the sister’s charms might have to increase Ormond’s admiration of the brother, we shall not presume to determine; but certainly he liked Sir Herbert Annaly better than any young man he had ever seen. Sir Herbert was some years older than Ormond; he was in his twenty-seventh year: but at this age he had done more good in life than many men accomplish during their whole existence. Sir Herbert’s principal estates were in another part of Ireland. Dr. Cambray had visited them. The account he gave Ormond of what had been done there, to improve the people and to make them happy; of the prosperous state of the peasantry; their industry and independence; their grateful, not servile, attachment to Sir Herbert Annaly and his mother; the veneration in which the name of Annaly was held; all delighted the enthusiastic Ormond.
The name of Annaly was growing wonderfully dear to him; and, all of a sudden, the interest he felt in the details of a country gentleman’s life was amazingly increased. At times, when the ladies were engaged, he accompanied Sir Herbert in visiting his estate. Sir Herbert had never till lately resided at Annaly, which had, within but a short time, reverted to his possession, in consequence of the death of the person to whom it had been let. He found much that wanted improvement in the land, and more in the people.
This estate stretched along the sea-shore: the tenants whom he found living near the coast were an idle, profligate, desperate set of people; who, during the time of the late middle landlord, had been in the habit of making their rents by nefarious practices. The best of the set were merely idle fishermen, whose habits of trusting to their luck incapacitated them from industry: the others were illicit distillers — smugglers — and miscreants who lived by waifs and strays; in fact, by the pillage of vessels on the coast. The coast was dangerous — there happened frequent shipwrecks; owing partly, as was supposed, to the false lights hung out by these people, whose interest it was that vessels should be wrecked. Shocked at these practices, Sir Herbert Annaly had, from the moment he came into possession of the estate, exerted himself to put a stop to them, and to punish, where he could not reform the offenders. The people at first pleaded a sort of tenant’s right, which they thought a landlord could scarcely resist. They protested that they could not make the rent, if they were not allowed to make it in their own way; and showed, beyond a doubt, that Sir Herbert could not get half as much rent for his land in those parts, if he looked too scrupulously into the means by which it was made. They brought, in corroboration of their arguments or assertions, the example and constant practice of “many as good a jantleman as any in Ireland, who had his rent made up for him that ways, very ready and punctual. There was his honour, Mr. Such-a-one, and so on; and there was Sir Ulick O’Shane, sure! Oh! he was the man to live under — he was the man that knew when to wink and when to blink; and if he shut his eyes properly, sure his tenants filled his fist. Oh! Sir Ulick was the great man for favour and purtection, none like him at all! — He is the good landlord, that will fight the way clear for his own tenants through thick and thin — none dare touch them. Oh! Sir Ulick’s the kind jantleman that understands the law for the poor, and could bring them off at every turn, and show them the way through the holes in an act of parliament, asy as through a riddle!
“Oh, and if he could but afford to be half as good as his promises, Sir Ulick O’Shane would be too good entirely!”
Now Sir Ulick O’Shane had purchased a tract of ground adjoining to Sir Herbert’s, on this coast; and he had bought it on the speculation that he could let it at a very high rent to these people, of whose ways and means of paying it he chose to remain in ignorance. All the tenants whom Sir Herbert banished from his estate flocked to Sir Ulick’s.
By the sacrifice of his own immediate interest, and by great personal exertion, strict justice, and a generous and well secured system of reward, Sir Herbert already had produced a considerable change for the better in the morals and habits of the people. He was employing some of his tenants on the coast, in building a lighthouse, for which he had a grant from parliament; and he was endeavouring to establish a manufacture of sail-cloth, for which there was sufficient demand. But almost at every step of his progress, he was impeded by the effects of the bad example of his neighbours on Sir Ulick’s estate; and by the continual quarrels between the idle, discarded tenants, and their industrious and now prosperous successors.
Whenever a vessel in distress was seen off the coast, there was a constant struggle between the two parties who had opposite interests; the one to save, the other to destroy. In this state of things, causes of complaint perpetually occurred; and Ormond who was present, when the accusers and the accused appealed to their landlord, sometimes as lord of the manor, sometimes as magistrate, had frequent opportunities of seeing both Sir Herbert’s principles and temper put to the test. He liked to compare the different modes in which King Corny, his guardian, and Sir Herbert Annaly managed these things. Sir Herbert governed neither by threats, punishments, abuse, nor tyranny; nor yet did he govern by promises nor bribery, favour and protection, like Sir Ulick. He neither cajoled nor bullied — neither held it as a principle, as Marcus did, that the people must be kept down, or that the people must be deceived. He treated them neither as slaves, subject to his will; nor as dupes, or objects on which to exercise his wit or his cunning. He treated them as reasonable beings, and as his fellow~creatures, whom he wished to improve, that he might make them and himself happy. He spoke sense to them; and he mixed that sense with wit and humour, in the proportion necessary to make it palatable to an Irishman.
In generosity there was a resemblance between the temper of Sir Herbert and of Corny; but to Ormond’s surprise, and at first to his disappointment, Sir Herbert valued justice more than generosity. Ormond’s heart on this point was often with King Corny, when his head was forced to be with Sir Herbert; but, by degrees, head and heart came together. He became practically convinced that justice is the virtue that works best for a constancy, and best serves every body’s interest in time and in turn. Ormond now often said to himself, “Sir Herbert Annaly is but a few years older than I am; by the time I am of his age, why should not I become as useful, and make as many human beings happy as he does?” In the meantime, the idea of marrying and settling in Ireland became every day more agreeable to Ormond; and France and Italy, which he had been so eager to visit, faded from his imagination. Sir Herbert and Lady Annaly, who had understood from Dr. Cambray that Ormond was going to commence his grand tour immediately, and who heard him make a number of preparatory inquiries when he had been first at Annaly, naturally turned the conversation often to the subject. They had looked out maps and prints, and they had taken down from their shelves the different books of travels, which might be most useful to him, with guides, and post-road books, and all that could speed the parting guest. But the guest had no mind to part — every thing, every body at Annaly, he found so agreeable and so excellent.
It must be a great satisfaction to a young man who has a grain of sense, and who feels that he is falling inevitably and desperately in love, to see that all the lady’s family, as well as the object of his passion, are exactly the people whom he should wish of all others to make his friends for life. Here was every thing that could be desired, suitability of age, of fortune, of character, of temper, of tastes — every thing that could make a marriage happy, could Ormond but win the heart of Florence Annaly. Was that heart disengaged? — He resolved to inquire first from his dear friend, Dr. Cambray, who was much in the confidence of this family, a great favourite with Florence, and consequently dearer than ever to Ormond. He went directly to Vicar’s Dale to see and consult him, and Ormond thought he was confiding a profound secret to the doctor, when first he spoke to him of his passion for Miss Annaly; but to his surprise, the doctor told him he had seen it long ago, and his wife and daughters had all discovered it, even when they were first with him at Annaly.
“Is it possible? — and what do you all think?”
“We think that you would be a perfectly happy man, if you could win Miss Annaly; and we wish you success most sincerely. But —”
“But— Oh, my dear doctor, you alarm me beyond measure.”
“What! by wishing you success?”
“No, but by something in your look and manner, and by that terrible but: you think that I shall never succeed — you think that her heart is engaged. If that be the case, tell me so at once, and I will set off for France to-morrow.”
“My good sir, you are always for desperate measures — you are in too great a hurry to come to a conclusion, before you have the means of forming a just conclusion. Remember, I tell you, this precipitate temper will some time or other bring some great evil upon you.”
“I will be patient all my life afterwards, if you will only this instant tell me whether she is engaged.”
“I do not know whether Miss Annaly’s heart be disengaged or not — I can tell you only that she has had a number of brilliant offers, and that she has refused them all.”
“That proves that she had not found one amongst them that She liked,” said Ormond.
“Or that she liked some one better than all those whom she refused,” said Dr. Cambray.
“That is true — that is possible — that is a dreadful possibility,” said Ormond. “But do you think there is any probability of that?”
“There is, I am sorry to tell you, my dear Ormond, a probability against you — but I can only state the facts in general. I can form no opinion, for I have had no opportunity of judging — I have never seen the two young people together. But there is a gentleman of great merit, of suitable family and fortune, who is deeply in love with Miss Annaly, and who I presume has not been refused, for I understand he is soon to be here.”
“To be here!” cried Ormond: “a man of great merit! — I hope he is not an agreeable man.”
“That’s a vain hope,” said Dr. Cambray; “he is a very agreeable man.”
“Very agreeable! — What sort of person — grave or gay? — Like any body that I ever saw?”
“Yes, like a person that you have seen, and a person for whom I believe you have a regard — like his own father, your dear King Corny’s friend, General Albemarle.”
“How extraordinary! — how unlucky!” said Ormond. “I would rather my rival were any one else than the son of a man I am obliged to; and a most dangerous rival he must be, if he have his father’s merit, and his father’s manners. Oh! my dear Dr. Cambray, I am sure she likes him — and yet she could not be so cheerful in his absence, if she were much in love — I defy her; and it is impossible that he can be as much in love with her as I am, else nothing could keep him from her.”
“Nothing but his duty, I suppose you mean?”
“Duty! — What duty?”
“Why, there really are duties in this world to be performed, though a man in love is apt to forget it. Colonel Albemarle, being an officer, cannot quit his regiment till he has obtained leave of absence.”
“I am heartily glad of it,” cried Ormond —“I will make the best use of my time before he comes. But, my dear doctor, do you think Lady Annaly — do you think Sir Herbert wish it to be?”
“I really cannot tell:— I know only that he is a particular friend of Sir Herbert, and that I have heard Lady Annaly speak of him as being a young man of excellent character and high honour, for whom she has a great regard.”
Ormond sighed.
“Heaven forgive me that sigh!” said he: “I thought I never should be brought so low as to sigh at bearing of any man’s excellent character and high honour: but I certainly wish Colonel Albemarle had never been born. Heaven preserve me from envy and jealousy!”
Our young hero had need to repeat this prayer the next morning at breakfast, when Sir Herbert, on opening his letters, exclaimed, “My friend, Colonel Albemarle —”
And Lady Annaly, in a tone of joy, “Colonel Albemarle! — I hope he will soon be here.”
Sir Herbert proceeded: “Cannot obtain leave of absence yet — but lives in hopes,” said Sir Herbert, reading the letter, and handing it to his mother.
Ormond did not dare, did not think it honourable, to make use of his eyes, though there now might have been a decisive moment for observation. No sound reached his ear from Miss Annaly’s voice; but Lady Annaly spoke freely and decidedly in praise of Colonel Albemarle. As she read the letter, Sir Herbert, after asking Ormond three times whether he was not acquainted with General Albemarle, obtained for answer, that he “really did not know.” In truth, Ormond did not know any thing at that moment. Sir Herbert, surprised, and imagining that Ormond had not yet heard him, was going to repeat his question — but a look from his mother stopped him. A sudden light struck Lady Annaly. Mothers are remarkably quick-sighted upon these occasions. There was a silence of a few minutes, which appeared to poor Ormond to be a silence that would never be broken; it was broken by some slight observation which the brother and sister made to each other upon a paragraph in the newspaper, which they were reading together. Ormond took breath.
“She cannot love him, or she could not be thinking of a paragraph in the newspaper at this moment.”
From this time forward Ormond was in a continual state of agitation, reasoning, as the passions reason, as ill as possible, upon even the slightest circumstances that occurred, from whence he might draw favourable or unfavourable omens. He was resolved — and that was prudent — not to speak of his own sentiments, till he was clear how matters stood about Colonel Albemarle: he was determined not to expose himself to the useless mortification of a refusal. While in this agony of uncertainty, he went out one morning to take a solitary walk, that he might reflect at leisure. Just as he was turning from the avenue to the path that led to the wood, a car full of morning visitors appeared. Ormond endeavoured to avoid them, but not before he had been seen. A servant rode after him to beg to know “if he were Mr. Harry Ormond — if he were, one of the ladies on the car, Mrs. M’Crule, sent her compliments to him, and requested he would be so good as to let her speak with him at the house, as she had a few words of consequence to say.”
“Mrs. M’Crule!” Ormond did not immediately recollect that he had the honour of knowing any such person, till the servant said, “Miss Black, sir, that was — formerly at Castle Hermitage.”
His old enemy, Miss Black, he recollected well. He obeyed the lady’s summons, and returned to the house.
Mrs. M’Crule had not altered in disposition, though her objects had been changed by marriage. Having no longer Lady O’Shane’s quarrels with her husband to talk about, she had become the pest of the village of Castle Hermitage and of the neighbourhood — the Lady Bluemantle of the parish. Had Miss Black remained in England, married or single, she would only have been one of a numerous species too well known to need any description; but transplanted to a new soil and a new situation, she proved to be a variety of the old species, with peculiarly noxious qualities, which it may be useful to describe, as a warning to the unwary. It is unknown how much mischief the Lady Bluemantle class may do in Ireland, where parties in religion and politics run high; and where it often happens, that individuals of the different sects and parties actually hate without knowing each other, watch without mixing with one another, and consequently are prone reciprocally to believe any stories or reports, however false or absurd, which tend to gratify their antipathies. In this situation it is scarcely possible to get the exact truth as to the words, actions, and intentions, of the nearest neighbours, who happen to be of opposite parties or persuasions. What a fine field is here for a mischief-maker! Mrs. M’Crule had in her parish done her part; she had gone from rich to poor, from poor to rich, from catholic to protestant, from churchman to dissenter, and from dissenter to methodist, reporting every idle story, and repeating every ill-natured thing that she heard said — things often more bitterly expressed than thought, and always exaggerated or distorted in the repetition. No two people in the parish could have continued on speaking terms at the end of the year, but that, happily, there were in this parish both a good clergyman and a good priest; and still more happily, they both agreed in labouring for the good of their parishioners. Dr. Cambray and Mr. M’Cormuck made it their business continually to follow after Mrs. M’Crule, healing the wounds which she inflicted, and pouring into the festering heart the balm of Christian charity: they were beloved and revered by their parishioners; Mrs. M’Crule was soon detected, and universally avoided. Enraged, she attacked, by turns, both the clergyman and the priest; and when she could not separate them, she found out that it was very wrong that they should agree. She discovered that she was a much better protestant, and a much better Christian, than Dr. Cambray, because she hated her catholic neighbours.
Dr. Cambray had taken pains to secure the co-operation of the catholic clergyman, in all his attempts to improve the lower classes of the people. His village school was open to catholics as well as protestants; and Father M’Cormuck, having been assured that their religion would not be tampered with, allowed and encouraged his flock to send their children to the same seminary.
Mrs. M’Crule was, or affected to be, much alarmed and scandalized at seeing catholic and protestant children mixing so much together; she knew that opinions were divided among some families in the neighbourhood upon the propriety of this mixture, and Mrs. M’Crule thought it a fine opportunity of making herself of consequence, by stirring up the matter into a party question. This bright idea had occurred to her just about the time that Ormond brought over little Tommy from the Black Islands. During Ormond’s absence upon his tour, Sheelah and Moriarty had regularly sent the boy to the village school; exhorting him to mind his book and his figures, that he might surprise Mr. Ormond with his larning when he should come back. Tommy, with this excitation, and being a quick, clever little fellow, soon got to the head of his class, and kept there; and won all the school-prizes, and carried them home in triumph to his grandame, and to his dear Moriarty, to be treasured up, that he might show them to Mr. Ormond at his return home. Dr. Cambray was pleased with the boy, and so was every body, except Mrs. M’Crule. She often visited the school for the pleasure of finding fault; and she wondered to see this little Tommy, who was a catholic, carrying away the prizes from all the others. She thought it her duty to inquire farther about him; and as soon as she discovered that he came from the Black Islands, that he lived with Moriarty, and that Mr. Ormond was interested about him, she said she knew there was something wrong — therefore, she set her face against the child, and against the shameful partiality that some people showed.
Dr. Cambray pursued his course without attending to her; and little Tommy pursued his course, improving rapidly in his larning.
Now there was in that county an excellent charitable institution for the education of children from seven to twelve years old; an apprentice fee was given with the children when they left the school, and they had several other advantages, which made parents of the lower classes extremely desirous to get their sons into this establishment.
Before they could be admitted, it was necessary that they should have a certificate from their parish minister and catholic clergyman, stating that they could read and write, and that they were well-behaved children. On a certain day, every year, a number of candidates were presented. The certificates from the clergyman and priest of their respective parishes were much attended to by the lady patronesses, and by these the choice of the candidate to be admitted was usually decided. Little Tommy had an excellent certificate both from Father M’Cormuck and from Dr. Cambray. Sheelah and Moriarty were in great joy, and had “all the hopes in life” for him; and Sheelah, who was very fond of surprises, had cautioned Moriarty, and begged the doctor not to tell Mr. Harry a word about it, till all was fixed, “for if the boy should not have the luck to be chose at last, it would only be breaking his little heart the worse, that Mr. Harry should know any thing at all about it, sure.”
Meantime, Mrs. M’Crule was working against little Tommy with all her might.
Some of the lady patronesses were of opinion, that it would be expedient in future, to confine their bounty to the children of protestants only.
Mrs. M’Crule, who had been deputed by one of the absent ladies to act for her, was amazingly busy, visiting all the patronesses, and talking, and fearing, and “hoping to heaven!” and prophesying, canvassing, and collecting opinions and votes, as for a matter of life and death. She hinted that she knew that the greatest interest was making to get in this year a catholic child, and there was no knowing, if this went on, what the consequence might be. In short Ireland would be ruined, if little Tommy should prove the successful candidate. Mrs. M’Crule did not find it difficult to stir up the prejudices and passions of several ladies, whose education and whose means of information might have secured them from such contemptible influence.
