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In my seventy-fourth year, I have the satisfaction of seeing another work of my daughter's brought before the public.—This was more than I could have expected from my advanced age, and declining health.
I have been reprehended by some of the public critics for the notices, which I have annexed to my daughter's works.—As I do not know their reasons for this reprehension, I cannot submit even to their respectable authority.—I trust, however, the British public will sympathise with what a father feels for a daughter's literary success, particularly as this father and daughter have written various works in partnership.
The natural and happy confidence reposed in me by my daughter puts it in my power to assure the public, that she does not write negligently.—I can assert, that twice as many pages were written for these volumes as are now printed.
The first of these tales, Harrington, was occasioned by an extremely well written letter, which Miss Edgeworth received from America, from a Jewess, complaining of the illiberality, with which the Jewish nation had been treated in some of Miss Edgeworth's works.
The second tale, Ormond, is the story of a young gentleman, who is in some respects the reverse of Vivian. —The moral of this tale does not immediately appear, for the author has taken peculiar care, that it should not obtrude itself upon the reader.
Public critics have found several faults with Miss Edgeworth's former works,—she takes this opportunity of returning them sincere thanks for the candid and lenient manner, in which her errors have been pointed out.— In the present tales she has probably fallen into many other faults, but she has endeavoured to avoid those, for which she has been justly reproved.
And now, indulgent reader, I beg you to pardon this intrusion, and with the most grateful acknowledgments, I bid you farewell for ever.
RICHARD LOVELL EDGEWORTH.
Edgeworth's Town, May 31st, 1817.
"What! no music, no dancing at Castle Hermitage to night; and all the ladies sitting in a formal circle, petrifying into perfect statues," cried Sir Ulick O'Shane, as he entered the drawing-room, between ten and eleven o'clock at night, accompanied by what he called his rear-guard, veterans of the old school of good fellows, who at those times in Ireland, times long since past, deemed it essential to health, happiness, and manly character, to swallow, and shew themselves able to stand after swallowing, a certain number of bottles of claret per day or night.
"Now then," continued Sir Ulick, "of all the figures in nature or art, the formal circle is universally the most obnoxious to conversation, and, to me, the most formidable; all my faculties are spell-bound—here I am like a bird in a circle of chalk that dare not move so much as its head or its eyes, and can't, for the life of it, take to its legs."
A titter ran round that part of the circle where the young ladies sat—Sir Ulick was a favourite with them, and they rejoiced when he came among them; because, as they observed, "he always said something pleasant, or set something pleasurable going."
"Lady O'Shane for mercy's sake, let us have no more of these permanent sittings at Castle Hermitage, my dear—"
"Sir Ulick, I am sure I should be very glad if it were possible," replied Lady O'Shane, "to have no more permanent sittings at Castle Hermitage, but when gentlemen are at their bottle, I really don't know what the ladies can do but sit in a circle."
"Can't they dance in a circle, or any way—or have not they an elegant resource in their music; there's many here who, to my knowledge, can caper as well as they modulate," said Sir Ulick, "to say nothing of cards for those that like them."
"Lady Annaly does not like cards," said Lady O'Shane, "and I could not ask any of these young ladies to waste their breath, and their execution, singing and playing before the gentlemen came out."
"These young ladies could not; I'm sure, do us old fellows the honour of waiting for us; and the young beaux deserted to your tea-table a long hour ago—so why you have not been dancing is a mystery beyond my comprehension."
"Tea or coffee, Sir Ulick O'Shane, for the third time of asking?" cried a sharp female voice from the remote tea-table.
"Wouldn't you swear to that being the voice of a presbyterian?" whispered Sir Ulick, over his shoulder, to the curate: then aloud he replied to the lady, "Miss Black, you are three times too obliging.—Neither tea nor coffee I'll take from you to-night, I thank you kindly."
"Fortunate for yourself, Sir—for both are as cold as stones,—and no wonder!" said Miss Black.
"No wonder!" echoed Lady O'Shane, looking at her watch, and sending forth an ostentatious sigh.
"What o'clock is it by your ladyship?" asked Miss Black, "I have a notion it's tremendously late."
"No matter—we are not pinned to hours in this house, Miss Black," said Sir Ulick, walking up to the tea-table, and giving her a look, which said as plainly as look could say—"You had better be quiet."
Lady O'Shane followed her husband, and putting her arm within his, began to say something in a fondling tone, and in a most conciliatory manner she went on talking to him for some moments.—He looked absent, and replied coldly.
"I'll take a cup of coffee from you now, Miss Black," said he, drawing away his arm from his wife, who looked much mortified.
"We are too long, Lady O'Shane," added he, "standing here like lovers, talking to no one but ourselves—aukward in company!"
"Like lovers—" the sound pleased poor Lady O'Shane's ear, and she smiled for the first time this night,—Lady O'Shane was perhaps the last woman in the room, whom a stranger would have guessed to be Sir Ulick's wife.
He was a fine gallant off-hand looking Irishman, with something of dash in his tone and air, which at first view might lead a common observer to pronounce him to be vulgar; but at five minutes after sight, a good judge of men and manners would have discovered in him the power of assuming whatever manner he chose, from the audacity of the callous profligate to the deference of the accomplished courtier—the capability of adapting his conversation to his company and his views, whether his object were "to set the senseless table in a roar," or to insinuate himself into the delicate female heart.—Of this latter power, his age had diminished, but not destroyed the influence. The fame of former conquests still operated in his favour, though he had long since passed his splendid meridian of gallantry.
While Sir Ulick is drinking his cup of cold coffee, we may look back a little into his family history. To go no further than his legitimate loves, he had successively won three wives, who had each, in their turn, been desperately enamoured. The first he loved and married imprudently, for love, at seventeen.—The second he admired, and married prudently, for ambition, at thirty.—The third he hated, but married from necessity, for money, at five and forty. The first wife, Miss Annaly, after ten years martyrdom of the heart, sunk, childless, a victim, it was said, to love and jealousy. —The second wife, Lady Theodosia, struggled stoutly for power, backed by strong and high connexions; having, moreover, the advantage of being a mother, and mother of an only son and heir, the representative of a father in whom ambition had, by this time, become the ruling passion; the Lady Theodosia stood her ground, wrangling and wrestling through a fourteen years wedlock, till at last, to Sir Ulick's great relief, not to say joy, her ladyship was carried off by a bad fever, or a worse apothecary.—His present lady, formerly Mrs. Scraggs, a London widow, of very large fortune, happened to see Sir Ulick when he went to present some address, or settle some point between the English and Irish government:—he was in deep mourning at the time, and the widow pitied him very much. But she was not the sort of woman he would ever have suspected could like him—she was a strict pattern lady, severe on the times, and not unfrequently lecturing young men gratis. Now Sir Ulick O'Shane was a sinner, how then could he please a saint? He did, however—but the saint did not please him—though she set to work for the good of his soul, and in her own person relaxed, to please his taste, even to the wearing of rouge and pearl-powder, and false hair, and false eyebrows, and all the falsifications which the setters up could furnish. But after she had purchased all of youth which age can purchase for money, it would not do.—The Widow Scraggs might, with her "lack lustre" eyes, have speculated for ever in vain upon Sir Ulick, but that, fortunately for her passion, at one and the same time the Irish ministry were turned out, and an Irish canal burst—Sir Ulick losing his place by the change of ministry, and one half of his fortune by the canal, in which it had been sunk, and having spent in schemes and splendid living more than the other half, now, in desperate misery, laid hold of the Widow Scraggs.—After a nine days courtship she became a bride— and she and her plum in the stocks— but not her messuage, house and lands, in Kent, became the property of Sir Ulick O'Shane. But "love was then lord of all" with her, she was now to accompany Sir Ulick to Ireland. Late in life she was carried to a new country, and set down among a people whom she had all her previous days been taught to hold in contempt or aversion; she dreaded Irish disturbances much, and Irish dirt more; she was persuaded that nothing could be right, good, or genteel, that was not English. Her habits and tastes were immutably fixed.—Her experience had been confined to London life, and in proportion as her sphere of observation had been contracted, her disposition was intolerant. She made no allowance for the difference of opinion, customs, and situation, much less for the faults or foibles of people who were to her strangers and foreigners—Her ladyship was therefore little likely to please or be pleased in her new situation,—her husband was the only individual, the only thing, animate or inanimate, that she liked in Ireland,—and while she was desperately in love with an Irishman, she disliked Ireland and the Irish:—even the Irish talents and virtues, their wit, humour, generosity of character, and freedom of manner, were lost upon her,—her country neighbours were repelled by her air of taciturn self-sufficiency; and she, for her part, declared, she would have been satisfied to have lived alone at Castle Hermitage with Sir Ulick. But Sir Ulick had no notion of living alone with her, or for anybody. His habits were all social and convivial— he loved shew and company: he had been all his life in the habit of entertaining all ranks of people at Castle Hermitage, from his excellency the lord lieutenant and the commander in chief for the time being, to Tim the gauger, and honest Tom Kelly, the stalko.
He talked of the necessity of keeping up a neighbourhood, and maintaining his interest in the country, as the first duties of man. Ostensibly Sir Ulick had no motive in all this, but the hospitable wish of seeing Castle Hermitage one continued scene of festivity; but, under this good fellowship and apparent thoughtlessness and profusion, there was, what some thought he inherited from his mother, a Scotchwoman, an eye to his own interest, and a keen view to the improvement of his fortune and the advancement of his family. With these habits and views it was little likely, that he should yield to the romantic, jealous, or economic tastes of his new lady—a bride ten years older than himself! Lady O'Shane was, soon after her arrival in Ireland, compelled to see her house as full of company as it could possibly hold; and her ladyship was condemned eternally to do the honours to successive troops of friends, of whom she knew nothing, and of whom she disliked all she saw or heard. Her dear Sir Ulick was, or seemed, so engrossed by the business of pleasure, so taken up with his guests, that but a few minutes in the day could she ever obtain of his company. She saw herself surrounded by the young, the fair, and the gay, to whom Sir Ulick devoted his assiduous and gallant attentions; and though his age, and his being a married man, seemed to preclude, in the opinion of the cool or indifferent spectator, all idea of any real cause for jealousy, yet it was not so with poor Lady O'Shane's magnifying imagination. The demon of jealousy tortured her; and to enhance her sufferings she was obliged to conceal them, lest they should become subjects of private mockery or public derision. It is the peculiar misfortune or punishment of misplaced, and yet more of unreasonable passions, that in their distresses they obtain no sympathy—and while the passion is in all its consequences tragic to the sufferer, in all its exhibitions it is ludicrous to the spectator. Lady O'Shane could not be young, and would not be old; so without the charms of youth, or the dignity of age, she could neither inspire love, nor command respect. Nor could she find fit occupation or amusement, or solace or refuge, in any combination of company, or class of society. Unluckily as her judgment, never discriminating, was now blinded by jealousy; the two persons, of all his family connexions, upon whom she pitched as the peculiar objects of her fear and hatred, were precisely those who were most disposed to pity and befriend her—to serve her in private with Sir Ulick, and to treat her with deference in public. These two persons were Lady Annaly and her daughter. Lady Annaly was a distant relation of Sir Ulick's first wife, during whose life some circumstances had occurred, which had excited her ladyship's indignation against him. For many years all commerce between them had ceased. Lady Annaly was a woman of generous indignation, strong principles, and warm affections. Her rank, her high connexions, her high character, her having, from the time she was left a young and beautiful widow, devoted herself to the education and the interests of her children; her having persevered in her lofty course, superior to all the numerous temptations of love, vanity, or ambition, by which she was assailed; her long and able administration of a large property, during the minority of her son; her subsequent graceful resignation of power; his affection, gratitude, and deference for his mother, which now continued to prolong her influence, and exemplify her precepts in every act of his own; altogether placed this lady high in public consideration— high as any individual could stand in a country, where national enthusiastic attachment is ever excited by certain noble qualities, congenial to the Irish nature. Sir Ulick O'Shane, sensible of the disadvantage which it had been to him to have estranged such a family connexion, and fully capable of appreciating the value of her friendship, had of late years taken infinite pains to redeem himself in Lady Annaly's opinion. His consummate address, aided and abetted, and concealed as it was by his off-hand manner, would scarcely have succeeded, had it not been supported also by some substantial good qualities, especially by the natural candour and generosity of his disposition. In favour of the originally strong, and, through all his errors, wonderfully surviving taste for virtue, some of his manifold transgressions might be forgiven. There was much hope and promise of amendment. And, besides— to state things just as they were, he had propitiated the mother, irresistibly, by his enthusiastic admiration of the daughter— so that Lady Annaly had at last consented to re-visit Castle Hermitage. Her ladyship and her daughter were now on this reconciliation visit; Sir Ulick was extremely anxious to make it agreeable. Besides the credit of her friendship, he had other reasons for wishing to conciliate her. His son Marcus was just twenty—two years older than Miss Annaly— in course of time, Sir Ulick thought it might be a match—his son could not possibly make a better;—beauty, fortune, family connexions, every thing that the hearts of young and old desire.—Besides, (for in Sir Ulick's calculations besides was a word frequently occurring,) besides, Miss Annaly's brother was not as strong in body as in mind—in two illnesses his life had been despaired of— a third might carry him off—the estate would probably come to Miss Annaly.