Her present business at Annaly was to try what impression she could make on Lady and Miss Annaly, who were both patronesses of the school. As to Ormond, whom she never had liked, she was glad of this opportunity of revenging herself upon his little protégé; and of making Mr. Ormond sensible, that she was now a person of rather more consequence than she had been, when he used formerly to defy her at Castle Hermitage. She little thought that, while she was thus pursuing the dictates of her own hate, she might serve the interests of Ormond’s love.
When Ormond returned, in obedience to Mrs. M’Crule’s summons, he found in the room an unusual assemblage of persons — a party of morning visitors, the unmuffled contents of the car. As he entered, he bowed as courteously as possible to the whole circle, and advanced towards Mrs. M’Crule, whose portentous visage he could not fail to recognize. That visage was nearly half a yard long, thin out of all proportion, and dismal beyond all imagination; the corners of the mouth drawn down, the whites or yellows of the eyes upturned, while with hands outspread she was declaiming, and in a lamentable tone deploring, as Ormond thought, some great public calamity; for the concluding words were “The danger, my dear Lady Annaly — the danger, my dear Miss Annaly — oh! the danger is imminent. We shall all be positively undone, ma’am; and Ireland — oh! I wish I was once safe in England again — Ireland positively will be ruined!”
Ormond, looking to Lady Annaly and Miss Annaly for explanation, was somewhat re-assured in this imminent danger, by seeing that Lady Annaly’s countenance was perfectly tranquil, and that a slight smile played on the lips of Florence.
“Mr. Ormond,” said Lady Annaly, “I am sorry to hear that Ireland is in danger of being ruined by your means.”
“By my means!” said Ormond, in great surprise; “I beg your ladyship’s pardon for repeating your words, but I really cannot understand them.”
“Nor I neither; but by the time you have lived as long as I have in the world,” said Lady Annaly, “you will not be so much surprised as you now seem, my good sir, at hearing people say what you do not understand. I am told that Ireland will be undone by means of a protégé of yours, of the name of Tommy Dun — not Dun Scotus.”
“Dunshaughlin, perhaps,” said Ormond, laughing, “Tommy Dunshaughlin! that little urchin! What harm can little Tommy do to Ireland, or to any mortal?”
Without condescending to turn her eyes upon Ormond, whose propensity to laughter had of old been offensive to her nature, Mrs. M’Crule continued to Lady Annaly, “It is not of this insignificant child as an individual that I am speaking, Lady Annaly; but your ladyship, who has lived so long in the world, must know that there is no person or thing, however insignificant, that cannot, in the hands of a certain description of people, be made an engine of mischief.”
“Very true, indeed,” said Lady Annaly.
“And there is no telling or conceiving,” pursued Mrs. M’Crule, “how in the hands of a certain party, you know, ma’am, any thing now, even the leas and the most innocent child (not that I take upon me to say that this child is so very innocent, though, to be sure, he is very little)— but innocent or not, there is positively nothing, Lady Annaly, ma’am, which a certain party, certain evil-disposed persons, cannot turn to their purposes.”
“I cannot contradict that — I wish I could,” said Lady Annaly.
“But I see your ladyship and Miss Annaly do not consider this matter as seriously as I could wish. ’Tis an infatuation,” said Mrs. M’Crule, uttering a sigh, almost a groan, for her ladyship’s and her daughter’s infatuation. “But if people, ladies especially, knew but half as much as I have learnt, since I married Mr. M’Crule, of the real state of Ireland; or if they had but half a quarter as many means as I have of obtaining information, Mr. M’Crule being one of his majesty’s very active justices of the peace, riding about, and up and down, ma’am, scouring the country, sir, you know, and having informers, high and low, bringing us every sort of intelligence; I say, my dear Lady Annaly, ma’am, you would, if you only heard a hundredth part of what I hear daily, tremble — your ladyship would tremble from morning till night.”
“Then I am heartily glad I do not hear it; for I should dislike very much to tremble from morning till night, especially as my trembling could do nobody any good.”
“But, Lady Annaly, ma’am, you can do good by exerting yourself to prevent the danger in this emergency; you can do good, and it becomes your station and your character; you can do good, my dear Lady Annaly, ma’am, to thousands in existence, and thousands yet unborn.”
“My benevolence having but a limited appetite for thousands,” said Lady Annaly, “I should rather, if it be equal to you, Mrs. M’Crule, begin with the thousands already in existence; and of those thousands, why not begin with little Tommy?”
“It is no use!” cried Mrs. M’Crule, rising from her seat in the indignation of disappointed zeal: “Jenny, pull the bell for the car — Mrs. M’Greggor, if you’ve no objection, I’m at your service, for ’tis no use I see for me to speak here — nor should I have done so, but that I positively thought it my duty; and also a becoming attention to your ladyship and Miss Annaly, as lady patronesses, to let you know beforehand our sentiments, as I have collected the opinions of so many of the leading ladies, and apprehended your ladyship might, before it came to a public push, like to have an inkling or inuendo of how matters are likely to be carried at the general meeting of the patronesses on Saturday next, when we are determined to put it to the vote and poll. Jenny, do you see Jack, and the car? Good morning to your ladyship; good day, Miss Annaly.”
Ormond put in a detainer: “I am here in obedience to your summons, Mrs. M’Crule — you sent to inform me that you had a few words of consequence to say to me.”
“True, sir, I did wrap myself up this winter morning, and came out, as Mrs. M’Greggor can testify, in spite of my poor face, in hopes of doing some little good, and giving a friendly hint, before an explosion should publicly take place. But you will excuse me, since I find I gain so little credit, and so waste my breath; I can only leave gentlemen and ladies in this emergency, if they will be blind to the danger at this crisis, to follow their own opinions.”
Ormond still remonstrating on the cruelty of leaving him in utter darkness, and calling it blindness, and assuring Mrs. M’Crule that he had not the slightest conception of what the danger or the emergency to which she alluded might be, or what little Tommy could have to do with it, the lady condescended, in compliance with Mrs. M’Greggor’s twitch behind, to stay and recommence her statement. He could not forbear smiling, even more than Lady Annaly had done, when he was made to understand that the emergency and crisis meant nothing but this child’s being admitted or not admitted into a charity school. While Ormond was incapable of speaking in reply with becoming seriousness, Florence, who saw his condition, had the kindness to draw off Mrs. M’Crule’s attention, by asking her to partake of some excellent goose-pie, which just then made its entrance. This promised, for a time, to suspend the discussion, and to unite all parties in one common sympathy. When Florence saw that the consommé, to which she delicately helped her, was not thrown away upon Mrs. M’Crule, and that the union of goose and turkey in this Christmas dainty was much admired by this good lady, she attempted playfully to pass to a reflection on the happy effect that might to some tastes result from unions in party matters.
But no —“too serious matters these to be jested with,” even with a glass of Barsac at the lips. Mrs. M’Crule stopped to say so, and to sigh. Per favour of the Barsac, however, Florence ventured to try what a little raillery might do. It was possible, that, if Mrs. M’Greggor and the chorus of young ladies could be made to laugh, Mrs. M’Crule might be brought to see the whole thing in a less gloomy point of view; and might perhaps be, just in time, made sensible of the ridicule to which she would expose herself, by persisting in sounding so pompously a false alarm.
“But can there really be so much danger,” said Florence, “in letting little children, protestant and catholic, come together to the same school — sit on the same bench — learn the same alphabet from the same hornbook?”
“Oh, my dear Miss Annaly,” cried Mrs. M’Crule, “I do wonder to hear you treat this matter so lightly — you, from whom I confess I did expect better principles: ‘sit on the same bench!’ easily said; but, my dear young lady, you do not consider that some errors of popery — since there is no catholic in the room, I suppose I may say it — the errors of popery are wonderfully infectious.”
“I remember,” said Lady Annaly, “when I was a child, being present once, when an honest man, that is, a protestant (for in those days no man but a protestant could be called an honest man), came to my uncle in a great passion to complain of the priest: ‘My lord,’ said he, ‘what do you think the priest is going to do? he is going to bury a catholic corpse, not only in the churchyard, but, my lord, near to the grave of my father, who died a stanch dissenter.’ ‘My dear sir,’ said my uncle, to the angry honest man, ‘the clergyman of the parish is using me worse still, for he is going to bury a man, who died last Wednesday of the small-pox, near to my grandmother, who never had the small-pox in her life.’”
Mrs. M’Crule pursed up her mouth very close at this story. She thought Lady Annaly and her uncle were equally wicked, but she did not choose exactly to say so, as her ladyship’s uncle was a person of rank, and of character too solidly established for Mrs. M’Crule to shake. She therefore only gave one of her sighs for the sins of the whole generation, and after a recording look at Mrs. M’Greggor, she returned to the charge about the schools and the children.
“It can do no possible good,” she said, “to admit catholic children to our schools, because, do what you will, you can never make them good protestants.”
“Well,” said Lady Annaly, “as my friend, the excellent Bishop of —— said in parliament, ‘if you cannot make them good protestants, make them good catholics, make them good any-things.’”
Giving up Lady Annaly all together, Mrs. M’Crule now desired to have Mr. Ormond’s ultimatum — she wished to know whether he had made up his mind as to the affair in question; but she begged leave to observe, “that since the child had, to use the gentlest expression, the misfortune to be born and bred a catholic, it would be most prudent and gentlemanlike in Mr. Ormond not to make him a bone of contention, but to withdraw the poor child from the contest altogether, and strike his name out of the list of candidates, till the general question of admittance to those of his persuasion should have been decided by the lady patronesses.”
Ormond declared, with or without submission to Mrs. M’Crule, that he could not think it becoming or gentlemanlike to desert a child whom he had undertaken to befriend — that, whatever the child had the misfortune to be born, he would abide by him; and would not add to his misfortunes by depriving him of the reward of his own industry and application, and of the only chance he had of continuing his good education, and of getting forward in life.
Mrs. M’Crule sighed and groaned.
But Ormond persisted: “The child,” he said, “should have fair play — the lady patronesses would decide as they thought proper.”
It had been said that the boy had Dr. Cambray’s certificate, which Ormond was certain would not have been given undeservedly; he had also the certificate of his own priest.
“Oh! what signifies the certificate of his priest,” interrupted Mrs. M’Crule; “and as for Dr. Cambray’s, though he is a most respectable man (too liberal, perhaps), yet without meaning to insinuate any thing derogatory — but we all know how things are managed, and Dr. Cambray’s great regard for Mr. Ormond might naturally influence him a little in favour of this little protégé.”
Florence was very busy in replenishing Mrs. M’Greggor’s plate, and Ormond haughtily told Mrs. M’Crule, “that as to Dr. Cambray’s character for impartiality, he should leave that securely to speak for itself; and that as to the rest, she was at liberty to say or hint whatever she pleased, as far as he was concerned; but that, for her own sake, he would recommend it to her to be sure of her facts — for that slander was apt to hurt in the recoil.”
Alarmed by the tone of confident innocence and determination with which Ormond spoke, Mrs. M’Crule, who like all other bullies was a coward, lowered her voice, and protested she meant nothing —“certainly no offence to Mr. Ormond; and as to slander there was nothing she detested so much — she was quite glad to be set right — for people did talk — and she had endeavoured to silence them, and now could from the best authority.”
Ormond looked as if he wished that any authority could silence her — but no hopes of that. “She was sorry to find, however, that Mr. Ormond was positively determined to encourage the boy, whoever he was, to persist as candidate on this occasion, because she should be concerned to do any thing that looked like opposing him; yet she must, and she knew others were determined, and in short, he would be mortified to no purpose.”
“Well,” Ormond said, “he could only do his best, and bear to be mortified, if necessary, or when necessary.”
A smile of approbation from Florence made his heart beat, and for some moments Mrs. M’Crule spoke without his knowing one syllable she said.
Mrs. M’Crule saw the smile, and perceived the effect. As she rose to depart, she turned to Miss Annaly, and whispered, but loud enough for all to hear, “Miss Annaly must excuse me if I warn her, that if she takes the part I am inclined to fear she will on Saturday, people I know will draw inferences.”
Florence coloured, but with calm dignity and spirit, which Mrs. M’Crule did not expect from her usual gentleness and softness of manners, she replied, that “no inference which might be drawn from her conduct by any persons should prevent her from acting as she thought right, and taking that part which she believed to be just.”
So ended the visit, or the visitation. The next day Lady Annaly, Miss Annaly, Sir Herbert, and Ormond, went to Vicar’s Dale, and thence with the good doctor to the village school, on purpose that they might see and form an impartial judgment of the little boy. On one day in the week, the parents and friends of the children were admitted if they chose it, to the school-room, to hear the lessons, and to witness the adjudging of the week’s premiums. This was prize day as they called it, and Sheelah and Moriarty were among the spectators. Their presence, and the presence of Mr. Ormond, so excited — so over-excited Tommy, that when he first stood up to read, his face flushed, his voice faltered, his little hands trembled so much that he could hardly hold the book; he could by no means turn over the leaf, and he was upon the point of disgracing himself by bursting into tears.
“Oh! ho!” cried an ill-natured voice of triumph from one of the spectators. Ormond and the Annalys turned, and saw behind them Mrs. M’Crule.
“Murder!” whispered Sheelah to Moriarty, “if she fixes him with that evil eye, and he gets the stroke of it, Moriarty, ’tis all over with him for life.”
“Tut, woman, dear — what can hurt him? is not the good doctor in person standing betwixt him and harm? and see! he is recovering upon it fast — quite come to! — Hark! — he is himself again — Tommy, voice and all! — success to him!”
He had success, and he deserved it — the prizes were his; and when they were given to him, the congratulating smiles of his companions showed that Dr. Cambray’s justice was unimpeached by those whom it most concerned; that notwithstanding all that had been said and done directly and indirectly, to counteract his benevolent efforts, he had succeeded in preventing envy and party-spirit from spreading discord among these innocent children.
Mrs. M’Crule withdrew, and nobody saw when or how.
“It is clear,” said Lady Annaly, “that this boy is no favourite, for he has friends.”
“Or, if he be a favourite, and have friends, it is a proof that he has extraordinary merit,” said Sir Herbert.
“He is coming to us,” said Florence, who had been excessively interested for the child, and whose eyes had followed him wherever he went: “Brother,” whispered she, “will you let him pass you? he wants to say something to Mr. Ormond.”
The boy brought to Ormond all the prizes which he had won since the time he first came to school: his grandame, Sheelah, had kept them safe in a little basket, which he now put into Ormond’s hands, with honest pride and pleasure.
“I got ’em, and Granny said you’d like to see them, so she did — and here’s what will please you — see my certificates — see, signed by the doctor himself’s own hand, and Father M’Cormuck, that’s his name, with his blessing by the same token he gave me.”
Ormond looked with great satisfaction on Tommy’s treasures, and Miss Annaly looked at them too with no small delight.
“Well, my boy, have you any thing more to say?” said Ormond to the child, who looked as if he was anxious to say something more.
“I have, sir; it’s what I’d be glad to speak a word with you, Mr. Harry.”
“Speak it then — you are not afraid of this lady?” “Oh, no — that I am not,” said the boy, with a very expressive smile and emphasis.
But as the child seemed to wish that no one else should hear, Ormond retired a step or two with him behind the crowd. Tommy would not let go Miss Annaly’s hand, so she heard all that passed.
“I am afeard I am too troublesome to you, sir,” said the boy.
“To me — not the least,” said Ormond: “speak on — say all you have in your mind.”
“Why, then,” said the child, “I have something greatly on my mind, because I heard Granny talking to Moriarty about it last night, over the fire, and I in the bed. Then I know all about Mrs. M’Crule, and how, if I don’t give out, and wouldn’t give up about the grand school, on Saturday, I should, may be, be bringing you, Mr. Harry, into great trouble: so that being the case, I’ll give up entirely — and I’ll go back to the Black Islands to-morrow,” said Tommy, stoutly; yet swelling so in the chest that he could not say another word. He turned away.
As they were walking home together from the school, Moriarty said to Sheelah, “I’ll engage, Sheelah, you did not see all that passed the day.”
“I’ll engage I did, though,” said Sheelah.
“Why, then, Sheelah, you’ve quick eyes still.”
“Oh! I’m not so blind but what I could see that with half an eye — ay, and saw how it was with them before you did, Moriarty. From the first minute they comed into the room together, said I to myself, ‘there’s a pair of angels well matched, if ever there was a pair on earth.’ These things is all laid out above, unknownst to us, from the first minute we are born, who we are to have in marriage,” added Sheelah.
“No; not fixed from the first minute we are born, Sheelah: it is not,” said Moriarty.
“And how should you know, Moriarty,” said Sheelah, “whether or not?”
“And why not as well as you, Sheelah, dear,” replied Moriarty, “if you go to that?”
“Well, in the name of fortune, have it your own way,” said Sheelah; “and how do you think it is then?”
“Why it is partly fixed for us,” said Moriarty; “but the choice is still in us, always —”
“Oh! burn me if I understand that,” said Sheelah.
“Then you are mighty hard of understanding this morning, Sheelah. See, now, with regard to Master Harry and Peggy Sheridan: it’s my opinion, ’twas laid out from the first, that in case he did not do that wrong about Peggy — then see, Heaven had this lady, this angel, from that time forward in view for him, by way of compensation for not doing the wrong he might have chose to do. Now, don’t you think, Sheelah, that’s the way it was? — be a rasonable woman.”
The rasonable woman was puzzled and silent, Sheelah and Moriarty having got, without knowing it, to the dark depths of metaphysics. There was some danger of their knocking their heads against each other there, as wiser heads have done on similar occasions.