— Besides—be this hereafter as it might, there was at this present time being a considerable debt due by Sir Ulick to these Annalys, with accumulated interest, since the time of his first marriage; and this debt would be merged in Miss Annaly's portion, should she become his son's wife. All this was very well calculated; but, to say nothing of the character, or affections of the son Sir Ulick had omitted to consider Lady O'Shane, or he had taken it for granted, that her love for him would induce her at once to enter into and second his views. It did not so happen. On the contrary, the dislike which Lady O'Shane took at first to both the mother and daughter—to the daughter instinctively, at sight of her youth and beauty; to the mother reflectively, on account of her matronly dress and dignified deportment, in too striking contrast to her own frippery appearance, increased every day, and every hour, when she saw the attentions, the adoration, that Sir Ulick paid to Miss Annaly, and the deference and respect he shewed to Lady Annaly, all for qualities and accomplishments, in which Lady O'Shane was conscious that she was irremediably deficient. Sir Ulick thought to extinguish her jealousy, by opening to her his views on Miss Annaly for his son; but the jealousy, taking only a new direction, strengthened in its course—Lady O'Shane did not like her son-in-law—had indeed no great reason to like him.—Marcus disliked her, and was at no pains to conceal his dislike. She dreaded the accession of domestic power and influence he would gain by such a marriage.—She could not bear the thoughts of having a daughter-in-law brought into the house— placed in eternal comparison with her. Sir Ulick O'Shane was conscious, that his marriage exposed him to some share of ridicule; but hitherto, except when his taste for raillery, and the diversion of exciting her causeless jealousy, interfered with his purpose, he had always treated her ladyship, as he conceived that Lady O'Shane ought to be treated. Naturally good-natured, and habitually attentive to the sex, he had indeed kept up appearances better than could have been expected, from a man of his former habits, to a woman of her ladyship's present age. But if she now crossed his favourite scheme, it would be all over with her;— her submission to his will had hitherto been a sufficient, and a convenient proof, and the only proof he desired, of her love. Her ladyship's evil genius, in the shape of Miss Black, her humble companion, was now busily instigating her to be refractory. Miss Black had frequently whispered, that if Lady O'Shane would shew more spirit, she would do better with Sir Ulick;—that his late wife, Lady Theodosia, had ruled him, by shewing proper spirit;—that in particular, she should make a stand against the encroachments of Sir Ulick's son, Marcus, and of his friend and companion, young Ormond. In consequence of these suggestions, Lady O'Shane had most judiciously thwarted both these young men in trifles, till she had become their aversion: this aversion Marcus felt more than he expressed, and Ormond expressed more strongly than he felt. To Sir Ulick his son and heir was his first great object in life; yet, though in all things he preferred the interest of Marcus, he was not as fond of Marcus as he was of young Ormond.— Young Ormond was the son of the friend of Sir Ulick O'Shane's youthful and warm-hearted days—the son of an officer who had served in the same regiment with him in his first campaign. Captain Ormond afterwards made an unfortunate marriage; that is, a marriage without a fortune—his friends would not see him or his wife—he was soon in debt, and in great distress.—He was obliged to leave his wife and go to India—She had then one child at nurse in an Irish cabin.— She died soon afterwards. Sir Ulick O'Shane took the child, that had been left at nurse, into his own house; from the time it was four years old, little Harry Ormond became his darling, and grew up his favourite. Sir Ulick's fondness, however, had not extended to any care of his education; quite the contrary; he had done all he could to spoil him by the most injudicious indulgence, and by neglect of all instruction or discipline. Marcus had been sent to school and college; but Harry Ormond, meantime, had been let to run wild at home: the gamekeeper, the huntsman, and a cousin of Sir Ulick's, who called himself the king of the Black Islands, had had the principal share in his education. Captain Ormond, his father, was not heard of for many years; and Sir Ulick always argued, that there was no use in giving Harry Ormond the education of an estated gentleman, when he was not likely to have an estate. Moreover, he prophecied that Harry would turn out the cleverest man of the two; and in the progress of the two boys towards manhood, Sir Ulick had shewn a strange sort of double and inconsistent vanity in his son's acquirements, and in the orphan Harry's natural genius. Harry's extremely warm, generous, grateful temper, delighted Sir Ulick, but he gloried in the superior polish of his own son. Harry Ormond grew up with all the faults that were incident to his natural violence of passions and that might necessarily be expected from his neglected and deficient education. His devoted gratitude and attachment to his guardian father, as he called Sir Ulick, made him amenable in an instant, even in the height and tempest of his passions, to whatever Sir Ulick desired; but Harry Ormond was ungovernable by most people, and rude, even to insolence, where he felt tyranny, or suspected meanness. Miss Black and he were always at open war; to Lady O'Shane he submitted, though with an ill grace; yet he did submit for his guardian's sake, where he himself only was concerned; while most imprudently and fiercely he contended upon every occasion, where Marcus, when aggrieved, had declined contending with his mother-in-law.
Upon the present occasion the two youth had been long engaged to dine with, and keep the birth-day of Mr. Cornelius O'Shane, the king of the Black Islands—next to Sir Ulick, the being upon earth to whom Harry Ormond thought himself most obliged, and to whom he felt himself most attached. This he had represented to Lady O'Shane, and had earnestly requested, that as the day for the intended dance was a matter of indifference to her, it might not be fixed on this day; but her ladyship had purposely made it a trial of strength, and had insisted upon their returning at a certain hour. She knew that Sir Ulick would be much vexed by their want of punctuality on this occasion, where the Annalys were concerned, though, in general, punctuality was a virtue for which he had no regard.
Sir Ulick had finished his cup of coffee. "Miss Black send away the tea things—send away all these things," cried he. "Young ladies, better late than never, you know—let's have dancing now; clear the decks for action."
The young ladies started from their seats immediately. All was now in happy motion. The servants answered promptly—the tea things retired in haste —tables rolled away—chairs were swung into the back ground—the folding-doors of the dancing-room were thrown open— the pyramids of wax candles in the chandeliers (for this was ere argands were on earth) started into light—the musicians tuning, screwing, scraping, sounded, discordant as they were, joyful notes of preparation.
"But where's my son? Where's Marcus?" said Sir Ulick, drawing Lady O'Shane aside. "I don't see him any where."
"No," said Lady O'Shane; "you know that he would go to dine to-day with that strange cousin of yours, and neither he nor his companion have thought proper to return yet."
"I wish you had given me a hint," said Sir Ulick, "and I would have waited; for Marcus ought to lead off with Miss Annaly."
"Ought—to be sure," said Lady O'Shane; "but that is no rule for young gentlemen's conduct. I told both the young gentlemen, that we were to have a dance to night. I mentioned the hour, and begged them to be punctual."
"Young men are never punctual," said Sir Ulick; "but Marcus is inexcuseable to-night on account of the Annalys."
Sir Ulick pondered for a moment with an air of vexation, then turning to the musicians, who were behind him—
"You four-and-twenty fiddlers all in a row—you gentlemen musicians, scrape and tune on a little longer if you please. Remember you are not ready till I draw on my gloves. Break a string or two if necessary."
"We will—we shall plase your honour."
"I wish, Lady O'Shane," continued Sir Ulick in a lower tone, "I wish you had given me a hint of this."
"Truth to tell, Sir Ulick, I did, I own, conceive from your walk and way, that you were not in a condition to take any hint I could give."
"Pshaw, my dear, after having known me, I won't say loved me, a calendar year, how can you be so deceived by outward appearances. Don't you know that I hate drinking; but when I have these county electioneering friends, the worthy red noses, to entertain, I suit myself to the company, by acting spirits instead of swallowing them, for I should scorn to appear to flinch!"
This was true. Sir Ulick could, and often did, to the utmost perfection, counterfeit every degree of intoxication. He could act the rise, decline, and fall of the drunken man, marking the whole progress, from the first incipient hesitation of reason to the glorious confusion of ideas in the highest state of elevation, thence through all the declining cases of stultified paralytic ineptitude, down to the horizontal condition of preterpluperfect ebriety.
"Really, Sir Ulick, you are so good an actor that I don't pretend to judge— I can seldom find out the truth from you."
"So much the better for you, my dear, if you knew but all,"—said Sir Ulick, laughing.