It was an auspicious circumstance for Ormond’s love that Florence had now a daily object of thought and feeling in common with him. Mrs. M’Crule’s having piqued Florence was in Ormond’s favour: it awakened her pride, and conquered her timidity; she ventured to trust her own motives. To be sure, the interest she felt for this child was uncommonly vivid; but she might safely avow this interest — it was in the cause of one who was innocent, and who had been oppressed.
As Mrs. M’Crule was so vindictively busy, going about, daily, among the lady patronesses, preparing for the great battle that was to be decided on the famous Saturday, it was necessary that Lady and Miss Annaly should exert themselves at least to make the truth known to their friends, to take them to see Dr. Cambray’s school, and to judge of the little candidate impartially. The day for decision came, and Florence felt an anxiety, an eagerness, which made her infinitely more amiable, and more interesting in Ormond’s eyes. The election was decided in favour of humanity and justice. Florence was deputed to tell the decision to the successful little candidate, who was waiting, with his companions, to hear his fate. Radiant with benevolent pleasure, she went to announce the glad tidings.
“Oh! if she is not beautiful!” cried Sheelah, clasping her hands.
Ormond felt it so warmly, and his looks expressed his feelings so strongly, that Florence, suddenly abashed, could scarcely finish her speech.
If Mrs. M’Crule had been present, she might again have cried “Oh! ho!” but she had retreated, too much discomfited, by the disappointments of hatred, to stay even to embarrass the progress of love. Love had made of late rapid progress. Joining in the cause of justice and humanity, mixing with all the virtues, he had taken possession of the heart happily, safely — unconsciously at first, yet triumphantly at last. Where was Colonel Albemarle all this time? Ormond neither knew nor cared; he thought but little of him at this moment. However, said he to himself, Colonel Albemarle will be here in a few days — it is better for me to see how things are there, before I speak — I am sure Florence could not give me a decisive answer, till her brother has disentangled that business for her. Lady Annaly said as much to me the other day, if I understood her rightly — and I am sure this is the state of the case, from the pains Florence takes now to avoid giving me an opportunity of speaking to her alone, which I have been watching for so anxiously. So reasoned Ormond; but his reasonings, whether wise or foolish, were set at nought by unforeseen events.
One evening Ormond walked with Sir Herbert Annaly to the sea-shore, to look at the lighthouse which was building. He was struck with all that had been done here in the course of a few months, and especially with the alteration in the appearance of the people. Their countenances had changed from the look of desponding idleness and cunning, to the air of busy, hopeful independence. He could not help congratulating Sir Herbert, and warmly expressing a wish that he might himself, in the whole course of his life, do half as much good as Sir Herbert had already effected. “You will do a great deal more,” said Sir Herbert: “you will have a great deal more time. I must make the best of the little — probably the very little time I shall have: while I yet live, let me not live in vain.”
“Yet live,” said Ormond; “I hope — I trust — you will live many years to be happy, and to make others so: your strength seems quite re-established — you have all the appearance of health.”
Sir Herbert smiled, but shook his head.
“My dear Ormond, do not trust to outward appearances too much. Do not let my friends entirely deceive themselves. I know that my life cannot be long — I wish, before I die, to do as much good as I can.”
The manner in which these words were said, and the look with which they were accompanied, impressed Ormond at once with a conviction of the danger, fortitude, and magnanimity of the person who spoke to him. The hectic colour, the brilliant eye, the vividness of fancy, the superiority of intellectual powers, the warmth of the affections, and the amiable gentleness of the disposition of this young man, were, alas! but so many fatal indications of his disease. The energy with which, with decreasing bodily and increasing mental strength, he pursued his daily occupations, and performed more than every duty of his station, the never-failing temper and spirits with which he sustained the hopes of many of his friends, were but so many additional causes of alarm to the too experienced mother. Florence, with less experience, and with a temper happily prone to hope, was more easily deceived. She could not believe that a being, whom she saw so full of life, could be immediately in danger of dying. Her brother had now but a very slight cough — he had, to all appearance, recovered from the accident by which they had been so much alarmed when they were in England. The physicians had pronounced, that with care to avoid cold, and all violent exertion, he might do well and last long.
To fulfil the conditions was difficult; especially that which required him to refrain from any great exertion. Whenever he could be of service to his friends, or could do any good to his fellow-creatures, he spared neither mental nor bodily exertion. Under the influence of benevolent enthusiasm, he continually forgot the precarious tenure by which he held his life.
It was now the middle of winter, and one stormy night a vessel was wrecked on the coast near Annaly. The house was at such a distance from that part of the shore where the vessel struck, that Sir Herbert knew nothing of it till the next morning, when it was all over. No lives were lost. It was a small trading vessel, richly laden. Knowing the vile habits of some of the people who lived on the coast, Sir Herbert, the moment he heard that there was a wreck, went down to see that the property of the sufferers was protected from those depredators, who on such occasions were astonishingly alert. Ormond accompanied him, and by their joint exertions much of the property was placed in safety under a military guard. Some had been seized and carried off before their arrival, but not by any of Sir Herbert’s tenants. It became pretty clear that the neighbours on Sir Ulick O’Shane’s estate were the offenders. They had grown bold from impunity, and from the belief that no jantleman “would choose to interfere with them, on account of their landlord.”
Sir Herbert’s indignation rose. Ormond pledged himself that Sir Ulick O’Shane would never protect such wretches; and eager to assist public justice, to defend his guardian, and, above all, to calm Sir Herbert and prevent him from over-exerting himself, he insisted upon being allowed to go in his stead with the party of military who were to search the suspected houses. It was with some difficulty that he prevailed. He parted with Sir Herbert; and, struck at the moment with his highly-raised colour, and the violent heat and state of excitation he was in, Ormond again urged him to remember his own health, and his mother and sister.
“I will — I do,” said Sir Herbert; “but it is my duty to think of public justice before I think of myself.”
The apprehension Ormond felt in quitting Sir Herbert recurred frequently as he rode on in silence; but he was called into action and it was dissipated. Ormond spent nearly three hours searching a number of wretched cabins from which the male inhabitants fled at the approach of the military, leaving the women and children to make what excuses and tell what lies they could. This the women and children executed with great readiness and ability, and in the most pity-moving tones imaginable.
The inside of an Irish cabin appears very different to those who come to claim hospitality and to those who come to detect offenders.
Ormond having never before entered a cabin with a search-warrant, constable, or with the military, he was “not up to the thing”— as both the serjeant and constable remarked to each other. While he listened to the piteous story of a woman about a husband who had broken his leg from a ladder, sarving the masons at Sir Herbert’s lighthouse, and was lying at the hospital, not expected, [Footnote: Not expected to live.] the husband was lying all the time with both his legs safe and sound in a potato furrow within a few yards of the house. And the child of another eloquent matron was running off with a pair of silver-mounted pistols taken from the wreck, which he was instructed to hide in a bog-hole, snug — the bog-water never rusting. In one hovel — for the houses of these wretches who lived by pillage, after all their ill-gotten gains, were no better than hovels — in one of them, in which, as the information stated, some valuable plunder was concealed, they found nothing but a poor woman groaning in bed, and two little children; one crying as if its heart would break, and the other sitting up behind the mother’s bolster supporting her. After the soldiers had searched every place in vain, even the thatch of the house, the woman showing no concern all the while, but groaning on, seeming scarce able to answer Mr. Ormond’s questions — the constable, an old hand, roughly bid her get up, that they might search the bed; this Ormond would not permit:— she lay still, thanking his honour faintly, and they quitted the house. The goods which had been carried off were valuable, and were hid in the straw of the very bed on which the woman was lying.
As they were returning homewards after their fruitless search, when they had passed the boundary of Sir Ulick’s and had reached Sir Herbert’s territory, they were overtaken by a man, who whispered something to the serjeant which made him halt, and burst out a laughing; the laugh ran through the whole serjeant’s guard, and reached Ormond’s ears; who, asking the cause of it, was told how the woman had cheated them, and how she was now risen from her bed, and was dividing the prize among the lawful owners, “share and share alike.” These lawful owners, all risen out of the potato furrows, and returning from the bogs, were now assembled, holding their bed of justice. At the moment the serjeant’s information came off, their captain, with a bottle of whiskey in his hand, was drinking, “To the health of Sir Ulick O’Shane, our worthy landlord — seldom comes a better. The same to his ward, Harry Ormond, Esq., and may his eyesight never be better nor worse.”
Harry Ormond instantly turned his horse’s head, much provoked at having been duped, and resolved that the plunderers should not now escape. By the advice of serjeants and constables, he dismounted, that no sound of horses’ hoofs might give notice from a distance; though, indeed, on the sands of the sea-shore, no horses’ tread, he thought, could be heard. He looked round for some one with whom he could leave his horse, but not a creature, except the men who were with him, was in sight.
“What can have become of all the people?” said Ormond: “it is not the workmen’s dinner-hour, and they are gone from the work at the lighthouse; and the horses and cars are left without any one with them.” He went on a few paces, and saw a boy who seemed to be left to watch the horses, and who looked very melancholy. The boy did not speak as Ormond came up. “What is the matter?” said Ormond: “something dreadful has happened — speak!”
“Did not you hear it, sir?” said the boy: “I’d be loth to tell it you.”
“Has any thing happened to —”
“Sir Herbert — ay — the worst that could. Running to stop one of them villains that was making off with something from the wreck, he dropped sudden as if he was shot, and — when they went to lift him up — But you’ll drop yourself, sir,” said the boy.
“Give him some of the water out of the bucket, can’t ye?”
“Here’s my cap,” said the serjeant. Ormond was made to swallow the water, and, recovering his senses, heard one of the soldiers near him say, “’Twas only a faint Sir Herbert took, I’ll engage.”
The thought was new life to Ormond: he started up, mounted his horse, and galloped off — saw no creature on the road — found a crowd at the gate of the avenue — the crowd opened to let him pass, many voices calling as he passed to beg him to send out word. This gave him fresh hopes, since nothing certain was known: he spurred on his horse; but when he reached the house, as he was going to Sir Herbert’s room he was met by Sir Herbert’s own man, O’Reilly. The moment he saw O’Reilly’s face, he knew there was no hope — he asked no question: the surgeon came out, and told him that in consequence of having broke a blood-vessel, which bled internally, Sir Herbert had just expired — his mother and sister were with him. Ormond retired — he begged the servants would write to him at Dr. Cambray’s — and he immediately went away.
Two days after he had a note from O’Reilly, written in haste, at a very early hour in the morning, to say that he was just setting out with the hearse to the family burial-place at Herbert — it having been thought best that the funeral should not be in this neighbourhood, on account of the poor people at Annaly being so exasperated against those who were thought to be the immediate occasion of his death. Sir Herbert’s last orders to O’Reilly were to this effect —“to take care, and to have every thing done as privately as possible.”
No pomp of funeral was, indeed, necessary for such a person. The great may need it — the good need it not: they are mourned in the heart, and they are remembered without vain pageantry. If public sorrow can soothe private grief — and surely in some measure it must — the family and friends of this young man had this consolation; but they had another and a better.
It is the triumph of religion and of its ministers to be able to support the human heart, when all other resources are of little avail. Time, it is true, at length effaces the recollection of misfortune, and age deadens the sense of sorrow. But that power to console is surely far superior in its effect, more worthy of a rational and a social being, which operates — not by contracting or benumbing our feelings and faculties, but by expanding and ennobling them — inspiring us, not with stoic indifference to the pains and pleasures of humanity, but with pious submission to the will of Heaven — to the order and orderer of the universe.
Though Sir Ulick O’Shane contrived to laugh on most occasions where other people would have wept, and though he had pretty well case-hardened his heart, yet he was shocked by the first news of the death of Sir Herbert Annaly. He knew the man must die, he said — so must we all, sooner or later — but for the manner of his death, Sir Ulick could not help feeling a secret pang. He felt conscious of having encouraged, or at least connived at, the practices of those wretches who had roused the generous and just indignation of Sir Herbert, and in pursuit of whom this fine young man had fallen a sacrifice.
Not only the “still small voice,” but the cry of the country, was against Sir Ulick on this occasion. He saw that he must give up the offenders, and show decidedly that he desired to have them punished. Decidedly, then, and easily, as ever prince abandoned secretary or chancellor to save his own popularity, quickly as ever grand seignior gave up grand vizier or chief baker to appease the people, Sir Ulick gave up his “honest rascals,” his “rare rapparees,” and even his “wrecker royal.” Sir Ulick set his magistrate, Mr. M’Crule, at work for once on the side both of justice and law; warrants, committals, and constables, cleared the land. Many fled — a few were seized, escorted ostentatiously by a serjeant and twelve of Sir Ulick’s corps, and lodged in the county jail to stand their trial, bereft of all favour and purtection, bona fide delivered up to justice.
A considerable tract of Sir Ulick’s coast estate, in consequence of this, remained untenanted. Some person in whom he could confide must be selected to inhabit the fishing-lodge, and to take care of the cabins and land till they should be relet. Sir Ulick pitched upon Moriarty Carroll for this purpose, and promised him such liberal reward, that all Moriarty’s friends congratulated him upon his “great luck in getting the appointment, against the man, too, that Mr. Marcus had proposed and favoured.”
Marcus, who was jealous in the extreme of power, and who made every trifle a matter of party competition, was vexed at the preference given against an honest man and a friend of his own, in favour of Moriarty, a catholic; a fellow he had always disliked, and a protege of Mr. Ormond. Ormond, though obliged to Sir Ulick for this kindness to Moriarty, was too intent on other things to think much about the matter. When he should see Florence Annaly again, seemed to him the only question in the universe of great importance.
Just at this time arrived letters for Mr. Ormond, from Paris, from M. and Mad. de Connal; very kind letters, with pressing invitations to him to pay them a visit. M. de Connal informed him, “that the five hundred pounds, King Corny’s legacy, was ready waiting his orders. M. de Connal hoped to put it into Mr. Ormond’s hands in Paris in his own hotel, where he trusted that Mr. Ormond would do him the pleasure of soon occupying the apartments which were preparing for him.” It did not clearly appear whether they had or had not heard of his accession of fortune. Dora’s letter was not from Dora— it was from Mad. de Connal. It was on green paper, with a border of Cupids and roses, and store of sentimental devices in the corners. The turn of every phrase, the style, as far as Ormond could judge, was quite French — aiming evidently at being perfectly Parisian. Yet it was a letter so flattering to the vanity of man as might well incline him to excuse the vanity of woman. “Besides,” as Sir Ulick O’Shane observed, “after making due deductions for French sentiment, there remains enough to satisfy an honest English heart that the lady really desires to see you, Ormond; and that now, in the midst of her Parisian prosperity, she has the grace to wish to show kindness to her father’s adopted son, and to the companion and friend of her childhood.” Sir Ulick was of opinion that Ormond could not do better than accept the invitation. Ormond was surprised, for he well recollected the manner in which his guardian had formerly, and not many months ago, written and spoken of Connal as a coxcomb and something worse.
“That is true,” said Sir Ulick; “but that was when I was angry about your legacy, which was of great consequence to us then, though of none now — I certainly did suspect the man of a design to cheat you; but it is clear that I was wrong — I am ready candidly to acknowledge that I did him injustice. Your money is at your order — and I have nothing to say, but to beg M. de Connal ten thousand French pardons. Observe, I do not beg pardon for calling him a coxcomb, for a coxcomb he certainly is.”
“An insufferable coxcomb!” cried Ormond.
“But a coxcomb in fashion,” said Sir Ulick; “and a coxcomb in fashion is a useful connexion. He did not fable about Versailles — I have made particular inquiries from our ambassador at Paris, and he writes me word that Connal is often at court —en bonne odeur at Versailles. The ambassador says he meets the Connals every where in the first circles — how they came there I don’t know.”
“I am glad to hear that, for Dora’s sake,” said Ormond.
“I always thought her a sweet, pretty little creature,” said Sir Ulick, “and no doubt she has been polished up; and dress and fashion make such a difference in a woman — I suppose she is now ten times better — that is, prettier: she will introduce you at Paris, and your own merit— that is, manners, and figure, and fortune — will make your way every where. By-the-bye, I do not see a word about poor Mademoiselle — Oh, yes! here is a Line squeezed in at the edge —‘Mille tendres souvenirs de la part de Mdlle. O’Faley.’”
“Poor Mademoiselle!”
“Poor Mademoiselle!” repeated Sir Ulick.
“Do you mean that thing half Irish, half French, half mud, half tinsel?” said Ormond.
“Very good memory! very sly, Harry! But still in the Irish half of her I dare say there is a heart; and we must allow her the tinsel, in pure gratitude, for having taught you to speak French so well — that will be a real advantage to you in Paris.”
“Whenever I go there, sir,” said Ormond, coldly.
Sir Ulick was very much disappointed at perceiving that Ormond had no mind to go to Paris; but dropping the subject, he turned the conversation upon the Annalys: he praised Florence to the skies, hoped that Ormond would be more fortunate than Marcus had been, for somehow or other, he should never live or die in peace till Florence Annaly was more nearly connected with him. He regretted, however, that poor Sir Herbert was carried off before he had completed the levying of those fines, which would have cut off the entail, and barred the heir-at-law from the Herbert estates. Florence was not now the great heiress it was once expected she should be; indeed she had but a moderate gentlewoman’s fortune — not even what at Smithfield a man of Ormond’s fortune might expect; but Sir Ulick knew, he said, that this would make no difference to his ward, unless to make him in greater impatience to propose for her.
It was impossible to be in greater impatience to propose for her than Ormond was. Sir Ulick did not wonder at it; but he thought that Miss Annaly would not, could not, listen to him yet. Time, the comforter, must come first; and while time was doing this business, love could not decently be admitted.