"If I knew but all," repeated her ladyship, with an alarmed look.
"But that's not the matter in hand at present, my dear."
Sir Ulick protracted the interval before the opening of the ball as long as he possibly could—but in vain—the young gentlemen did not appear. Sir Ulick drew on his gloves. The broken strings of the violins were immediately found to be mended. Sir Ulick opened the ball himself with Miss Annaly, after making as handsome an apology for his son as the case would admit—an apology which was received by the young lady with the most graceful good nature. She declined dancing more than one dance, and Sir Ulick sat down between her and Lady Annaly, exerting all his powers of humour to divert them, at the expense of his cousin, the king of the Black Islands, whose tedious ferry, or whose claret, or more likely whose whiskey-punch was, he said, he was sure, the cause of Marcus's misdemeanour. It was now near twelve o'clock. Lady O'Shane, who had made many aggravating reflexions upon the disrespectful conduct of the young gentlemen, grew restless on another count. The gates were left open for them—the gates ought to be locked! There were disturbances in the country. "Pshaw!" Sir Ulick said. Opposite directions were given at opposite doors to two servants.
"Dempsey, tell them they need not lock the gates till the young gentlemen come home, or at least, till one o'clock," said Sir Ulick.
"Stone," said Lady O'Shane to her own man in a very low voice, "go down directly, and see that the gates are locked, and bring me the keys."
Dempsey, an Irishman, who was half drunk, forgot to see or say any thing about it. Stone, an Englishman, went directly to obey his lady's commands, and the gates were locked, and the keys brought to her ladyship, who put them immediately into her work-table.
Half an hour afterwards, as Lady O'Shane was sitting with her back to the glass door of the green-house, which opened into the ball-room, she was startled by a peremptory tap on the glass behind her; she turned, and saw young Ormond, pale as death, and stained with blood.
"The keys of the gate instantly!" cried he, "for mercy's sake."
Lady O'Shane, extremely terrified, had scarcely power to rise. She opened the drawer of the table, and thrust her trembling hand down to the bottom of the silk bag, into which the keys had fallen. Impatient of delay, Ormond pushed open the door, snatched the keys, and disappeared. The whole passed in a few seconds. The music drowned the noise of the opening door, and of the two chairs which Ormond had thrown down; those who sat near thought a servant had pushed in and gone out; but, however rapid the movement, the full view of the figure had been seen by Miss Annaly, who was sitting on the opposite side of the room; Sir Ulick was sitting beside her, talking earnestly. Lady Annaly had just retired. "For Heaven's sake, what's the matter?" cried he, stopping in the middle of a sentence, on seeing Miss Annaly grow suddenly pale as death.— Her eyes were fixed on the door of the green-house; his followed that direction. "Yes," said he, "we can get out into the air that way, lean on me,"—she did so—he pushed his way through the crowd at the bottom of the country dance; and, as he passed, was met by Lady O'Shane and Miss Black, both with faces of horror.
"Sir Ulick, did you see," pointing to the door—"Did you see Mr. Ormond?— There's blood!"
"There's mischief!—certainly," said Miss Black.—"A quarrel—Mr. Marcus, perhaps."
"Nonsense!—no such thing you'll find,"—said Sir Ulick, pushing on, and purposely jostling the arm of a servant who was holding a salver of ices, overturning them all—and whilst the surrounding company were fully occupied about their clothes, and their fears and apologies, he made his way onwards to the green-house—Lady O'Shane clinging to one arm, Miss Annaly supported by the other—Miss Black following, repeating "Mischief!—Mischief! you'll see, Sir."
"Miss Black open the door, and not another word."
He edged Miss Annaly on the moment the door opened, dragged Lady O'Shane after him—pushed Miss Black back as she attempted to follow, but recollecting that she might spread the report of mischief if he left her behind, drew her into the green-house, locked the door, and led Miss Annaly out into the air.
"Bring salts! water! something, Miss Black—Follow me, Lady O'Shane."
"When I'm hardly able—your wife!— Sir Ulick—you might—" said Lady O'Shane, as she tottered on—"you might I should have thought—"
"No time for such thoughts, my dear," interrupted he—"Sit down on the steps— there, she is better now—now what is all this?"
"I am not to speak," said Miss Black.
Lady O'Shane began to say how Mr. Ormond had burst in, covered with blood, and seized the keys of the gates.
"The keys!"—But he had no time for that thought—"Which way did he go."
"I don't know, I gave him the keys of both gates."
The two entrances were a mile asunder— Sir Ulick looked for footsteps on the grass. It was a fine moonlight night. He saw footsteps on the path leading to the gardener's house. "Stay here, ladies, and I will bring you intelligence as soon as possible."
"This way, Sir Ulick—they are coming—" said Miss Annaly, who had now recovered her presence of mind.
Several persons appeared from a turn in the shrubbery, carrying some one on a hand-barrow—a gentleman on horseback, and a servant, and many persons walking. Sir Ulick hastened towards them; the gentleman on horseback spurred his horse and met him.
"Marcus!—is it you?—thank God. But Ormond!—where is he, and what has happened?"
The first sound of Marcus's voice, when he attempted to answer, shewed that he was not in a condition to give a rational account of any thing. His servant followed, also much intoxicated. While Sir Ulick had been stopped by their ineffectual attempts to explain, the people who were carrying the man on the hand-barrow came up. Ormond appeared from the midst of them. "Carry him on to the gardener's house," cried he, pointing the way, and coming forward to Sir Ulick.
"If he dies, I am a murderer!" cried he.
"Who is he?" said Sir Ulick.
"Moriarty Carroll, please your honor," answered several voices at once.
"And how happened it?" said Sir Ulick.
"The long and the short of it, Sir," said Marcus, as well as he could articulate, "the fellow was insolent, and we cut him down—and if it was to do again, I'd do it again with pleasure."
"No, no! you won't say so, Marcus, when you are yourself," said Ormond.— "Oh! how dreadful to come to one's senses all at once, as I did—the moment after I had fired that fatal shot—the moment I saw the poor fellow stagger and fall—"
"It was you, the, that fired at him," interrupted Sir Ulick.
"Yes, oh! yes!" said he, striking his forehead—"I did it in the fury of passion."
Then Ormond taking all the blame upon himself, and stating what had passed in the strongest light against himself, gave this account of the matter. After having drank too much at Mr. Cornelius O'Shane's, they were returning from the Black Islands, and afraid of being late, they were gallopping hard, when at a narrow part of the road they were stopped by some cars. Impatient of the delay, they abused the men who were driving them, insisting upon their getting out of the way faster than they could. Moriarty Carroll made some answer, which Marcus said was insolent; and enquiring the man's name, and hearing it was Carroll, said, all the Carrolls were bad people— rebels. Moriarty defied him to prove that—and added some expressions about tyranny, which enraged Ormond. This part of the provocation Ormond did not state—but merely said he was thrown into a passion by some observation of Moriarty's; and first he lifted his whip to give the fellow a horse-whipping. Moriarty seized hold of the whip, and struggled to wrest it from his hand;—Ormond then snatched a pistol from his holster, telling Moriarty he would shoot him, if he did not let the whip go. Moriarty, who was in a passion himself, struggled, still holding the whip. Ormond cocked the pistol, and before he was aware he had done so, the pistol accidentally went off, the ball entered Moriarty's breast. This happened within a quarter of a mile of Castle Hermitage. The poor fellow bled profusely—and, in assisting to lift him upon the hand-barrow, Ormond was covered with blood, as has been already described.
"Have you sent for a surgeon," said Sir Ulick, coolly.
"Certainly—sent off a fellow on my own horse directly. Sir, will you come on to the gardener's house; I want you to see him, to know what you'll think. If he die, I am a murderer," repeated Ormond.
This horrible idea so possessed his imagination, that he could not answer or hear any of the further questions that were asked by Lady O'Shane and Miss Black; but, after gazing upon them with unmeaning eyes for a moment in silence, walked rapidly on: as he was passing by the steps of the green-house, he stopped short at the sight of Miss Annaly, who was still sitting there—
"What's the matter," said he, in a tone of great compassion, going close up to her. Then, recollecting himself, he hurried forward again.
"As I can be of no use—Unless I can be of any use," said Miss Annaly— "I will, now that I am well enough, return— My mother will wonder what has become of me."
"Sir Ulick, give me the key of the conservatory, to let Miss Annaly into the ball-room."
"Miss Annaly does not wish to dance any more to-night, I believe?" said Sir Ulick.
"Dance—oh no."
"Then, without exciting observation, you can all get in better at the back door of the house, and Miss Annaly can go up the back stairs to Lady Annaly's room, without meeting any one; and you, Lady O'Shane," added he, in a low voice, "order up supper, and say nothing of what has passed. Miss Black, you hear what I desire—no gossipping,"
To get to the back door they had to walk round the house, and in their way they passed the gardener's. The surgeon had just arrived.
"Go on ladies, pray," said Sir Ulick, "what stops you."
"'Tis I stop the way, Sir Ulick," said Lady O'Shane, "to speak a word to the surgeon. If you find the man in any dangerous way, for pity's sake don't let him die at our gardener's—indeed the bringing him here at all I think a very strange step and encroachment of Mr. Ormond's. It will make the whole thing so public—and the people hereabouts are so revengeful—if any thing should happen to him, it will be revenged on our whole family—on Sir Ulick in particular."
"No danger—nonsense, my dear."
But now this idea had seized Lady O'Shane, it appeared to her a sufficient reason for desiring to remove the man even this night. She asked why he could not be taken to his own home and his own people; she repeated, that it was very strange of Mr. Ormond to take such liberties, as if every thing about Castle Hermitage was quite at his disposal. One of the men who had carried the hand-barrow, and who was now standing at the gardener's door, observed, that Moriarty's people lived five mile off. Ormond, who had gone into the house to the wounded man, being told what Lady O'Shane was saying, came out; she repeated her words as he re-appeared. Naturally of sudden violent temper, and being now in the highest state of suspense and irritation, he broke out, forgetful of all proper respect. Miss Black, who was saying something in corroboration of Lady O'Shane's opinion, he first attacked, pronouncing her to be an unfeeling canting hypocrite; then, turning to Lady O'Shane, he said, that she might send the dying man away if she pleased; but that if she did, he would go too, and that never while he existed would he enter her ladyship's doors again.
Ormond made this threat with the air of a superior to an inferior, totally forgetting his own dependent situation, and the dreadful circumstances in which he now stood.
"You are drunk, young man. My dear Ormond, you don't know what you are saying," interposed Sir Ulick.
At his voice, and the kindness of his tone, Ormond recollected himself. "Forgive me," said he, in a very gentle tone. "My head certainly is not—Oh! may you never feel what I have felt this last hour.—If this man dies—Oh! consider."
"He will not die—he will not die, I hope—at any rate, don't talk so loud within hearing of these people. My dear Lady O'Shane, this foolish boy—this Harry Ormond, is, I grant, a sad scapegrace, but you must bear with him for my sake. Let this poor wounded fellow remain here—I won't have him stirred to-night—we shall see what ought to be done in the morning. Ormond, you forgot yourself strangely towards Lady O'Shane—as to this fellow—don't make such a rout about the business—I dare say he will do very well—We shall hear what the surgeon says—At first I was horribly frightened, I thought you and Marcus had been quarrelling. Miss Annaly, are not you afraid of staying out— Lady O'Shane, why do you keep Miss Annaly—Let supper go up directly."
"Supper! aye, every thing goes on as usual," said Ormond, "and I!—"
"I must follow them in, and see how things are going on, and prevent gossipping, for your sake, my boy," resumed Sir Ulick, after a moment's pause. "You have got into an ugly scrape—I pity you from my soul—I'm rash myself— Send the surgeon to me when he has seen the fellow—Depend upon me if the worst come to the worst—There's nothing in the world I would not do to serve you," said Sir Ulick, "so keep up your spirits, my boy—We'll contrive to bring you through—At the worst it will only be manslaughter."
Ormond wrung Sir Ulick's hand— thanked him for his kindness; but repeated, "it will be murder—it will be murder, my own conscience tells me so— If he dies, give me up to justice!"
"You'll think better of it before morning," said Sir Ulick, as he left Ormond.
The surgeon gave Ormond little comfort. After extracting the bullet, and examining the wound, he shook his head— he had but a bad opinion of the case; and when Ormond took him aside, and questioned him more closely, he confessed that he thought the man would not live—he should not be surprised if he died before morning. The surgeon was obliged to leave him to attend another patient; and Ormond, turning all the other people out of the room, declared he would sit up with Moriarty himself. A terrible night it was to him. To his alarmed and inexperienced eyes the danger seemed even greater than it really was, and several times he thought his patient expiring, when he was faint from loss of blood. The moments when Ormond was occupied in assisting him were the least painful. It was when he had nothing left to do, when he had leisure to think, that he was most miserable; then the agony of suspense, and the horror of remorse, were felt, till feeling was exhausted; and he would sit motionless and stupified till he was wakened again from this suspension of thought and sensation by some moan of the poor man, or some delirious startings. Toward morning the wounded man lay easier; and as Ormond was stooping over his bed to see whether he was asleep, Moriarty opened his eyes, and fixing them on Ormond, said, in broken sentences, but so as very distinctly to be heard—
"Don't be in such trouble about the likes of me—I'll do very well, you'll see— and even suppose I wouldn't—not a frind I have shall ever prosecute—I'll charge 'em not—so be asy—for you're a good heart—and the pistol went off unknownst to you—I'm sure was no malice— let that be your comfort—It might happen to any man, let alone gentleman— Don't take on so—and think of young Mr. Harry sitting up the night with me!— Oh! if you'd go now and settle yourself yonder on the other bed, Sir—I'd be a great dale asier, and I don't doubt but I'd get a taste of sleep myself—while now, wid you standing over or forenent me, I can't close an eye for thinking of you, Mr. Harry—"
Ormond immediately threw himself upon the other bed, that he might relieve Moriarty from the sight of him. The good nature and generosity of this poor fellow increased Ormond's keen sense of remorse. As to sleeping, for him it was impossible; whenever his ideas began to fall into that sort of confusion which precedes sleep, suddenly he felt as if his heart was struck or twinged, and he started with the recollection that some dreadful thing had happened, and wakened to the sense of guilt and all its horrors. Moriarty, now lying perfectly quiet and motionless, and Ormond not hearing him breathe, he was struck with the dread that he had breathed his last. A cold tremor came over Ormond—he rose in his bed, listening in acute agony, when to his relief, he at last distinctly heard Moriarty breathing strongly, and soon afterwards—(no music was ever so delightful to Ormond's ear)—heard him begin to breathe loudly. The morning light dawned soon afterwards, and the crowing of a cock was heard, which Ormond feared might waken him; but the poor man slept soundly through all these usual noises: the heaving of the bedclothes over his breast went on with uninterrupted regularity. The gardener and his wife softly opened the door of the room, to inquire how things were going on; Ormond pointed to the bed, and they nodded, and smiled, and beckoned to him to come out, whispering that a taste of the morning air would do him good. He suffered them to lead him out, for he was afraid of debating the point in the room with the sleeping patient. The good people of the house, who had known Harry Ormond from a child, and who were exceedingly fond of him, as all the poor people in the neighbourhood were, said every thing they could think of upon this occasion to comfort him, and reiterated about a hundred times their prophecies, that Moriarty would be as sound and good a man as ever in a fortnight's time. "Sure, when he'd take the soft sleep he could'nt but do well." Then, perceiving that Ormond listened to them only with faint attention, the wife whispered to her husband—"Come off to our work Johnny, he'd like to be alone, he's not equal to listen to our talk yet—it's the surgeon must give him hope—and he'll soon be here, I trust."