“That was the reason,” said Ulick, returning by another road to the charge, “why I advised a trip to Paris; but you know best.”
“I cannot bear this suspense — I must and will know my fate — I will write instantly, and obtain an answer.”
“Do so; and to save time, I can tell what your fate and your answer will be: from Florence Annaly, assurance of perfect esteem and regard, as far as friendship, perhaps; but she will tell you that she cannot think of love at present. Lady Annaly, prudent Lady Annaly, will say that she hopes Mr. Ormond will not think of settling for life till he has seen something more of the world. Well, you don’t believe me,” said Sir Ulick, interrupting himself just at the moment when he saw that Ormond began to think there was some sense in what he was saying.
“If you don’t believe me, Harry,” continued he, “consult your oracle, Dr. Cambray: he has just returned from Annaly, and he can tell you how the land lies.”
Dr. Cambray agreed with Sir Ulick that both Lady Annaly and her daughter would desire that Ormond should see more of the world before he settled for life; but as to going off to Paris, without waiting to see or write to them, Dr. Cambray agreed with Ormond that it would be the worst thing he could do — that so far from appearing a proof of his respect to their grief, it would only seem a proof of indifference, or a sign of impatience: they would conclude that he was in haste to leave his friends in adversity, to go to those in prosperity, and to enjoy the gaiety and dissipation of Paris. Dr. Cambray advised that he should remain quietly where he was, and wait till Miss Annaly should be disposed to see him. This was most prudent, Ormond allowed. “But then the delay!” To conquer by delay we must begin by conquering our impatience: now that was what our hero could not possibly do — therefore he jumped hastily to this conclusion, that “in love affairs no man should follow any mortal’s opinion but his own.”
Accordingly he sat down and wrote to Miss Annaly a most passionate letter, enclosed in a most dutiful one to Lady Annaly, as full of respectful attachment and entire obedience, as a son-in-law expectant could devise — beginning very properly and very sincerely, with anxiety and hopes about her ladyship’s health, and ending, as properly, and as sincerely, with hopes that her ladyship would permit him, as soon as possible, to take from her the greatest, the only remaining source of happiness she had in life — her daughter.
Having worded this very plausibly — for he had now learned how to write a letter — our hero despatched a servant of Sir Ulick’s with his epistle; ordering him to wait certainly for an answer, but above all things to make haste back. Accordingly the man took a cross road — a short cut, and coming to a bridge, which he did not know was broken down till he was close upon it, he was obliged to return and to go round, and did not get home till long after dark — and the only answer he brought was, that there was no answer — only Lady Annaly’s compliments.
Ormond could scarcely believe that no answer had been sent; but the man took all the saints in heaven, or in the calendar, to witness, that he would not tell his honour, or any jantleman, a lie.
Upon a cross-examination, the man gave proof that he had actually seen both the ladies. They were sitting so and so, and dressed so and so, in mourning. Farther, he gave undeniable proof that he had delivered the letters, and that they had been opened and read; for —by the same token— he was summoned up to my lady on account of one of Mr. Ormond’s letters, he did not know which, or to who, being dated Monday, whereas it was Wednesday; and he had to clear himself of having been three days on the road.
Ormond, inordinately impatient, could not rest a moment. The next morning he set off at full speed for Annaly, determined to find out what was the matter.
Arrived there, a new footman came to the door with “Not at home, sir.” Ormond could have knocked him down, but he contented himself with striking his own forehead — however, in a genteel proper voice, he desired to see Sir Herbert’s own man, O’Reilly.
“Mr. O’Reilly is not here, sir — absent on business.”
Every thing was adverse. Ormond had one hope, that this new fellow, not knowing him, might by mistake have included him in a general order against morning visitors.
“My name is Ormond, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I beg you will let Lady Annaly and Miss Annaly know that Mr. Ormond is come to pay his respects to them.”
The man seemed very unwilling to carry any message to his ladies. “He was sure,” he said, “that the ladies would not see anybody.”
“Was Lady Annaly ill?”
“Her ladyship had been but poorly, but was better within the last two days.”
“And Miss Annaly?”
“Wonderful better, too, sir; has got up her spirits greatly to-day.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said Ormond. “Pray, sir, can you tell me whether a servant from Mr. Ormond brought a letter here yesterday?”
“He did, sir.”
“And was there any answer sent?”
“I really can’t say, sir.”
“Be so good to take my name to your lady,” repeated Ormond.
“Indeed, sir, I don’t like to go in, for I know my lady — both my ladies is engaged, very particularly engaged — however, if you very positively desire it, sir —”
Ormond did very positively desire it, and the footman obeyed. While Ormond was waiting impatiently for the answer, his horse, as impatient as himself, would not stand still. A groom, who was sauntering about, saw the uneasiness of the horse, and observing that it was occasioned by a peacock, who, with spread tail, was strutting in the sunshine, he ran and chased the bird away. Ormond thanked the groom, and threw him a luck token; but not recollecting his face, asked how long he had been at Annaly. “I think you were not here when I was here last?” said Ormond.
“No, sir.” said the man, looking a little puzzled; “I never was here till the day before yesterday in my born days. We bees from England.”
“We!”
“That is, I and master — that is, master and I.” Ormond grew pale; but the groom saw nothing of it — his eyes had fixed upon Ormond’s horse.
“A very fine horse this of yours, sir, for sartain, if he could but stand, sir; he’s main restless at a door. My master’s horse is just his match for that.”
“And pray who is your master, sir?” said Ormond, in a voice which he forced to be calm.
“My master, sir, is one Colonel Albemarle, son of the famous General Albemarle, as lost his arm, sir, you might have heard talk of, time back,” said the groom.
At this moment a window-blind was flapped aside, and before the wind blew it back to its place again, Ormond saw Florence Annaly sitting on a sofa, and a gentleman, in regimentals, kneeling at her feet.
“Bless my eyes!” cried the groom, “what made you let go his bridle, sir? Only you sat him well, sir, he would ha’ thrown you that minute — Curse the blind! that flapped in his eyes.”
The footman re-appeared on the steps. “Sir, it is just as I said — I could not be let in. Mrs. Spencer, my lady’s woman, says the ladies is engaged — you can’t see them.”
Ormond had seen enough.
“Very well, sir,” said he —“Mr. Ormond’s compliments — he called, that’s all.”
Ormond put spurs to his horse, and galloped off; and, fast as he went, he urged his horse still faster.
In the agony of disappointed love and jealousy, he railed bitterly against the whole sex, and against Florence Annaly in particular. Many were the rash vows he made that he would never think of her more — that he would tear her from his heart — that he would show her that he was no whining lover, no easy dupe, to be whiffled off and on, the sport of a coquette.
“A coquette! — is it possible, Florence Annaly? —You— and after all!”
Certain tender recollections obtruded; but he repelled them — he would not allow one of them to mitigate his rage. His naturally violent passion of anger, now that it broke again from the control of his reason, seemed the more ungovernable from the sense of past and the dread of future restraint.
So, when a horse naturally violent, and half trained to the curb, takes fright, or takes offence, and, starting, throws his master, away he gallops; enraged the more by the falling bridle, he rears, plunges, curvets, and lashes out behind at broken girth or imaginary pursuer.
“Good Heavens! what is the matter with you, my dear boy? — what has happened?” cried Sir Ulick, the moment he saw him; for the disorder of Ormond’s mind appeared strongly in his face and gestures — still more strongly in his words.
When he attempted to give an account of what had happened, it was so broken, so exclamatory, that it was wonderful how Sir Ulick made out the plain fact. Sir Ulick, however, well understood the short-hand language of the passions: he listened with eager interest — he sympathized so fully with Ormond’s feelings — expressed such astonishment, such indignation, that Harry, feeling him to be his warm friend, loved him as heartily as in the days of his childhood.
Sir Ulick saw and seized the advantage: he had almost despaired of accomplishing his purpose — now was the critical instant.
“Harry Ormond,” said he, “would you make Florence Annaly feel to the quick — would you make her repent in sackcloth and ashes — would you make her pine for you, ay! till her very heart is sick?”
“Would I? to be sure — show me how! — only show me how!” cried Ormond.
“Look ye, Harry! to have and to hold a woman — trust me, for I have had and held many — to have and to hold a woman, you must first show her that you can, if you will, fling her from you — ay! and leave her there: set off for Paris to-morrow morning — my life upon it, the moment she hears you are gone, she will wish you back again!”
“I’ll set off to-night,” said Ormond, ringing the bell to give orders to his servant to prepare immediately for his departure.
Thus Sir Ulick, seizing precisely the moment when Ormond’s mind was at the right heat, aiming with dexterity and striking with force, bent and moulded him to his purpose.
While preparations for Ormond’s journey were making, Sir Ulick said that there was one thing he must insist upon his doing before he quitted Castle Hermitage — he must look over and settle his guardianship accounts.
Ormond, whose head was far from business at this moment, was very reluctant: he said that the accounts could wait till he should return from France; but Sir Ulick observed that if he, or if Ormond were to die, leaving the thing unsettled, it would be loss of property to the one, and loss of credit to the other. Ormond then begged that the accounts might be sent after him to Paris; he would look over them there at leisure, and sign them. No, Sir Ulick said, they ought to be signed by some forthcoming witness in this country. He urged it so much, and put it upon the footing of his own credit and honour in such a manner, that Ormond could not refuse. He seized the papers, and took a pen to sign them; but Sir Ulick snatched the pen from his hand, and absolutely insisted upon his first knowing what he was going to sign.
“The whole account could have been looked over while we have been talking about it,” said Sir Ulick.
Ormond sat down and looked it over, examined all the vouchers, saw that every thing was perfectly right and fair, signed the accounts, and esteemed Sir Ulick the more for having insisted upon showing, and proving that all was exact.
Sir Ulick offered to manage his affairs for him while he was away, particularly a large sum which Ormond had in the English funds. Sir Ulick had a banker and a broker in London, on whom he could depend, and he had, from his place and connexions, means of obtaining good information in public affairs; he had made a great deal himself by speculations in the funds, and he could buy in and sell out to great advantage, he said, for Ormond. But for this purpose a power of attorney was necessary to be given by Ormond to Sir Ulick.
There was scarcely time to draw one up, nor was Sir Ulick sure that there was a printed form in the house. Luckily, however, a proper power was found, and filled up, and Ormond had just time to sign it before he stepped into the carriage: he embraced his guardian, and thanked him heartily for his care of the interests of his purse, and still more for the sympathy he had shown in the interests of his heart. Sir Ulick was moved at parting with him, and this struck Harry the more, because he certainly struggled to suppress his feelings. Ormond stopped at Vicar’s Dale to tell Dr. Cambray all that had happened, to thank him and his family for their kindness, and to take leave of them.
They were indeed astonished when he entered, saying, “Any commands, my good friends, for London or Paris? I am on my way there — carriage at the door.”
At first they could not believe him to be serious; but when they heard his story, and saw by the agitation of his manner that he was in earnest, they were still more surprised at the suddenness of his determination. They all believed and represented to him that there must be some mistake, and that he was not cool enough to judge sanely at this moment.
Dr. Cambray observed that Miss Annaly could not prevent any man from kneeling to her. Ormond haughtily said, “He did not know what she could prevent, he only knew what she did. She had not vouchsafed an answer to his letter — she had not admitted him. These he thought were sufficient indications that the person at her feet was accepted. Whether he were or not, Ormond would inquire no further. She might now accept or refuse, as she pleased — he would go to Paris.”
His friends had nothing more to say or to do, but to sigh, and to wish him a good journey, and much pleasure at Paris.
Ormond now requested that Dr. Cambray would have the goodness to write to him from time to time, to inform him of whatever he might wish to know during his absence. He was much mortified to hear from the doctor that he was obliged to proceed, with his family, for some months, to a distant part of the north of England; and that, as to the Annalys, they were immediately removing to the sea-coast of Devonshire, for the benefit of a mild climate and of sea-bathing. Ormond, therefore, had no resource but in his guardian. Sir Ulick’s affairs, however, were to take him over to London, from whence Ormond could not expect much satisfactory intelligence with respect to Ireland.
Ormond flew to Dublin, crossed the channel in an express boat, travelled night and day in the mail to London, from thence to Dover — crossed the water in a storm, and travelled with the utmost expedition to Paris, though there was no one reason why he should be in haste; and for so much, his travelling was as little profitable or amusing as possible. He saw, heard, and understood nothing, till he reached Paris.
It has been said that the traveller without sensibility may travel from Dan to Beersheba, without finding any thing worth seeing. The traveller who has too much sensibility often observes as little — of this all persons must be sensible, who have ever travelled when their minds were engrossed with painful feelings, or possessed by any strong passion.
Ormond had written to M. and Madame de Connal to announce his intentions of spending some time in Paris, and to thank them for the invitation to their house; an invitation which, however, he declined accepting; but he requested M. de Connal to secure apartments for him in some hotel near them.
Upon his arrival he found every thing prepared for a Milord Anglois: handsome apartments, fashionable carriage, well-powdered laquais, and a valet-de-chambre, waited the orders of monsieur.
Connal was with him a few minutes after his arrival — welcomed him to Paris with cordial gaiety — was more glad, and more sorry, and said more in five minutes, and above all made more protestations of regard, than an Englishman would make in a year.
He was rejoiced — delighted — enchanted to see Mr. Ormond. Madame de Connal was absolutely transported with joy when she heard he was on his road to Paris. Madame was now at Versailles; but she would return in a few days: she would be in despair at Mr. Ormond’s not accepting the apartments in the Hotel de Connal, which were actually prepared for him; but in fact it was nearly the same thing, within two doors of them. He hoped Mr. Ormond liked his apartments — but in truth that was of little consequence, for he would never be in them, except when he was asleep or dressing.
Ormond thought the apartments quite superb, and was going to have thanked M. de Connal for the trouble he had taken; but at the word superbe, Connal ran on again with French vivacity of imagination.
“Certainly, Mr. Ormond ought,” he said, “to have every thing now in the first style.” He congratulated our hero on his accession of fortune, “of which Madame de Connal and he had heard with inexpressible joy. And Mdlle. O’Faley, too, she who had always prophesied that they should meet in happiness at Paris, was now absolutely in ecstasy.”
“You have no idea, in short, my dear Ormond, of what a strong impression you left on all our minds — no conception of the lively interest you always inspired.”
It was a lively interest which had slumbered quietly for a considerable time, but now it wakened with perfectly good grace. Ormond set little value on these sudden protestations, and his pride felt a sort of fear that it should be supposed he was deceived by them; yet, altogether, the manner was agreeable, and Connal was essentially useful at this moment: as Sir Ulick had justly observed, a coxcomb in fashion may, in certain circumstances, be a useful friend.
“But, my dear fellow,” cried Connal, “what savage cut your hair last? — It is a sin to trust your fine head to the barbarians — my hairdresser shall be with you in the twinkling of an eye: I will send my tailor — allow me to choose your embroidery, and see your lace, before you decide — I am said to have a tolerable taste — the ladies say so, and they are always the best judges. The French dress will become you prodigiously, I foresee — but, just Heaven! — what buckles! — those must have been made before the flood: no disparagement to your taste, but what could you do better in the Black Islands? Paris is the only place for bijouterie— except in steel, Paris surpasses the universe — your eyes will be dazzled by the Palais Royal. But this hat! — you know it can’t appear — it would destroy you: my chapelier shall be with you instantly. It will all be done in five minutes — you have no idea of the celerity with which you may command every thing at Paris. But I am so sorry that madame is at Versailles, and that I am under a necessity of being there myself to-morrow for the rest of this week; but I have a friend, a little Abbé, who will be delighted in the mean time to show you Paris.”
From the moment of his arrival at Paris, Ormond resolved to put Florence Annaly completely out of his thoughts, and to drown in gaiety and dissipation the too painful recollection of her duplicity towards him. He was glad to have a few days to look about him, and to see something of Paris.
He should like, as he told M. de Connal, to go to the play, to accustom himself to the language. He must wear off his English or Irish awkwardness a little, before he should be presented to Madame de Connal, or appear in French society. A profusion of compliments followed from M. de Connal; but Ormond persisting, it was settled that he should go incog. this night to the Théatre Fran?ois.
Connal called upon him in the evening, and took him to the theatre.
They were in une petite loge, where they could see without being seen. In the box with them was the young Abbé, and a pretty little French actress, Mdlle. Adrienne. At the first coup-d’oeil, the French ladies did not strike him as handsome; they looked, as he said, like dolls, all eyes and rouge; and rouge, as he thought, very unbecomingly put on, in one frightful red patch or plaster, high upon the cheek, without any pretence to the imitation of natural colour.
“Eh fi donc!” said the Abbé, “what you call the natural colour, that would be rouge coquette, which no woman of quality can permit herself.”
“No, Dieu merci,” said the actress, “that is for us: ’tis very fair we should have some advantages in the competition, they have so many — by birth — if not by nature.”
M. de Connal explained to Ormond that the frightful red patch which offended his eye, was the mark of a woman of quality: “women only of a certain rank have the privilege of wearing their rouge in that manner — your eye will soon grow accustomed to it, and you will like it as a sign of rank and fashion.”
The actress shrugged her shoulders, said something about “la belle nature,” and the good taste of Monsieur l’Anglois. The moment the curtain drew up, she told him the names of all the actors and actresses as they appeared — noting the value and celebrity of each. The play was, unfortunately for Ormond, a tragedy; and Le Kain was at Versailles. Ormond thought he understood French pretty well, but he did not comprehend what was going on. The French tone of tragic declamation, so unnatural to his ear, distracted his attention so much, that he could not make out the sense of what any of the actors said.