They went to their work, and left Ormond standing in the porch.—It was a fine morning—the birds were singing, and the smell of the honey-suckle, with which the porch was covered, wafted by the fresh morning air, struck Ormond's senses, but struck him with melancholy.
"Every thing in nature is cheerful— except myself!—Every thing in this world going on just the same as it was yesterday—but all changed for me!— within a few short hours—by my own folly, my own madness!"—Every animal, thought he, as his attention was caught by the house dog, who was licking his hand, and, as his eye fell upon the hen and chickens, who were feeding before the door—every animal is happy— and innocent!—But if this man die— I shall be a murderer.
This thought, perpetually recurring, oppressed him so, that he stood motionless till he was roused by the voice of Sir Ulick O'Shane.
"Well, Harry Ormond, how is it with you, my boy.—The fellow's alive, I hope."
"Alive.—Thank Heaven!—Yes: and asleep."
"Give ye joy—it would have been an ugly thing—not but what we could have brought you through:—I'd go through thick and thin, you know, for you—as if it was for my own son.—But Lady O'Shane," said Sir Ulick, changing his tone, and with a face of great concern, "I must talk to you about her—I may as well speak now, since it must be said—"
"I am afraid," said Ormond, "that I spoke too hastily last night: I beg your pardon—"
"Nay—nay, put me out of the question: you may do what you please with me—always could, from the time you were four years old,—but, you know, the more I love anybody, the more Lady O'Shane hates them. The fact is," continued Sir Ulick, rubbing his eyes, "that I have had a weary night of it— Lady O'Shane has been crying and whining in my ears: She says I encourage you in being insolent, and so forth— in short, she cannot endure you in the house any longer—I suspect that sour one" (Sir Ulick, among his intimates, always designated Miss Black in this manner,) "puts her up to it.— But I will not give up my own boy— I will take it with a high hand.—Separations are foolish things, as foolish as marriages—but I'd sooner part with Lady O'Shane at once, than let Harry Ormond think I'd forsake him—especially in aukward circumstances."
"That, Sir Ulick, is what Harry Ormond can never think of you—he would be the basest, the most suspicious, the most ungrateful—but I must not speak so loud," continued he, lowering his voice, lest he should waken Moriarty.
Sir Ulick drew him away from the door, for Ormond was cool enough at this moment to have common sense.
"My dear guardian, allow me still to call you by that name," continued Ormond, "believe me, your kindness is too full—innumerable instances of your affection now press upon me, so that—I can't express myself, but depend upon it—suspicion of your friendship is the last that could enter my mind; I trust, therefore, you will do me the same sort of justice, and never suspect me capable of ingratitude—though the time is come, when we must part."
Ormond could hardly pronounce the word.
"Part!" repeated Sir Ulick, "no, by all the saints and all the devils in female form."
"I am resolved," said Ormond, "firmly resolved on one point, never to be a cause of unhappiness to one—who has been the source of so much happiness to me—I will no more be an object of contention between you and Lady O'Shane.—Give her up rather than me! Heaven forbid!—I the cause of separation, never—never.—I am determined— let what will become of me, I will no more be an inmate at Castle Hermitage."
Tears started into Ormond's eyes; Sir Ulick appeared much affected, and in a state of great embarrassment and indecision.
He could not bear to think of it— he swore it must not be,—then he gradually sunk to hoping it was not necessary, and proposing palliatives and half measures.—Moriarty must be moved today —sent to his own friends.—That point he had, for peace sake, conceded to her ladyship, he said, but that he should expect, on her part, that after a proper, a decent apology from Ormond, things might still be accommodated and go on smoothly, if that meddling Miss Black would let them.
In short he managed so, that whilst he confirmed the young man in his resolution to quit Castle Hermitage, he threw all the blame on Lady O'Shane; and Ormond never doubted the steadiness of Sir Ulick's affection, or suspected that he had any secret motive for wishing to get rid of him.
"But where can you go, my dear boy?—What will you do with yourself?— What will become of you?"
"Never mind—never mind what becomes of me, my dear Sir,—I'll find means—I have the use of head and hands."
"My cousin, Cornelius O'Shane, he is as fond of you almost as I am, and he is not cursed with a wife—and is blest with a daughter," said Sir Ulick, with a sly smile.
"Oh yes," continued he, "I see it all now, you have ways and means—I no longer object—I'll write—no, you'll write better yourself to king Corny, for you are a greater favourite with his majesty than I am.—Fare ye well—Heaven bless you, my boy," said Sir Ulick, with warm emphasis. "Remember whenever you want supplies, Castle Hermitage is your bank—you know I have a bank at my back—(Sir Ulick was joined in a banking house)—Castle Hermitage is your bank, and here's your quarter's allowance to begin with."
Sir Ulick put a purse into Ormond's hand, and left him.
But is it natural? is it possible, that this Sir Ulick O'Shane could so easily part with Harry Ormond, and thus "whistle him down the wind to prey at fortune?" For Harry Ormond, surely, if for any creature living, Sir Ulick O'Shane's affection had shewn itself disinterested and steady. When left a helpless infant, its mother dead, its father in India, he had taken the child from the nurse, who was too poor even to feed or clothe it as her own; and he had brought little Harry up at his castle with his own son—as his own son—He had been his darling;— literally his spoiled child;—nor had this fondness passed away with the prattling playful graces of the child's first years, it had grown with its growth. Harry became Sir Ulick's favourite companion— hunting, shooting, carousing, as he had been his plaything during infancy. On no one occasion had Harry—violent and difficult to manage as he was by others, ever crossed Sir Ulick's will, or in any way incurred his displeasure. And now, suddenly, without any cause, except the aversion of a wife, whose aversions seldom troubled him in any great degree, is it natural that he should give up Harry Ormond, suffer him to sacrifice himself in vain, for the preservation of a conjugal peace, which Sir Ulick ought to have known could not by such a sacrifice be preserved? Is it possible that Sir Ulick should do this? Is it in human nature?
Yes, in the nature of Sir Ulick O'Shane. Long use had brought him to this; though his affections, perhaps, were naturally warm, he had no many occasions in his life sacrified them to his scheming imaginations. Necessity—the necessity of his affairs, the consequences of his extravagance, had brought him to this; the first sacrifices had not been made without painful struggles—but by degrees his mind had hardened, and his warmth of heart had cooled. When he said or swore in the most cordial manner, "that he would do any thing in the world to serve a friend," there was always a mental reservation of—"any thing that does not hurt my own interest, or cross my schemes."
And how could Harry Ormond hurt his interest, or cross his schemes?—or how had Sir Ulick discovered this so suddenly? Miss Annaly's turning pale was the first cause of Sir Ulick's change of sentiments towards his young favourite. Afterwards, during the whole that passed, Sir Ulick had watched the impression made upon her—he had observed, that it was not for Marcus O'Shane's safety that she was anxious, and he thought she had betrayed a secret attachment, the commencement of an attachment he thought it, of which she was perhaps herself unconscious.—Were such an attachment to be confirmed, it would disappoint Sir Ulick's schemes: therefore, with the cool decision of a practised schemer, he determined directly to get rid of Ormond; he had no intention of parting with him for ever, but merely while the Annalys were at Castle Hermitage: till his scheme was brought to bear, he would leave Harry at the Black Islands, and he could, he thought, recal him from banishment, and force a reconciliation with Lady O'Shane, and reinstate him in favour at pleasure.
But is it possible that Miss Annaly, such an amiable and elegant young lady as she is described to be, should feel any attachment, any predilection for such a young man as Ormond; ill educated, unpolished, with a violent temper, which had brought him early in life into the dreadful situation in which he now stands?— and at the moment, when covered with the blood of an innocent man he stood before her, an object of disgust and horror, could any sentiment like love exist or arise in a well-principled mind?
Certainly not.—Sir Ulick's acquaintance with unprincipled women misled him completely in this instance, and deprived him of his usual power of discriminating character. Harry Ormond was uncommonly handsome, and though so young, had a finely-formed, manly, graceful figure; and his manner, whenever he spoke to women, was peculiarly prepossessing. These personal accomplishments, Sir Ulick thought, were quite sufficient to win any lady's heart—but Florence Annaly was not to be won by such means;—no feeling of love for Mr. Ormond had ever touched her heart, had ever crossed her imagination; none, under such circumstances, could have arisen in her innocent and well-regulated mind. Sudden terror, and confused apprehension of evil, made her grow pale at the sight of his bloody apparition at the window of the ball-room. Bodily weakness, for she was not at this time in strong health, must be her apology, if she need any, for the faintness and loss of presence of mind, which Sir Ulick construed into proofs of tender anxiety for the personal fate of this young man. In the scene that followed, horror of his crime, pity for the agony of his remorse, was what she felt—what she strongly expressed to her mother, the moment she reached her apartment that night: nor did her mother, who knew her thoroughly, ever for an instant suspect, that in her emotion there was a mixture of any sentiment, but those which she expressed. Both mother and daughter were extremely shocked.—They were also struck with regret at the idea, that a young man, in whom they had seen many instances of a generous, good disposition, of natural qualities and talents, which might have made him a useful, amiable, and admirable member of society, being thus early a victim to his own undisciplined passion. During the preceding winter, they had occasionally seen something of Ormond, in Dublin. In the midst of the dissipated life which he led, upon one or two occasions, of which we cannot now stop to give an account, he had shewn, that he was capable of being a very different character from that which he had been made by bad education, bad example, and profligate indulgence, or shameful neglect on the part of his guardian.
Immediately after Sir Ulick had left Ormond, the surgeon appeared, and a new train of emotions arose. He had no time to reflect on Sir Ulick's conduct.— He felt hurried on rapidly, like one in a terrible dream.—He returned with the surgeon to the wounded man.
Moriarty had wakened, much refreshed from his sleep, and the surgeon confessed his patient was infinitely better than he had expected to find him. Moriarty evidently exerted himself as much as he possible could to appear better, that he might calm Ormond's anxiety, who stood waiting, with looks that shewed his implicit faith in the oracle, and his feeling, that his own fate depended upon the next words that should be uttered.—Let no one scoff at his easy faith—at this time Ormond was very young, not yet nineteen, and had no experience either of the probability or of the fallacy of medical predictions. After looking very grave and very wise, and questioning and cross-questioning a proper time, the surgeon said, "it was impossible for him to pronounce any thing decidedly, till the patient should have passed another night; but that if the next night proved favourable, he might then venture to declare him out of danger, and might then begin to hope, that with time and care he would do well." With this opinion, guarded and dubious as it was, Ormond was delighted—his heart felt relieved of part of the heavy load by which it had been oppressed, and the surgeon was well feed from the purse, which Sir Ulick had put into Ormond's hands. Ormond's next business was, to send a gossoon with a letter to his friend the king of the Black Islands, to tell him all that had passed, and to request an asylum in his dominions. By the time he had finished and dispatched his letter, it was eight o'clock in the morning; and he was afraid that before he could receive an answer, it might be too late in the day to carry the wounded man as far as the Black Islands. He therefore accepted of the hospitable offer of the village school-mistress, to give him and his patient a lodging for this night. There was indeed no one in the place, who would not have done as much for Master Harry.—All were in astonishment and sorrow, when they heard that he was going to leave the Castle; and their hatred to Lady O'Shane would have known no bounds, had they learned that she was the cause of his banishment: but this he generously concealed, and forbade any of his followers or partizans, who had known any thing of what had passed, to repeat what they had heard. It was late in the day before Marcus rose; he had to sleep off the effects of his last night's intemperance; he was in great astonishment, when he learned that Ormond was really going a way. "He could scarcely believe," as he said repeatedly, "that Harry was so mad, or such a fool. As to Moriarty, a few guineas would have settled the business, if no rout had been made about it.—Sitting up all night with such a fellow, and being in such agonies about him, so absurd, what more could he have done, if he had shot a gentleman, or his best friend?—But Harry Ormond was always in extremes."