“’Tis like the quality rouge,” said Connal; “your taste must be formed to it. But your eye and your ear will accommodate themselves to both. You will like it in a month.”
M. de Connal said this was always the first feeling of foreigners. “But have patience,” said he; “go on listening, and in a night or two, perhaps in an hour or two, the sense will break in upon you all at once. You will never find yourself at a loss in society. Talk, at all events, whether you speak ill or well, talk: don’t aim at correctness — we don’t expect it Besides, as they will tell you, we like to see how a stranger ‘play with our language.’”
M. de Connal’s manner was infinitely more agreeable toward Ormond now than in former days.
There was perhaps still at the bottom of his mind the same fund of self-conceit, but he did not take the same arrogant tone. It was the tone not of a superior to an inferior, but of a friend, in a new society, and a country to which he is a stranger. There was as little of the protector in his manner as possible, considering his natural presumption and acquired habits: considering that he had made his own way in Paris, and that he thought that to be the first man in a certain circle there, was to be nearly the first man in the universe. The next morning, the little Abbé called to pay his compliments, and to offer his services.
M. de Connal being obliged to go to Versailles, in his absence the Abbé would be very happy, he said, to attend Mr. Ormond, and to show him Paris: he believed, he humbly said, that he had the means of showing him every thing that was worth his attention.
Away they drove.
“Gare! gare!” cried the coachman, chasing away the droves of walkers before him. There being no footpaths in the streets of Paris, they were continually driven up close to the walls.
Ormond at first shrunk at the sight of their peril and narrow escapes.
“Monsieur apparemment is nervous after his voyage?” said the Abbé.
“No, but I am afraid the people will be run over. I will make the coachman drive more quietly.”
“Du tout! — not at all,” said the little Abbé, who was of a noble family, and had all the airs of it. “Leave him to settle it with the people — they are used to it. And, after all, what have they to think of, but to take care of themselves —la cancille?”
“La canaille,” synonymous with the swinish multitude, an expression of contempt for which the Parisian nobility have since paid terribly dear.
Ormond, who was not used to it, found it difficult to abstract his sympathy from his fellow-creatures, by whatever name they were called; and he could not exclusively command his attention, to admire the houses and churches, which his Abbé continually pointed out to his notice.
He admired, however, the fine fa?ade of the Louvre, the Place de Louis XV., the astonishingly brilliant spectacle of the Palais Royal, Notre Dame, a few handsome bridges, and the drives on the Boulevards.
But in fact there was at that time much more to be heard, and less to be seen, than at present in Paris. Paris was not then as fine a city as it now is. Ormond, in his secret soul, preferred the bay of Dublin to all he then saw on the banks of the Seine.
The little Abbé was not satisfied with the paucity of his exclamations, and would have given him up, as un froid Anglois, but that, fortunately, our young hero had each night an opportunity of redeeming his credit. They went to the play — he saw French comedy! — he saw and heard Molet, and Madame de la Ruette: the Abbé was charmed with his delight, his enthusiasm, his genuine enjoyment of high comedy, and his quick feeling of dramatic excellence. It was indeed perfection — beyond any thing of which Ormond could have formed an idea. Every part well performed — nothing to break the illusion!
This first fit of dramatic enthusiasm was the third day at its height, when Connal returned from Versailles; and it was so strong upon him, and he was so full of Molet and Madame de la Ruette, that he could scarcely listen to what Connal said of Versailles, the king’s supper, and Madame la Dauphine.
“No doubt — he should like to see all that — but at all events he was positively determined to see Molet, and Madame de la Ruette, every night they acted.”
Connal smiled, and only answered, “Of course he would do as he pleased.” But in the mean time, it was now Madame de Connal’s night for seeing company, and he was to make his debut in a French assembly. Connal called for him early, that they might have a few minutes to themselves before the company should arrive.
Ormond felt some curiosity, a little anxiety, a slight flutter at the heart, at the thought of seeing Dora again.
The arrival of her husband interrupted these thoughts.
Connal took the light from the hands of Crepin, the valet, and reviewed Ormond from head to foot.
“Very well, Crepin: you have done your part, and Nature has done hers, for Monsieur.”
“Yes, truly,” said Crepin, “Nature has done wonders for Monsieur; and Monsieur, now he is dressed, has really all the air of a Frenchman.”
“Quite l’air comme il faut! l’air noble!” added Connal; and he agreed with Crepin in opinion that French dress made an astonishing difference in Mr. Ormond.
“Madame de Connal, I am sure, will think so,” continued Connal, “will see it with admiration — for she really has good taste. I will pledge myself for your success. With that figure, with that air, you will turn many heads in Paris — if you will but talk enough. Say every thing that comes into your head — don’t be like an Englishman, always thinking about the sense — the more nonsense the better — trust me —livrez-vous— let yourself out — follow me, and fear nothing,” cried he, running down stairs, delighted with Ormond and with himself.
He foresaw that he should gain credit by producing such a man. He really wished that Ormond should succeed in French society, and that he should pass his time agreeably in Paris.
No man could feel better disposed towards another. Even if he should take a fancy to Madame, it was to the polite French husband a matter of indifference, except so far as the arrangement might, or might not, interfere with his own views.
And these views — what were they? — Only to win all the young man’s fortune at play. A cela près — excepting this, he was sincerely Ormond’s friend, ready to do every thing possible — de faire l’impossible — to oblige and entertain him.
Connal enjoyed Ormond’s surprise at the magnificence of his hotel. After ascending a spacious staircase, and passing through antechamber after antechamber, they reached the splendid salon, blazing with lights, reflected on all sides in mirrors, that reached from the painted ceiling to the inlaid floor.
“Not a creature here yet — happily.” “Madame begs,” said the servant, “that Monsieur will pass on into the boudoir.”
“Any body with Madame?”
“No one but Madame de Clairville.”
“Only l’amie intime,” said Connal, “the bosom friend.”
“How will Dora feel? — How will it be with us both?” thought Ormond, as he followed the light step of the husband.
“Entrez! — Entrez toujours.”
Ormond stopped at the threshold, absolutely dazzled by the brilliancy of Dora’s beauty, her face, her figure, her air, so infinitely improved, so fashioned!
“Dora! — Ah! Madame de Connal,” cried Ormond.
No French actor could have done it better than nature did it for him.
Dora gave one glance at Ormond — pleasure, joy, sparkled in her eyes; then leaning on the lady who stood beside her, almost sinking, Dora sighed, and exclaimed, “Ah! Harry Ormond!”
The husband vanished.
“Ah ciel!” said l’amie intime, looking towards Ormond.
“Help me to support her, Monsieur — while I seek de l’eau de Cologne.”
Ormond, seized with sudden tremor, could scarcely advance.
Dora sunk on the sofa, clasping her beautiful hands, and exclaiming, “The companion of my earliest days!”
Then Ormond, excused to himself, sprang forward — “Friend of my childhood!” cried he: “yes, my sister: your father promised me this friendship — this happiness,” said he supporting her, as she raised herself from the sofa.
“Où est-il? où est-il? — Where is he, Monsieur Ormond?” cried Mademoiselle, throwing open the door. “Ah ciel, comme il est beau! A perfect Frenchman already! And how much embellished by dress! — Ah! Paris for that. Did I not prophesy? — Dora, my darling, do me the justice. — But — comme vous voilà saisie! — here’s l’amie with l’eau de Cologne. Ah! my child, recover yourself, for here is some one — the Comte de Jarillac it is entering the salon.”
The promptitude of Dora’s recovery was a new surprise to our hero. “Follow me,” said she to him, and with Parisian ease and grace she glided into the salon to receive M. de Jarillac — presented Ormond to M. le Comte —“Anglois — Irlandois — an English, an Irish gentleman — the companion of her childhood,” with the slightest, lightest tone of sentiment imaginable; and another count and another came, and a baron, and a marquis, and a duke, and Madame la Comtesse de —— and Madame la Duchesse ——; and all were received with ease, respect, vivacity, or sentiment as the occasion required — now advancing a step or two to mark empressement where requisite; — regaining always, imperceptibly, the most advantageous situation and attitude for herself; — presenting Ormond to every one — quite intent upon him, yet appearing entirely occupied with every body else; and, in short, never forgetting them, him, or herself for an instant.
“Can this be Dora?” thought Ormond in admiration, yet in astonishment that divided his feelings. It was indeed wonderful to see how quickly, how completely, the Irish country girl had been metamorphosed into a French woman of fashion.
And now surrounded by admirers, by adorers in embroidery and blazing with crosses and stars, she received les hommages— enjoyed le succès— accepted the incense without bending too low or holding herself too high — not too sober, nor too obviously intoxicated. Vanity in all her heart, yet vanity not quite turning her head, not more than was agreeable and becoming — extending her smiles to all, and hoping all the time that Harry Ormond envied each. Charmed with him — for her early passion for him had revived in an instant — the first sight of his figure and air, the first glance in the boudoir, had been sufficient. She knew, too, how well he would succeed at Paris — how many rivals she would have in a week: these perceptions, sensations, and conclusions, requiring so much time in slow words to express, had darted through Dora’s head in one instant, had exalted her imagination, and touched her heart — as much as that heart could be touched.
Ormond meantime breathed more freely, and recovered from his tremors. Madame de Connal, surrounded by adorers, and shining in the salon, was not so dangerous as Dora, half fainting in the boudoir; nor had any words that wit or sentiment could devise power to please or touch him so much as the “Harry Ormond!” which had burst naturally from Dora’s lips. Now he began almost to doubt whether nature or art prevailed. Now he felt himself safe at least, since he saw that it was only the coquette of the Black Islands transformed into the coquette of the Hotel de Connal. The transformation was curious, was admirable; Ormond thought he could admire without danger, and, in due time, perhaps gallant, with the best of them, without feeling — without scruple.
The tables were now arranging for play. The conversation he heard every where round him related to the good or bad fortune of the preceding nights. Ormond perceived that it was the custom of the house to play every evening, and the expressions that reached him about bets and debts confirmed the hint which his guardian had given him, that Connal played high.
At present, however, he did not seem to have any design upon Ormond — he was engaged at the further end of the room. He left him quite to himself, and to Madame, and never once even asked him to play.
There seemed more danger of his being left out, than of his being taken in.
“Donnez-moi le bras — Come with me, Monsieur Ormond,” said Mademoiselle, “and you shall lose nothing — while they are settling about their parties, we can get one little moment’s chat.”
She took him back to the boudoir.
“I want to make you know our Paris,” said she: “here we can see the whole world pass in review, and I shall tell you every thing most necessary for you to know; for example — who is who — and still more it imports you to know who and who are together.”
“Look at that lady, beautiful as the day, in diamonds.”
“Madame de Connal, do you mean?” said Ormond.
“Ah! no; not her always,” said Mademoiselle: “though she has the apple here, without contradiction,” continued Mademoiselle, still speaking in English, which it was always her pride to speak to whomsoever could understand her. “Absolutely, without vanity, though my niece, I may say it, she is a perfect creature — and mise à ravir! — Did you ever see such a change for the best in one season? Ah! Paris! — Did I not tell you well? — And you felt it well yourself — you lost your head, I saw that, at first sight of her à la Fran?oise— the best proof of your taste and sensibilité— she has infinite sensibility too! — interesting, and at the height, what you English call the tip-top, of the fashion here.”
“So it appears, indeed,” said Ormond, “by the crowd of admirers I see round Madame de Connal.”
“Admirers! yes, adorers, you may say — encore, if you added lovers, you would not be much wrong; dying for love —éperdument épris! See, there, he who is bowing now — Monsieur le Marquis de Beaulieu — homme de cour — plein d’esprit — homme marquant — very remarkable man. But — Ah! voilà que entre — of the court. Did you ever see finer entrée made by man into a room, so full of grace? Ah! le Comte de Belle Chasse — How many women already he has lost! — It is a real triumph to Madame de Connal to have him in her chains. What a smile! — C’est lui qui est aimable pour nous autres — d’une soumission pour les femmes — d’une fierté pour les hommes. As the lamb gentle for the pretty woman; as the lion terrible for the man. It is that Comte de Belle Chasse who is absolutely irresistible.”
“Absolutely irresistible,” Ormond repeated, smiling; “not absolutely, I hope.”
“Oh! that is understood — you do not doubt la sagesse de Madame? — Besides, heureusement, there is an infinite safety for her in the number, as you see, of her adorers. Wait till I name them to you — I shall give you a catalogue raisonnée.”
With rapid enunciation Mademoiselle went through the names and rank of the circle of adorers, noting with complacency the number of ladies to whom each man of gallantry was supposed to have paid his addresses — next to being of the blood royal, this appearing to be of the highest distinction.
“And à propos, Monsieur d’Ormond, you, yourself, when do you count to go to Versailles? — Ah! — when you shall see the king and the king’s supper, and Madame la Dauphine! Ah!”
Mademoiselle was recalled from the ecstasy in which she had thrown up her eyes to Heaven, by some gentleman speaking to her as he passed the open door of the boudoir arm in arm with a lady — Mademoiselle answered, with a profound inclination of the head, whispering to Ormond after they had passed, “M. le Due de C—— with Madame de la Tour. Why he is constant always to that woman, Heaven knows better than me! Stand, if you are so good, Monsieur, a little more this way, and give your attention — they don’t want you yet at play.”
Then designating every person at the different card-tables, she said, “That lady is the wife of M. —— and there is M. le Baron de L—— her lover, the gentleman who looks over her cards — and that other lady with the joli pompon, she is intimate with M. de la Tour, the husband of the lady who passed with M. le Duc.” Mademoiselle explained all these arrangements with the most perfect sang froid, as things of course, that every body knew and spoke of, except just before the husbands; but there was no mystery, no concealment: “What use? — To what good?”
Ormond asked whether there were any ladies in the room who were supposed to be faithful to their husbands.
“Eh! — Ma nièce, par exemple, Madame de Connal, I may cite as a woman of la plus belle réputation, sans tache — what you call unblemish.”
“Assuredly,” said Ormond, “you could not, I hope, think me so indiscreet — I believe I said ladies in the plural number.”
“Ah! oui, assuredly, and I can name you twenty. To begin, there, do you see that woman standing up, who has the air as if she think of nothing at all, and nobody thinking of her, with only her husband near her, cet grand homme blême?— There is Madame de la Rousse —d’une réputation intacte!— frightfully dressed, as she is always. But, hold, you see that pretty little Comtesse de la Brie, all in white? — Charmante! I give her to you as a reputation against which slander cannot breathe — Nouvelle mariée — bride — in what you call de honey-moon; but we don’t know that in French — no matter! Again, since you are curious in these things, there is another reputation without spot, Madame de St. Ange, I warrant her to you — bien froide, celle-là, cold as any English — married a full year, and still her choice to make; allons — there is three I give you already, without counting my niece; and, wait, I will find you yet another,” said Mademoiselle, looking carefully through the crowd.
She was relieved from her difficulty by the entrance of the little Abbé, who came to summon Monsieur to Madame de Connal, who did him the honour to invite him to the table. Ormond played, and fortune smiled upon him, as she usually does upon a new votary; and beauty smiled upon him perhaps on the same principle. Connal never came near him till supper was announced; then only to desire him to give his arm to a charming little Countess — la nouvelle mariée — Madame de Connal, belonging, by right of rank, to Monsieur le Comte de Belle Chasse. The supper was one of the delightful petit soupers for which Paris was famous at that day, and which she will never see again.
The moralist, who considers the essential interests of morality, more than the immediate pleasures of society, will think this rather a matter of rejoicing than regret. How far such society and correct female conduct be compatible, is a question which it might take too long a time to decide.
Therefore, be it sufficient here to say, that Ormond, without staying to examine it, was charmed with the present effect; with the gaiety, the wit, the politeness, the ease, and altogether with that indescribable thing, that untranslatable esprit de société. He could not afterwards remember any thing very striking or very solid that had been said, but all was agreeable at the moment, and there was great variety. Ormond’s self-love was, he knew not how, flattered. Without effort, it seemed to be the object of every body to make Paris agreeable to him; and they convinced him that he would find it the most charming place in the world — without any disparagement to his own country, to which all solid honours and advantages were left undisputed. The ladies, whom he had thought so little captivating at first view, at the theatre, were all charming on farther acquaintance: so full of vivacity, and something so flattering in their manner, that it put a stranger at once at his ease. Towards the end of the supper he found himself talking to two very pretty women at once, with good effect, and thinking at the same time of Dora and the Comte de Belle Chasse. Moreover, he thought he saw that Dora was doing the same between the irresistible Comte, and the Marquis, plein d’esprit, from whom, while she was listening and talking without intermission, her eyes occasionally strayed, and once or twice met those of Ormond.
“Is it indiscreet to ask you whether you passed your evening agreeably?” said M. de Connal, when the company had retired.
“Delightfully!” said Ormond: “the most agreeable evening I ever passed in my life!”
Then fearing that he had spoken with too much enthusiasm, and that the husband might observe that his eyes, as he spoke, involuntarily turned towards Madame de Connal, he moderated (he might have saved himself the trouble), he moderated his expression by adding, that as far as he could yet judge, he thought French society very agreeable.
“You have seen nothing yet — you are right not to judge hastily,” said Connal; “but so far, I am glad you are tolerably well satisfied.”
“Ah! oui, Monsieur Ormond,” cried Mademoiselle, joining them, “we shall fix you at Paris, I expect.”
“You hope, I suppose you mean, my dear aunt,” said Dora, with such flattering hope in her voice, and in the expression of her countenance, that Ormond decided that he “certainly intended to spend the winter at Paris.”
Connal, satisfied with this certainty, would have let Ormond go. But Mademoiselle had many compliments to make him and herself upon his pronunciation, and his fluency in speaking the French language — really like a Frenchman himself — the Marquis de Beaulieu had said to her: she was sure M. d’Ormond could not fail to succeed in Paris with that perfection added to all his other advantages. It was the greatest of all the advantages in the world — the greatest advantage in the universe, she was going on to say, but M. de Connal finished the flattery better.
“You would pity us, Ormond,” cried he, interrupting Mademoiselle, “if you could see and hear the Vandals they send to us from England with letters of introduction — barbarians, who can neither sit, stand, nor speak — nor even articulate the language. How many of these butors, rich, of good family, I have been sometimes called upon to introduce into society, and to present at court! Upon my honour it has happened to me to wish they might hang themselves out of my way, or be found dead in their beds the day I was to take them to Versailles.”
“It is really too great a tax upon the good-breeding of the lady of the house,” said Madame de Connal, “deplorable, when she has nothing better to say of an English guest than that ‘Ce monsieur là a un grand talent pour le silence.’”
Ormond, conscious that he had talked away at a great rate, was pleased by this indirect compliment.
“But such personnages mu?ts never really see French society. They never obtain more than a supper — not a petit souper— no, no, an invitation to a great assembly, where they see nothing. Milord Anglois is lost in the crowd, or stuck across a door-way by his own sword. Now, what could any letter of recommendation do for such a fellow as that?”
“The letters of recommendation which are of most advantage,” said Madame de Connal, “are those which are written in the countenance.”
Ormond had presence of mind enough not to bow, though the compliment was directed distinctly to him — a look of thanks he knew was sufficient. As he retired, Mademoiselle, pursuing him to the door, begged that he would come as early as he could next morning, that she might introduce him to her apartments, and explain to him all the superior conveniences of a French house. M. de Connal representing, however, that the next day Mr. Ormond was to go to Versailles, Mademoiselle acknowledged that was an affair to which all others must yield.
Well flattered by all the trio, and still more perhaps by his own vanity, our young hero was at last suffered to depart.
The first appearance at Versailles was a matter of great consequence. Court-dress was then an affair of as much importance at Paris as it seems to be now in London, if we may judge by the columns of birthday dresses, and the honourable notice of gentlemen’s coats and waistcoats. It was then at Paris, however, as it is now and ever will be all over the world, essential to the appearance of a gentleman, that whatever time, pains, or expense, it might have cost, he should, from the moment he is dressed, be, or at least seem to be, above his dress. In this as in most cases, the shortest and safest way to seem is to be. Our young hero being free from personal conceit, or overweening anxiety about his appearance, looked at ease. He called at the Hotel de Connal the day he was to go to Versailles, and Mademoiselle was in ecstasy at the sight of his dress, exclaiming, “superbe! — magnifique!”
M. de Connal seemed more struck with his air than his dress, and Dora, perhaps, was more pleased with his figure; she was silent, but it was a silence that spoke; her husband heeded not what it said, but, pursuing his own course, observed, that, to borrow the expression of Crepin, the valet~de-chambre, no contemptible judge in these cases, M. Ormond looked not only as if he was né coiffé, but as if he had been born with a sword by his side. “Really, my dear friend,” continued M. de Connal, “you look as if you had come at once full dressed into the world, which in our days is better than coming ready armed out of the head of Jupiter.”
Mdlle. O’Faley, now seizing upon Ormond, whom she called her pupil, carried him off, to show him her apartments and the whole house; which she did with many useful notes — pointing out the convenience and entire liberty that result from the complete separation of the apartments of the husband and wife in French houses.
“You see, Monsieur et Madame with their own staircases, their own passages, their own doors in and out, and all separate for the people of Monsieur, and the women of Madame, and here through this little door you go into the apartments of Madame.”
Ormond’s English foot stopped respectfully.
“Eh, entrez toujours,” said Mademoiselle, as the husband had said before at the door of the boudoir.
“But Madame de Connal is dressing, perhaps,” said Ormond.
“Et puis? — and what then? you must get rid as fast as you can of your English préjugés — and she is not here neither,” said Mademoiselle, opening the door.
Madame de Connal was in an inner apartment; and Ormond, the instant after he entered this room with Mademoiselle, heard a quick step, which he knew was Dora’s, running to bolt the door of the inner room — he was glad that she had not quite got rid of her English prejudices.
Mdlle. O’Faley pointed out to him all the accommodations of a French apartment: she had not at this moment the slightest malice or bad intention in any thing she was saying — she simply spoke in all the innocence of a Frenchwoman — if that term be intelligible. If she had any secret motive, it was merely the vanity of showing that she was quite Parisienne; and there again she was mistaken; for having lived half her life out of Paris, she had forgotten, if she ever had it, the tone of good society, and upon her return had overdone the matter, exaggerated French manners, to prove to her niece that she knew les usages, les convenances, les nuances — enfin, la mode de Paris! A more dangerous guide in Paris for a young married woman in every respect could scarcely be found.
M. de Connal’s valet now came to let Mr. Ormond know that Monsieur waited his orders. But for this interruption, he was in a fair way to hear all the private history of the family, all the secrets that Mademoiselle knew.
Of the amazing communicativeness of Frenchwomen on all subjects, our young hero had as yet no conception.
It was during the latter years of the life of Louis the Fifteenth, and during the reign of Madame du Barry, that Ormond was at Paris. The court of Versailles was at this time in all its splendour, if not in all its glory. At the souper du roi, Ormond beheld, in all the magnificence of dress and jewels, the nobility, wealth, fashion, and beauty of France. Well might the brilliancy dazzle the eyes of a youth fresh from Ireland, when it amazed even old ambassadors, accustomed to the ordinary grandeur of courts. When he recovered from his first astonishment, when his eyes were a little better used to the light, and he looked round and considered all these magnificently decorated personages, assembled for the purpose of standing at a certain distance to see one man eat his supper, it did appear to him an extraordinary spectacle; and the very great solemnity and devotion of the assistants, so unsuited to the French countenance, inclined him to smile. It was well for him, however, that he kept his Irish risible muscles in order, and that no courtier could guess his thoughts — a smile would have lost him his reputation. Nothing in the world appeared to Frenchmen, formerly, of more importance than their court etiquette, though there were some who began about this time to suspect that the court order of things might not be co-existent with the order of nature — though there were some philosophers and statesmen who began to be aware, that the daily routine of the courtier’s etiquette was not as necessary as the motions of the sun, moon, and planets. Nor could it have been possible to convince half at least of the crowd, who assisted at the king’s supper this night, that all the French national eagerness about the health, the looks, the words, of le roi, all the attachment, le dévouement, professed habitually — perhaps felt habitually — for the reigning monarch, whoever or whatever he might be, by whatever name — notre bon roi, or simply notre roi de France — should in a few years pass away, and be no more seen.
Ormond had no concern with the affairs of the nation, nor with the future fate of any thing he beheld: he was only a spectator, a foreigner; and his business was, according to Mademoiselle’s maxim, to enjoy to-day and to reflect to-morrow. His enjoyment of this day was complete: he not only admired, but was admired. In the vast crowd he was distinguished: some nobleman of note asked who he was — another observed l’air noble— another exclaimed, “Le bel Anglois!” and his fortune was made at Paris; especially as a friend of Madame du Barry’s asked where he bought his embroidery.
He went afterwards, at least in Connal’s society, by the name of “Le bel Anglois.” Half in a tone of raillery, yet with a look that showed she felt it to be just, Madame de Connal first adopted the appellation, and then changed the term to “mon bel Irlandois.” Invitations upon invitations poured upon Ormond — all were eager to have him at their parties — he was every where — attending Madame de Connal — and she, how proud to be attended by Ormond! He dreaded lest his principles should not withstand the strong temptation. He could not leave her, but he determined to see her only in crowds; accordingly, he avoided every select party: l’amie intime could never for the first three weeks get him to one petit comité, though Madame de Connal assured him that her friend’s petit soupers “were charming, worth all the crowded assemblies in Paris.” Still he pursued his plan, and sought for safety in a course of dissipation.
“I give you joy,” said Connal to him one day, “you are fairly launched! you are no distressed vessel to be taken in tow, nor a petty bark to sail in any man’s wake. You have a gale, and are likely to have a triumph of your own.” Connal was, upon all occasions, careful to impress upon Ormond’s mind, that he left him wholly to himself, for he was aware, that in former days, he had offended his independent spirit by airs of protection. He managed better now — he never even invited him to play, though it was his main object to draw him to his faro-table. He made use of some of his friends or confederates, who played for him: Connal occasionally coming to the table as an unconcerned spectator. Ormond played with so much freedom, and seemed to have so gentlemanlike an indifference whether he lost or won, that he was considered as an easy dupe. Time only was necessary, M. de Connal thought, to lead him on gradually and without alarm, to let him warm to the passion for play. Meanwhile Madame de Connal felt as fully persuaded that Ormond’s passion for her would increase. It was her object to fix him at Paris; but she should be content, perfectly happy with his friendship, his society, his sentiments: her own sentiment for him, as she confessed to Madame de Clairville, was absolutely invincible; but it should never lead her beyond the bounds of virtue. It was involuntary, but it should never be a crime.
Madame de Clairville, who understood her business, and spoke with all the fashionable cant of sensibility, asked how it was possible that an involuntary sentiment could ever be a crime?
As certainly as the novice among a band of sharpers is taught, by the technical language of the gang, to conquer his horror of crime, so certainly does the cant of sentiment operate upon the female novice, and vanquish her fear of shame and moral horror of vice.
The allusion is coarse — so much the better: strength, not elegance, is necessary on some occasions to make an impression. The truth will strike the good sense and good feelings of our countrywomen, and unadorned, they will prefer it to German or French sophistry. By such sophistry, however, was Dora insensibly led on.
But Ormond did not yet advance in learning the language of sentiment — he was amusing himself in the world — and Dora imagined that the dissipation in which he lived prevented him from having time to think of his passion: she began to hate the dissipation.
Connal one day, when Dora was present, observed that Ormond seemed to be quite in his natural element in this sea of pleasure.
“Who would have thought it?” said Dora: “I thought Mr. Ormond’s taste was more for domestic happiness and retirement.”
“Retirement at Paris!” said Ormond.
“Domestic happiness at Paris!” said Connal.
Madame de Connal sighed — No, it was Dora that sighed.
“Where do you go to-night?” said her husband.
“Nowhere — I shall stay at home. And you?” said she, looking up at Harry Ormond.
“To Madame de la Tour’s.”
“That’s the affair of half an hour — only to appear —”
“Afterwards to the opera,” said Ormond.
“And after the opera — can’t you sup here?” said Madame de Connal.
“With the utmost pleasure — but that I am engaged to Madame de la Brie’s ball.”
“That’s true,” cried Madame de Connal, starting up —“I had forgot it — so am I this fortnight — I may as well go to the opera, too, and I can carry you to Madame de la Tour’s — I owe her a five minutes’ sitting — though she is un peu precieuse. And what can you find in that little cold Madame de la Brie — do you like ice?”
“He like to break de ice, I suppose,” said Mademoiselle. “Ma foi, you must then take a hatchet there!”
“No occasion; I had rather slide upon the ice than break it. My business at Paris is merely, you know, to amuse myself,” said he, looking at Connal — “Glissez, mortels, n’appuyez pas.”
“But if de ice should melt of itself,” said Mademoiselle, “what would you do den? What would become of him, den, do you think, my dear niece?”
It was a case which she did not like to consider — Dora blushed — no creature was so blind as Mademoiselle, with all her boasted quickness and penetration.
From this time forward no more was heard of Madame de Connal’s taste for domestic life and retirement — she seemed quite convinced, either by her husband, or by Mr. Ormond, or both, that no such thing was practicable at Paris. She had always liked le grand monde — she liked it better now than ever, when she found Ormond in every crowded assembly, every place of public amusement — a continual round of breakfasts, dinners, balls — court balls — bal masqué— bal de l’opera — plays — grand entertainments — petits soupers — fêtes at Versailles — pleasure in every possible form and variety of luxury and extravagance succeeded day after day, and night after night — and Ormond, le bel Irlandois, once in fashion, was every where, and every where admired; flattered by the women, who wished to draw him in to be their partners at play — still more flattered by those who wished to engage him as a lover — most of all flattered by Dora. he felt his danger. Improved in coquetry by Parisian practice and power, Dora tried her utmost skill — she played off with great dexterity her various admirers to excite his jealousy: the Marquis de Beaulieu, the witty marquis, and the Count de Belle Chasse, the irresistible count, were dangerous rivals. She succeeded in exciting Ormond’s jealousy; but in his noble mind there were strong opposing principles to withstand his selfish gratification. It was surprising with what politeness to each other, with how little love, all the suitors carried on this game of gallantry and competition of vanity.
Till Ormond appeared, it had been the general opinion that before the end of the winter or the spring, the Count de Belle Chasse would be triumphant. Why Ormond did not enter the lists, when there appeared to all the judges such a chance of his winning the prize, seemed incomprehensible to the spectators, and still more to the rival candidates. Some settled it with the exclamation “Inou?!” Others pronounced that it was English bizarrerie. Every thing seemed to smooth the slippery path of temptation — the indifference of her husband — the imprudence — of her aunt, and the sophistry of Madame de Clairville — the general customs of French society — the peculiar profligacy of the society into which he happened to be thrown — the opinion which he saw prevailed, that if he withdrew from the competition a rival would immediately profit by his forbearance, conspired to weaken his resolution.
Many accidental circumstances concurred to increase the danger. At these balls, to which he went originally to avoid Dora in smaller parties, Madame de Connal, though she constantly appeared, seldom danced. She did not dance well enough to bear comparison with French dancers; Ormond was in the same situation. The dancing which was very well in England would not do in Paris — no late lessons could, by any art, bring them to an equality with French nature.
“Ah, il ne danse pas! — He dances like an Englishman.” At the first ball this comforted the suitors, and most the Comte de Belle Chasse; but this very circumstance drew Ormond and Dora closer together — she pretended headaches, and languor, and lassitude, and, in short, sat still.
But it was not to be expected that the Comte de Belle Chasse could give up dancing: the Comte de Belle Chasse danced like le dieu de la danse, another Vestris; he danced every night, and Ormond sat and talked to Dora, for it was his duty to attend Madame when the little Abbé was out of the way.
The spring was now appearing, and the spring is delightful in Paris, and the promenades in the Champs Elysées, and in the Bois de Boulogne, and the promenade in Long-Champ, commenced. Riding was just coming into high fashion with the French ladies; and, instead of riding in men’s clothes, and like a man, it was now the ambition de monter à cheval à l’Angloise: to ride on a side-saddle and in an English riding habit was now the ambition. Now Dora, though she could not dance as well, could ride better than any French woman; and she was ambitious to show herself and her horsemanship in the Bois de Boulogne: but she had no horse that she liked. Le Comte de Belle Chasse offered to get one broke for her at the king’s riding-house — this she refused: but fortunately Ormond, as was the custom with the English at that time, had, after his arrival, some English horses brought over to him at Paris. Among these was the horse he had once broke for Dora.
For this an English side-saddle was procured — she was properly equipped and mounted.
And the two friends, le bel Irlandois, as they persisted in calling Ormond, and la belle Irlandoise, and their horses, and their horsemanship, were the admiration of the promenade.
The Comte de Belle Chasse sent to London for an English horse at any price. He was out of humour — and Ormond in the finest humour imaginable. Dora was grateful; her horse was a beautiful, gentle-spirited creature: it was called Harry — it was frequently patted and caressed, and told how much it was valued and loved.
Ormond was now in great danger, because he felt himself secure that he was only a friend —l’ami de la maison.
There was a picture of Dagote’s which was at this moment an object of fashionable curiosity in Paris. It was a representation of one of the many charitable actions of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, “then Dauphiness — at that time full of life, and splendour, and joy, adorning and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in;” and yet diffusing life, and hope, and joy, in that lower sphere, to which the radiance of the great and happy seldom reaches. The Dauphiness was at that time the pride of France, and the darling of Paris; not only worshipped by the court, but loved by the people. While she was Dauphiness, and during the commencement of her reign, every thing, even disastrous accidents, and the rigour of the season, served to give her fresh opportunity of winning the affection and exciting the enthusiasm of the people. When, during the festivities on her marriage, hundreds were crushed to death by the fall of a temporary building, the sensibility of the Dauphiness, the eagerness with which she sent all her money to the lieutenant de police for the families of those who had perished, conciliated the people, and turned even the evil presage to good. Again, during a severe frost, her munificence to the suffering poor excited such gratitude, that the people erected to her honour a vast pyramid of snow — Frail memorial! —“These marks of respect were almost as transitory as the snowy pyramid.”
Ormond went with Mademoiselle O’Faley one morning to see the picture of the Dauphiness; and he had now an opportunity of seeing a display of French sensibility, that eagerness to feel and to excite a sensation; that desire to produce an effect, to have a scene; that half real, half theatric enthusiasm, by which the French character is peculiarly distinguished from the English. He was perfectly astonished by the quantity of exclamations he heard at the sight of this picture; the lifting up of hands and eyes, the transports, the ecstasies, the tears — the actual tears that he saw streaming in despite of rouge. It was real! and it was not real feeling! Of one thing he was clear — that this superfluity of feeling or exaggeration of expression completely silenced him, and made him cold indeed: like one unskilled or dumb he seemed to stand.
“But are you of marble?” cried Mademoiselle —“where is your sensibilité then?”
“I hope it is safe at the bottom of my heart,” said Ormond; “but when it is called for, I cannot always find it — especially on these public occasions.”
“Ah! but what good all the sensibilité in the world do at the bottom of your heart, where nobody see it? It is on these public occasions too, you must always contrive and find it quick at Paris, or after all you will seem but an Englishman.”
“I must be content to seem and to be what I am,” said Ormond, in a tone of playful but determined resignation.
“Bon!” said a voice near him. Mademoiselle went off in impatience to find some better auditor — she did not hear the “Bon.”
Ormond turned, and saw near him a gentleman, whom he had often met at some of the first houses in Paris — the Abbé Morellet, then respected as the most reasonable of all the wits of France, and who has since, through all the trying scenes of the revolution, through the varieties of unprincipled change, preserved unaltered the integrity and frankness of his character; retaining even to his eighty-seventh year all his characteristic warmth of heart and clearness of understanding —le doyen de la littérature Fran?oise— the love, respect, and admiration, of every honest heart in France. May he live to receive among all the other tributes, which his countrymen pay publicly and privately to his merit, this record of the impression his kindness left on grateful English hearts!
Our young hero had often desired to be acquainted with the Abbé; but the Abbé had really hitherto passed him over as a mere young man of fashion, a mere Milord Anglois, one of the ephemeral race, who appear in Parisian society, vanish, and leave no trace behind. But now he did him the honour to enter into conversation with him. The Abbé peculiarly disliked all affectation of sentiment and exaggeration: they were revolting to his good sense, good taste, and feeling. Ormond won directly his good opinion and good-will, by having insisted upon it to Mademoiselle, that he would not for the sake of fashion or effect pretend to feel more than he really did.
“Bah!” said the Abbé, “hear all those women now and all those men — they do not know what they are saying — they make me sick. And, besides, I am afraid these flattering courtiers will do no good to our young Dauphiness, on whom so much of the future happiness or misery of France will depend. Her heart is excellent, and they tell me she announces a strong character; but what head of a young beauty and a young Queen will be able to withstand perpetual flattery? They will lead her wrong, and then will be the first to desert her — trust me, I know Paris. All this might change as quickly as the turn of a weathercock; but I will not trouble you with forebodings perhaps never to be realized. You see Paris, Monsieur, at a fortunate time,” continued he; “society is now more agreeable, has more freedom, more life and variety, than at any other period that I can remember.”
Ormond replied by a just compliment to the men of letters, who at this period added so much to the brilliancy and pleasure of Parisian society.
“But you have seen nothing of our men of literature, have you?” said the Abbé.
“Much less than I wish. I meet them frequently in society, but as, unluckily, I have no pretensions to their notice, I can only catch a little of their conversation, when I am fortunate enough to be near them.”
“Yes,” said the Abbé, with his peculiar look and tone of good-natured irony, “between the pretty things you are saying and hearing from — Fear nothing, I am not going to name any one, but — every pretty woman in company. I grant you it must be difficult to hear reason in such a situation — as difficult almost as in the midst of the din of all the passions at the faro-table. I observe, however, that you play with astonishing coolness — there is something still — wanting. Excuse me — but you interest me, monsieur; the determination not to play at all —
“Beyond a certain sum I have resolved never to play,” said Ormond.
“Ah! but the appetite grows — l’appetit vient en mangeant — the danger is in acquiring the taste — excuse me if I speak too freely.”
“Not at all — you cannot oblige me more. But there is no danger of my acquiring a taste for play, because I am determined to lose.”
“Bon!” said the Abbé; “that is the most singular determination I ever heard: explain that to me, then, Monsieur.”
“I have determined to lose a certain sum — suppose five hundred guineas. I have won and lost backwards and forwards, and have been longer about it than you would conceive to be probable; but it is not lost yet. The moment it is, I shall stop short. By this means I have acquired all the advantages of yielding to the fashionable madness, without risking my future happiness.”
The Abbé was pleased with the idea, and with the frankness and firmness of our young hero.
“Really, Monsieur,” said he, “you must have a strong head — you, le bel Irlandois — to have prevented it from being turned with all the flattery you have received in Paris. There is nothing which gets into the head — worse still, into the heart — so soon, so dangerously, as the flattery of pretty women. And yet I declare you seem wonderfully sober, considering.”
“Ne jurez pas,” said Ormond; “but at least in one respect I have not quite lost my senses; I know the value and feel the want of a safe, good guide in Paris: if I dared to ask such a favour, I should, since he has expressed some interest for me, beg to be permitted to cultivate the acquaintance of M. l’Abbé Morellet.”
“Ah ?a — now my head will turn, for no head can stand the dose of flattery that happens to suit the taste. I am particularly flattered by the idea of being a safe, good friend; and frankly, if I can be of any service to you, I will. Is there any thing I can do for you?”
Ormond thanked him, and told him that it was his great ambition to become acquainted with the celebrated men of literature in Paris — he said he should feel extremely obliged if M. Morellet would take occasion to introduce him to any of them they might meet in society.
“We must do better for you,” said the abbé—“we must show you our men of letters.” He concluded by begging Ormond to name a day when he could do him the honour to breakfast with him. “I will promise you Marmontel, at least; for he is just going to be married to my niece, and of him we shall be secure: as to the rest I will promise nothing, but do as much as I can.”
The men of letters about this period in Paris, as the Abbé explained to Ormond, began to feel their own power and consequence, and had assumed a tone of independence, as yet tempered with due respect for rank. Many of them lived or were connected with men of rank, by places about the court, by secretaryships and pensions, obtained through court influence. Some were attached by early friendship to certain great families; had apartments to themselves in their hotels, where they received what friends they pleased; and, in short, lived as if they were at home. Their company was much sought for by the great; and they enjoyed good houses, good tables, carriages, all the conveniences of life, and all the luxuries of the rich, without the trouble of an establishment. Their mornings were their own, usually employed in study; and the rest of the day they gave themselves to society. The most agreeable period of French literary society was, perhaps, while this state of things lasted.
The Abbé Morellet’s breakfast was very agreeable; and Ormond saw at his house what had been promised him, many of the literary men at Paris. Voltaire was not then in France; and Rousseau, who was always quarrelling with somebody, and generally with every body, could not be prevailed upon to go to this breakfast. Ormond was assured that he lost nothing by not seeing him, or by not hearing his conversation, for that it was by no means equal to his writings; his temper was so susceptible and wayward, that he was not fit for society — neither capable of enjoying, nor of adding to its pleasures. Ormond heard, perhaps, more of Rousseau and Voltaire, and learnt more of their characters, by the anecdotes that were related, and the bon-mots that were repeated, than he could have done if they had been present. There was great variety of different characters and talents at this breakfast; and the Abbé amused himself by making his young friend guess who the people were, before he told their names. It was happy for Ormond that he was acquainted with some of their writings (this he owed to Lady Annaly’s well-chosen present of French books). He was fortunate in his first guess — Marivaux’s conversation was so like the style of his writings, so full of hair-breadth distinctions, subtle exceptions, and metaphysical refinement and digressions, that Ormond soon guessed him, and was applauded for his quickness. Marmontel he discovered, by his being the only man in the room who had not mentioned to him any of “Les Contes Moraux.” But there was one person who set all his skill at defiance: he pronounced that he was no author — that he was l’ami de la maison: he was so indeed wherever he went — but he was both a man of literature, and a man of deep science — no less a person than the great D’Alembert. Ormond thought D’Alembert and Marmontel were the two most agreeable men in company. D’Alembert was simple, open-hearted, unpresuming, and cheerful in society. Far from being subject to that absence of mind with which profound mathematicians are sometimes reproached, D’Alembert was present to every thing that was going forward — every trifle he enjoyed with the zest of youth, and the playfulness of childhood. Ormond confessed that he should never have guessed that he was a great mathematician and profound calculator.
Marmontel was distinguished for combining in his conversation, as in his character, two qualities for which there are no precise English words, na?veté and finesse. Whoever is acquainted with Marmontel’s writings must have a perfect knowledge of what is meant by both.
It was fortunate for our young hero that Marmontel was, at this time, no longer the dissipated man he had been during too great a period of his life. He had now returned to his early tastes for simple pleasures and domestic virtues — had formed that attachment which afterwards made the happiness of his life: he was just going to be married to the amiable Mdlle. Montigny, a niece of the Abbé Morellet. She and her excellent mother lived with him; and Ormond was most agreeably surprised and touched at the unexpected sight of an amiable, united, happy family, when he had expected only a meeting of literati.
The sight of this domestic happiness reminded him of the Annalys — brought the image of Florence to his mind. If she had been but sincere, how he should have preferred her to all he had seen!
It came upon him just at the right moment. It contrasted with all the dissipation he had seen, and it struck him the more strongly, because it could not possibly have been prepared as a moral lesson to make an impression. He saw the real, natural course of things — he heard in a few hours the result of the experience of a man of great vivacity, great talents, who had led a life of pleasure, and who had had opportunities of seeing and feeling all that it could possibly afford, at the period of the greatest luxury and dissipation ever known in France. No evidence could be stronger than Marmontel’s in favour of virtue and of domestic life, nor could any one express it with more grace and persuasive eloquence.
It did Ormond infinite good. He required such a lesson at this juncture, and he was capable of taking it — it recalled him to his better self.
The good Abbé seemed to see something of what in Ormond’s mind, and became still more interested about him.
“Ah, ?a,” said he to Marmontel, as soon as Ormond was gone, “that young man is worth something: I thought he was only le bel Irlandois, but I find he is much more. We must do what we can for him, and not let him leave Paris, as so many do, having seen only the worst part of our society.”
Marmontel, who had also been pleased with him, was willing, he said, to do any thing in his power; but he could scarcely hope that they had the means of withdrawing from the double attraction of the faro-table and coquetry, a young man of that age and figure.
“Fear nothing, or rather hope every thing,” said the Abbé: “his head and his heart are more in our favour, trust me, than his age and his figure are against us. To begin, my good Marmontel, did not you see how much he was struck and edified by your reformation?”
“Ah! if there was another Mdlle. de Montigny for him, I should fear nothing, or rather hope every thing,” said Marmontel “but where shall he find such another in all Paris?”
“In his own country, perhaps, all in good time,” said the Abbé.
“In his own country? — True,” cried Marmontel, “now you recall it to my mind, how eager he grew in disputing with Marivaux upon the distinction between aimable and amiable. His description of an amiable woman, according to the English taste, was, I recollect, made con amore; and there was a sigh at the close which came from the heart, and which showed the heart was in England or Ireland.”
“Wherever his heart is, c’est bien placé,” said the Abbé. “I like him — we must get him into good company — he is worthy to be acquainted with your amiable and aimable Madame de Beauveau and Madame de Seran.”
“True,” said Marmontel; “and for the honour of Paris, we must convince him that he has taken up false notions, and that there is such a thing as conjugal fidelity and domestic happiness here.”
“Bon. That is peculiarly incumbent on the author of Les Contes Moraux,” said the Abbé.
It happened, fortunately for our hero, that Madame de Connal was, about this time, engaged to pass a fortnight at the country house of Madame de Clairville. During her absence, the good Abbé had time to put in execution all his benevolent intentions, and introduced his young friend to some of the really good company of Paris. He pointed out to him at Madame Geoffrin’s, Madame de Tencin’s, Madame du Detfand’s, and Madame Trudaine’s, the difference between the society at the house of a rich farmer general — or at the house of one connected with the court, and with people in place and political power — and the society of mixed rank and literature. The mere passing pictures of these things, to one who was not to live in Paris, might not, perhaps, except as a matter of curiosity, be of much value; but his judicious friend led Ormond from these to make comparisons and deductions which were of use to him all his life afterwards.
One morning when Ormond awoke, the first thing he heard was, that a person from Ireland was below, who was very impatient to see him. It was Patrickson, Sir Ulick O’Shane’s confidential man of business.
“What news from Castle Hermitage?” cried Ormond, starting up in his bed, surprised at the sight of Patrickson.
“The best that can be — never saw Sir Ulick in such heart — he has a share of the loan, and —”
“And what news of the Annalys?” interrupted Ormond.
“I know nothing about them at all, sir,” said Patrickson, who was a methodical man of business, and whose head was always intent upon what he called the main chance. “I have been in Dublin, and heard no country news.”
“But have you no letter for me? and what brings you over so suddenly to Paris?”
“I have a letter for you somewhere here, sir — only I have so many ’tis hard to find,” said Patrickson, looking carefully over a parcel of letters in his pocket-book, but with such a drawling slowness of manner as put Ormond quite out of patience. Patrickson laid the letters on the bed one by one. “That’s not it — and that’s not it; that’s for Monsieur un tel, marchand, rue ——; that packet’s from the Hamburgh merchants — What brings me over? — Why, sir, I have business enough, Heaven knows!”
Patrickson was employed not only by Sir Ulick O’Shane, but by many Dublin merchants and bankers, to settle business for them with different houses on the continent. Ormond, without listening to the various digressions he made concerning the persons of mercantile consequence to whom the letters were addressed, or from whom they were answers, pounced upon the letter in Sir Ulick’s handwriting directed to himself, and tore it open eagerly, to see if there was any news of the Annalys. None — they were in Devonshire. The letter was merely a few lines on business — Sir Ulick had now the opportunity he had foreseen of laying out Ormond’s money in the loan most advantageously for him; but there had been an omission in the drawing up of his power of attorney, which had been done in such a hurry on Ormond’s leaving home. It gave power only to sell out of the Three per Cents.; whereas much of Ormond’s money was in the Four per Cents. Another power, Patrickson said, was necessary, and he had brought one for him to sign. Patrickson in his slow manner descanted upon the folly of signing papers in a hurry, just when people were getting into carriages, which was always the way with young gentlemen, he said. He took care that Ormond should do nothing in a hurry now; for he put on his spectacles, and read the power, sparing him not a syllable of the law forms and repetitions. Ormond wrote a few kind lines to Sir Ulick, and earnestly besought him to find out something more about the Annalys. If Miss Annaly were married, it must have appeared in the papers. What delayed the marriage? Was Colonel Albemarle dismissed or accepted? — Where was he? — Ormond said he would be content if Sir Ulick could obtain an answer to that single plain question.
All the time Ormond was writing, Patrickson never stirred his forefinger from the spot where the signature was to be written at the bottom of the power of attorney.
“Pray,” said Ormond, looking up from the paper he going to sign, “pray, Patrickson, are you really and truly an Irishman?”
“By the father’s side, I apprehend, sir — but my mother was English. Stay, sir, if you please — I must witness it.”
“Witness away,” said Ormond; and after having signed this paper, empowering Sir Ulick to sell 30,000 l. out of the Four per cents., Ormond lay down, and wishing him a good journey, settled himself to sleep; while Patrickson, packing up his papers, deliberately said, “He hoped to be in London in short; but that he should go by Havre de Grace, and that he should be happy to execute any commands for Mr. Ormond there or in Dublin.” More he would have said, but finding Ormond by this time past reply, he left the room on tiptoe. The next morning Madame de Connal returned from the country, and sent Ormond word that she should expect him at her assembly that night.
Every body complimented Madame de Connal upon the improvement which the country air had made in her beauty — even her husband was struck with it, and paid her his compliments on the occasion; but she stood conversing so long with Ormond, that the faro-players grew impatient: she led him to the table, but evidently had little interest herself in the game. He played at first with more than his usual success, but late at night his fortune suddenly changed; he lost — lost — till at last he stopped, and rising from table, said he had no more money, and he could play no longer. Connal, who was not one of the players, but merely looking on, offered to lend him any sum he pleased. “Here’s a rouleau — here are two rouleaus — what will you have?” said Connal.
Ormond declined playing any more: he said that he had lost the sum he had resolved to lose, and there he would stop. Connal did not urge him, but laughing said, that a resolution to lose at play was the most extraordinary he had ever heard.
“And yet you see I have kept it,” said Ormond.
“Then I hope you will next make a resolution to win,” said Connal, “and no doubt you will keep that as well — I prophesy that you will; and you will give fortune fair play to-morrow night.” Ormond simply repeated that he should play no more. Madame de Connal soon afterwards rose from the table, and went to talk to Mr. Ormond. She said she was concerned for his loss at play this night. He answered, as he felt, that it was a matter of no consequence to him — that he had done exactly what he had determined; that in the course of the whole time he had been losing this money he had had a great deal of amusement in society, had seen a vast deal of human nature and manners, which he could not otherwise have seen, and that he thought his money exceedingly well employed.
“But you shall not lose your money,” said Dora; “when next you play it shall be on my account as well as your own — you know this is not only a compliment, but a solid advantage. The bank has certain advantages — and it is fair that you should share them. I must explain to you,” continued Madame de Connal —“they are all busy about their own affairs, and we may speak in English at our ease — I must explain to you, that a good portion of my fortune has been settled, so as to be at my own disposal — my aunt, you know, has also a good fortune — we are partners, and put a considerable sum into the faro bank. We find it answers well. You see how handsomely we live. M. de Connal has his own share. We have nothing to do with that. If you would take my advice,” continued she, speaking in a very persuasive tone, “instead of forswearing play, as you seem inclined to do at the first reverse of fortune, you would join forces with us; you cannot imagine that I would advise you to any thing which I was not persuaded would be advantageous to you — you little know how much I am interested.” She checked herself, blushed, hesitated, and hurried on —“you have no ties in Ireland — you seem to like Paris — where can you spend your time more agreeably?”
“More agreeably — nowhere upon earth!” cried Ormond. Her manner, tone, and look, at this moment were so flattering, so bewitching, that he was scarcely master of himself. They went to the boudoir — the company had risen from the faro-table, and, one after another, had most of them departed. Connal was gone — only a few remained in a distant apartment, listening to some music. It was late. Ormond had never till this evening stayed later than the generality of the company, but he had now an excuse to himself, something that he had long wished to have an opportunity of saying to Dora, when she should be quite alone; it was a word of advice about le Comte de Belle Chasse — her intimacy with him was beginning to be talked of. She had been invited to a bal paré at the Spanish ambassador’s for the ensuing night — but she had more inclination to go to a bal masqué, as Ormond had heard her declare. Now certain persons had whispered that it was to meet the Comte de Belle Chasse that she intended to go to this ball; and Ormond feared that such whispers might be injurious to her reputation. It was difficult to him to speak, because the counsels of the friend might be mistaken for the jealous fears of a lover. With some embarrassment he delicately, timidly, hinted his apprehensions.
Dora, though naturally of a temper apt to take alarm at the touch of blame, and offence at the tone of advice, now in the most graceful manner thanked her friend for his counsel; said she was flattered, gratified, by the interest it showed in her happiness — and she immediately yielded her will, her fantaisie, to his better judgment. This compliance, and the look with which it was accompanied, convinced him of the absolute power he possessed over her heart. He was enchanted with Dora — she never looked so beautiful; never before, not even in the first days of his early youth, had he felt her beauty so attractive.
“Dear Madame de Connal, dear Dora!” he exclaimed.
“Call me Dora,” said she: “I wish ever to be Dora to Harry Ormond. Oh! Harry, my first, my best, my only friend, I have enjoyed but little real happiness since we parted.”
Tears filled her fine eyes — no longer knowing where he was, Harry Ormond found himself at her feet. But while he held and kissed in transport the beautiful hand, which was but feebly withdrawn, he seemed to be suddenly shocked by the sight of one of the rings on her finger.
“My wedding-ring,” said Dora, with a sigh. “Unfortunate marriage!”
That was not the ring on which Ormond’s eyes were fixed.
“Dora, whose gray hair is this?”
“My father’s,” said Dora, in a tremulous voice.
“Your father!” cried Ormond, starting up. The full recollection of that fond father, that generous benefactor, that confiding friend, rushed upon his heart.
“And is this the return I make! — Oh, if he could see us at this instant!”
“And if he could,” cried Dora, “oh! how he would admire and love you, Ormond, and how he would —”
Her voice failed, and with a sudden motion she hid her face with both her hands.
“He would see you, Dora, without a guide, protector, or friend; surrounded with admirers, among profligate men, and women still more profligate, yet he would see that you have preserved a reputation of which your father would be proud.”
“My father! oh, my poor father!” cried Dora: “Oh! generous, dear, ever generous Ormond!”
Bursting into tears — alternate passions seizing her — at one moment the thoughts of her father, the next of her lover, possessed her imagination.
At this instant the noise of some one approaching recalled them both to their senses. They were found in earnest conversation about a party of pleasure that was to be arranged for the next day. Madame de Connal made Ormond promise that he would come the next morning, and settle every thing with M. de Connal for their intended expedition into the country.
The next day, as Ormond was returning to Madame de Connal’s, with the firm intention of adhering to the honourable line of conduct he had traced out for himself, just as he was crossing the Pont Neuf, some one ran full against him. Surprised at what happens so seldom in the streets of Paris, where all meet, pass, or cross, in crowds with magical celerity and address, he looked back, and at the same instant the person who had passed looked back also. An apparition in broad daylight could not have surprised Ormond more than the sight of this person. “Could it be — could it possibly be Moriarty Carroll, on the Pont Neuf in Paris?”
“By the blessing, then, it’s the man himself — Master Harry! — though I didn’t know him through the French disguise. Oh! master, then, I’ve been tried and cast, and all but hanged — sentenced to Botany — transported any way — for a robbery I didn’t commit — since I saw you last. But your honour’s uneasy, and it’s not proper, I know, to be stopping a jantleman in the street; but I have a word to say that will bear no delay, not a minute.”
Ormond’s surprise and curiosity increased — he desired Moriarty to follow him.
“And now, Moriarty, what is it you have to say?”
“It is a long story, then, please your honour. I was transported to Botany, though innocent. But first and foremost for what consarns your honour first.”
“First,” said Ormond, “if you were transported, how came you here?”
“Because I was not transported, plase your honour — only sentenced — for I escaped from Kilmainham, where I was sent to be put on board the tender; but I got on board of an American ship, by the help of a friend — and this ship being knocked against the rocks, I came safe ashore in this country on one of the sticks of the vessel: so when I knowed it was France I was in, and recollected Miss Dora that was married in Paris, I thought if I could just make my way any hows to Paris, she’d befriend me in case of need.
“But, dear master,” said Moriarty, interrupting, “it’s a folly to talk — I’ll not tell you a word more of myself till you hear the news I have for you. The worst news I have to tell you is, there is great fear of the breaking of Sir Ulick’s bank!”
“The breaking of Sir Ulick’s bank? I heard from him the day before yesterday.”
“May be you did; but the captain of the American ship in which I came was complaining of his having been kept two hours at that bank, where they were paying large sums in small notes, and where there was the greatest run upon the house that ever was seen.”
Ormond instantly saw his danger — he recollected the power of attorney he had signed two days before. But Patrickson was to go by Havre de Grace — that would delay him. It was possible that Ormond by setting out instantly might get to London time enough to save his property. He went directly and ordered post horses. He had no debts in Paris, nothing to pay, but for his stables and lodging. He had a faithful servant, whom he could leave behind, to make all necessary arrangements.
“You are right, jewel, to be in a hurry,” said Carroll. “But sure you won’t leave poor Moriarty behind ye here in distress, when he has no friend in the wide world but yourself?”
“Tell me, in the first place, Moriarty, are you innocent?”
“Upon my conscience, master, I am perfectly innocent as the child unborn, both of the murder and the robbery. If your honour will give me leave, I’ll tell you the whole story.”
“That will be a long affair, Moriarty, if you talk out of the face, as you used to do. I will, however, find an opportunity to hear it all. But, in the meantime, stay where you are till I return.”
Ormond went instantly to Connal’s, to inform him of what had happened. His astonishment was obviously mixed with disappointment. But to do him justice, besides the interest which he really had in the preservation of the fortune, he felt some personal regard for Ormond himself.
“What shall we do without you?” said he. “I assure you, Madame and I have never been so happy together since the first month after our marriage as we have been since you came to Paris.”
Connal was somewhat consoled by hearing Ormond say, that if he were time enough in London to save his fortune, he proposed returning immediately to Paris, intending to make the tour of Switzerland and Italy.
Connal had no doubt that they should yet be able to fix him at Paris.
Madame de Connal and Mademoiselle were out — Connal did not know where they were gone. Ormond was glad to tear himself away with as few adieus as possible. He got into his travelling carriage, put his servant on the box, and took Moriarty with him in the carriage, that he might relate his history at leisure.
“Plase your honour,” said Moriarty, “Mr. Marcus never missed any opportunity of showing me ill-will. The supercargo of the ship that was cast away, when you were with Sir Herbert Annaly, God rest his soul! came down to the sea-side to look for some of the things that he had lost: the day after he came, early in the morning, his horse, and bridle, and saddle, and a surtout coat, was found in a lane, near the place where we lived, and the supercargo was never heard any more of. Suspicion fell upon many — the country rung with the noise that was made about this murder — and at last I was taken up for it, because people had seen me buy cattle at the fair, and the people would not believe it was with money your honour sent me by the good parson — for the parson was gone out of the country, and I had nobody to stand my friend; for Mr. Marcus was on the grand jury, and the sheriff was his friend, and Sir Ulick was in Dublin, at the bank. Howsomdever, after a long trial, which lasted the whole day, a ‘cute lawyer on my side found out that there was no proof that any body had been murdered, and that a man might lose his horse, his saddle, and his bridle, and his big coat, without being kilt: so that the judge ordered the jury to let me off for the murder. They then tried me for the robbery; and sure enough that went again me: for a pair of silver-mounted pistols, with the man’s name engraved upon them, was found in my house. They knew the man’s name by the letters in the big coat. The judge asked me what I had to say for myself: ‘My lard,’ says I, ‘those pistols were brought into my house about a fortnight ago, by a little boy, one little Tommy Dunshaughlin, who found them in a punk-horn, at the edge of a bog-hole.’
“The jidge favoured me more than the jury — for he asked how old the boy was, and whether I could produce him? The little fellow was brought into court, and it was surprising how clear he told his story. The jidge listened to the child, young as he was. But M’Crule was on the jury, and said that he knew the child to be as cunning as any in Ireland, and that he would not believe a word that came out of his mouth. So the short and the long of it was, I was condemned to be transported.
“It would have done you good, if you’d heard the cry in the court when sentence was given, for I was loved in the country. Poor Peggy and Sheelah! — But I’ll not be troubling your honour’s tender heart with our parting. I was transmuted to Dublin, to be put on board the tender, and lodged in Kilmainham, waiting for the ship that was to go to Botany. I had not been long there, when another prisoner was brought to the same room with me. He was a handsome-looking man, about thirty years of age, of the most penetrating eye and determined countenance that I ever saw. He appeared to be worn down with ill-health, and his limbs much swelled: notwithstanding which, he had strong handcuffs on his wrists, and he seemed to be guarded with uncommon care. He begged the turnkey to lay him down upon the miserable iron bed that was in the cell; and he begged him, for God’s sake, to let him have a jug of water by his bedside, and to leave him to his fate.
“I could not help pitying this poor cratur; I went to him, and offered him any assistance in my power. He answered me shortly, ‘What are you here for?’— I told him. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘whether you are guilty or not, is your affair, not mine; but answer me at once — are you a good man? — Can you go through with a thing? — and are you steel to the back-bone?’—‘I am,’ said I. ‘Then,’ said he, ‘you are a lucky man — for he that is talking to you is Michael Dunne, who knows how to make his way out of any jail in Ireland.’ Saying this, he sprung with great activity from the bed. ‘It is my cue,’ said he, ‘to be sick and weak, whenever the turnkey comes in, to put him off his guard — for they have all orders to watch me strictly; because as how, do you see, I broke out of the jail of Trim; and when they catched me, they took me before his honour the police magistrate, who did all he could to get out of me the way which I made my escape.’ ‘Well,’ says the magistrate, ‘I’ll put you in a place where you can’t get out — till you’re sent to ‘Botany.’ ‘Plase your worship,’ says I, ‘if there’s no offence in saying it, there’s no such place in Ireland.’—‘No such place as what?’ ‘No such place as will hold Michael Dunne.’—‘What do you think of Kilmainbam?’ says he. ‘I think it’s a fine jail — and it will be no asy matter to get out of it — but it is not impossible.’—‘Well, Mr. Dunne,’ said the magistrate, ‘I have heard of your fame, and that you have secrets of your own for getting out. Now, if you’ll tell me how you got out of the jail of Trim, I’ll make your confinement at Kilmainham as asy as may be, so as to keep you safe; and if you do not, you must be ironed, and I will have sentinels from an English regiment, who shall be continually changed: so that you can’t get any of them to help you.’—‘Plase your worship,’ said Dunne, ‘that’s very hard usage; but I know as how that you are going to build new jails all over Ireland, and that you’d be glad to know the best way to make them secure. If your worship will promise me that if I get out of Kilmainham, and if I tell you how I do it, then you’ll get me a free pardon, I’ll try hard but what before three months are over I’ll be a prisoner at large.’—‘That’s more than I can promise you,’ said the magistrate; ‘but if you will disclose to me the best means of keeping other people in, I will endeavour to keep you from Botany Bay.’—‘Now, sir,’ says Dunne, ‘I know your worship to be a man of honour, and that your own honour regards yourself, and not me; so that if I was ten times as bad as I am, you’d keep your promise with me, as well as if I was the best gentleman in Ireland. So that now, Mr. Moriarty,’ said Dunne, ‘do you see, if I get out, I shall be safe; and if you get out along with me, you have nothing to do but to go over to America. And if you are a married man, and tired of your wife, you’ll get rid of her. If you are not tired of her, and you have any substance, she may sell it and follow you.’
“There was something, Master Harry, about the man that made me have great confidence in him — and I was ready to follow his advice. Whenever the turnkey was coming he was groaning and moaning on the bed. At other times he made me keep bathing his wrists with cold water, so that in three or four days they were not half the size they were at first. This change he kept carefully from the jailor. I observed that he frequently asked what day of the month it was, but that he never made any attempt to speak to the sentinels; nor did he seem to make any preparation, or to lay any scheme for getting out. I held my tongue, and waited qui’tely. At last, he took out of his pocket a little flageolet, and began to play upon it. He asked me if I could play: I said I could a little, but very badly. ‘I don’t care how bad it is, if you can play at all.’ He got off the bed where he was lying, and with the utmost ease pulled his hands out of his handcuffs. Besides the swelling of his wrists having gone down, he had some method of getting rid of his thumb that I never could understand. Says I, ‘Mr. Dunne, the jailor will miss the fetters,’—‘No,’ said he, ‘for I will put them on again;’ and so he did, with great ease. ‘Now,’ said he, ‘it is time to begin our work.’
“He took off one of his shoes, and taking out the in-sole, he showed me a hole, that was cut where the heel was, in which there was a little small flat bottle, which he told me was the most precious thing in life. And under the rest of the sole there were a number of saws, made of watch spring, that lay quite flat and snug under his foot. The next time the turnkey came in, he begged, for the love of God, to have a pipe and some tobacco, which was accordingly granted to him. What the pipes and tobacco were for, I could not then guess, but they were found to be useful. He now made a paste of some of the bread of his allowance, with which he made a cup round the bottom of one of the bars of the window; into this cup he poured some of the contents of the little bottle, which was, I believe, oil of vitriol: in a little time, this made a bad smell, and it was then I found the use of the pipe and tobacco, for the smell of the tobacco quite bothered the smell of the vitriol. When he thought he had softened the iron bar sufficiently, he began to work away with the saws, and he soon taught me how to use them; so that we kept working on continually, no matter how little we did at a time; but as we were constantly at it, what I thought never could be done was finished in three or four days. The use of the flageolet was to drown the noise of the filing; for when one filed, the other piped.
“When the bar was cut through, he fitted the parts nicely together, and covered them over with rust. He proceeded in the same manner to cut out another bar; so that we had a free opening out of the window. Our cell was at the very top of the jail, so that even to look down to the ground was terrible.
“Under various pretences, we had got an unusual quantity of blankets on our beds; these he examined with the utmost care, as upon their strength our lives were to depend. We calculated with great coolness the breadth of the strips into which he might cut the blankets, so as to reach from the window to the ground; allowing for the knots by which they were to be joined, and for other knots that were to hinder the hands and feet from slipping.
“‘Now,’ said he, ‘Mr. Moriarty, all this is quite asy, and requires nothing but a determined heart and a sound head: but the difficulty is to baffle the sentinel that is below, and who is walking backward and forward continually, day and night, under the window; and there is another, you see, in a sentry-box, at the door of the yard: and, for all I know, there may be another sentinel at the other side of the wall. Now these men are never twice on the same duty: I have friends enough out of doors, who have money enough, and would have talked reason to them; but as these sentinels are changed every day, no good can be got of them: but stay till to-morrow night, and we’ll try what we can do.’
“I was determined to follow him. The next night, the moment that we were locked in for the night, we set to work to cut the blankets into slips, and tied them together with great care. We put this rope round one of the fixed bars of the window; and, pulling at each knot, we satisfied ourselves that every part was sufficiently strong. Dunne looked frequently out of the window with the utmost anxiety — it was a moonlight night.
“‘The moon,’ said he, ‘will be down in an hour and a half.’
“In a little while we heard the noise of several girls singing at a distance from the windows, and we could see, as they approached, that they were dancing, and making free with the sentinels: I saw that they were provided with bottles of spirits, with which they pledged the deluded soldiers. By degrees the sentinels forgot their duty; and, by the assistance of some laudanum contained in some of the spirits, they were left senseless on the ground. The whole of this plan, and the very night and hour, had been arranged by Dunne with his associates, before he was put into Kilmainham. The success of this scheme, which was totally unexpected by me, gave me, I suppose, plase your honour, fresh courage. He, very honourably, gave me the choice to go down first or to follow him. I was ashamed not to go first: after I had got out of the window, and had fairly hold of the rope, my fear diminished, and I went cautiously down to the bottom. Here I waited for Dunne, and we both of us silently stole along in the dark, for the moon had gone in, and we did not meet with the least obstruction. Our out of door’s assistants had the prudence to get entirely out of sight. Dunne led me to a hiding-place in a safe part of the town, and committed me to the care of a seafaring man, who promised to get me on board an American ship.
“‘As for my part,’ said Dunne, ‘I will go in the morning, boldly, to the magistrate, and claim his promise.’
“He did so — and the magistrate with good sense, and good faith, kept his promise, and obtained a pardon for Dunne.
“I wrote to Peggy, to get aboard an American ship. I was cast away on the coast of France — made my way to the first religious house that I could hear of, where I luckily found an Irishman, who saved me from starvation, and who sent me on from convent to convent, till I got to Paris, where your honour met me on that bridge, just when I was looking for Miss Dora’s house. And that’s all I’ve got to tell,” concluded Moriarty, “and all true.”
No adventures of any sort happened to our hero in the course of his journey. The wind was fair for England when he reached Calais: he had a good passage; and with all the expedition that good horses, good roads, good money, and civil words, ensure in England, he pursued his way; and arrived in the shortest time possible in London.
He reached town in the morning, before the usual hour when the banks are open. Leaving orders with his servant, on whose punctuality he could depend, to awaken him at the proper hour, he lay down, overcome with fatigue, and slept — yes — slept soundly.