Marcus, though he had not a very clear recollection of the events of the preceding night, was conscious, however, that he had been much more to blame than Ormond had stated; he had a remembrance of having been very violent, and of having urged Ormond to chastise Moriarty.—It was not the first time that Ormond had skreened him from blame, by taking the whole upon himself. For this, Marcus was grateful to a certain degree: he thought he was fond of Harry Ormond, but he had not for him any solid friendship, that would stand the test of adversity; still less would it be capable of standing against any difference of party opinion. Marcus, though he appeared a mild, indolent youth, was violent where his prejudices were concerned,—instead of being governed by justice in his conduct towards his inferiors, he took strong dislikes, either upon false informations, or without sufficient examination of the facts— cringing and flattery easily won his favour; and on the contrary, any contradiction, or spirit even of independence in an inferior, he resented. These defects in his temper appeared more and more in him every year, as he ceased to be a boy, and was called upon to act as a man. The consequences of his actions became of greater importance, but in acquiring more power, he did not acquire more reason, or greater command over himself.—He was now provoked with Ormond for being so anxious about Moriarty Carroll, because he disliked the Carrolls, and especially Moriarty, for some slight cause not worth recording.— He went to Ormond, and argued the matter with him, but in vain—Marcus resented this sturdiness, and they parted, displeased with each other.— Though Marcus expressed in words much regret at his companion's adhering to his resolution of quitting his father's house, yet it might be doubted, whether at the end of the conference these professions were entirely sincere, whatever they might have been at the beginning; he had not a large mind, and perhaps he was not sorry to get rid of a companion, who had often rivalled him in his father's favour, and who might perhaps rival him where it would be still more his ambition to please. The coldness of Marcus's manner at parting, and the little difficulty which he felt in the separation, gave exquisite pain to poor Ormond, who, though he was resolved to go, did wish to be regretted, especially by the companion, the friend of his childhood.—The warmth of his guardian's manner had at least happily deceived him, and to the recollection of this he recurred for comfort at this moment; when his heart ached, and he was almost exhausted with the succession of the painful, violently painful feelings, of the last four and twenty hours.
The gossoon who he had sent with the dispatch to the king of the Black Islands, did not return this day—disappointment upon disappointment.—Moriarty, who had exerted himself too much, that he might appear better than he really was, suffered for it this night; and so did Ormond, who never before having been with any person delirious from fever, was excessively alarmed. What he endured this night cannot be described— it was, however, happy for him, that he was forced to bear it all—nothing less could have made a sufficient impression on his mind—nothing less could have been a sufficient warning to him, to set a guard upon the violence of his passion of anger.
In the morning the fever abated, about eight o'clock the patient sunk into a sound sleep—and Ormond kneeling by his bedside, ardent in devotion as in all his sentiments, gave thanks to heaven, prayed for Moriarty's perfect recovery, and vowed with the strongest adjurations, that "if he might be spared for this offence, if he might be saved from the horror of being a murderer, no passion, no provocation should ever, during the whole future course of his life, tempt him to lift his hand against his fellow creature."
As he rose from his knees, after making this prayer and this vow, he was surprised to see standing beside him Lady Annaly—she had made a sign to the sick man not to disturb Ormond's devotions by any exclamation at her entrance.
"Be not disturbed—let me not feel that I embarrass you, Mr. Ormond," said she, "I came here not to intrude upon your privacy. Be not ashamed, young gentleman," continued she, "that I should have witnessed feelings that do you honour, and that interest me in your future fate."
"Interest Lady Annaly in my future fate!—is it possible!" exclaimed Ormond— "is it possible that one of whom I stood so much in awe—one whom I thought so much too good, ever to bestow a thought on—such a one as I am— as I was, even before this fatal—" (his voice failed).
"Not fatal I hope—I trust," said Lady Annaly, "this poor man's looks at this moment assure me, that he is likely to do well."
"True for ye, my lady," said Moriarty, "I'll do my best surely, I'd live through all, if possible, for his sake, let alone my mudther's, or shister's, or my own—'twould be too bad after all the trouble he got these two nights, to be dying at last, and hanting him, may be, whether I would or no—for as to prosecuting, that would never be any way, if I died twenty times over. I sint off that word to my mudther and shister, with my curse if they'd do other— and only that they were at the fair, and did not get the word, or the news of my little accident, they'd have been here long ago, and the minute they come, I'll swear 'em not to prosecute, or harbour a thought of revenge again' him, who had no malice again' me, no more than a child. And at another's bidding, more than his own, he drew the trigger, and the pistol went off unknownst, in a passion.—So there's the case for you, my lady."
Lady Annaly, who was pleased with the poor fellow's simplicity and generosity in this tragic-comic statement of the case, inquired if she could in any way afford him assistance.
"I thank your ladyship, but Mr. Harry lets me want for nothing."
"Nor ever will, while I have a farthing I can call my own," cried Ormond.
"But I hope," said Lady Annaly, smiling, "that when Moriarty—is not that his name? gets stout again, as he seems inclined to do, that you do not mean Mr. Ormond to make him miserable and good for nothing, by supporting him in idleness."
"No, he sha'n't, my lady—I would not let him be wasting his little substance on me—and did ye hear, my lady, how he is going to lave Castle Hermitage— Well of all the surprises ever I got! It come upon me like a shot—my shot was nothing to it!"
It was necessary to insist upon Moriarty's submitting to be silent, and to lie quiet; for not having the fear of the surgeon before his eyes, and having got over his first awe of the lady, he was becoming too full of oratory and action.
Lady Annaly took Ormond out with her, that she might speak to him of his own affairs.
"You will not, I hope, Mr. Ormond, attribute it to idle curiosity, but to a wish to be of service, if I inquire what your future plans in life may be?"
Ormond had never formed any distinctly —he was not fit for any profession, except perhaps the army—he was too old for the navy—he was at present going, he believed, to the house of an old friend, a relation of Sir Ulick, Mr. Cornelius O'Shane."
"My son, Sir Herbert Annaly, has an estate in this neighbourhood, at which he has never yet resided, but we are going there when we leave Castle Hermitage— I shall hope you will let me see you at Annaly, when you have determined your plans; perhaps you may shew us how we can assist in forwarding them."
"Is it possible," repeated Ormond, in unfeigned astonishment, "that your ladyship can be so very good, so condescending, to one who so little deserves it—but I will deserve it in future.—If I get over this—interested in my future fate—Lady Annaly!"
"I knew your father many years ago," said Lady Annaly, "and as his son, I might feel some interest for you; but I will tell you sincerely, that I have on some occasions, when we met in Dublin, seen traits of goodness in you, which, on your own account, Mr. Ormond, have interested me in your fate.— But fate is an unmeaning commonplace— worse than commonplace word— it is a word that leads us to imagine that we are fated or doomed to certain fortunes or misfortunes in life.— I have had a great deal of experience, and I think, from all I have observed, that far the greatest part of our happiness or misery in life depends upon ourselves."
Ormond stopped short, and listened with the eagerness of one of quick feeling and quick capacity, who seizes an idea that is new to him, and the truth and value of which he at once appreciates.—For the first time in his life, he heard good sense from the voice of benevolence—he anxiously desired that she should go on speaking, and stood in such an attitude of attentive deference, as fully marked that wish.
But at this moment Lady O'Shane's footman came up with a message from his lady; her ladyship sent to let Lady Annaly know that breakfast was ready. Repeating her good wishes to Ormond— she bade him adieu, while he was too much overpowered with his sense of gratitude to return her thanks.
"Since there exists a being, and such a being, interested for me, I must be worth something—and I will make myself worth something more—I will begin from this moment, I am resolved, to improve—and who knows but in the end I may become every thing that is good—I don't want to be great!"
Though this resolution was not steadily adhered to, though it was for a time counteracted by circumstances, it was never afterwards entirely forgotten.— From this period of his life, in consequence of the great and painful impression which had been suddenly made on his mind, and from a few words of sense and kindness, spoken to him at a time when his heart was happily prepared to receive them, we may date the commencement of our hero's reformation and improvement. Hero, we say, but certainly never man had more faults than Ormond had to correct, or to be corrected, before he could come up to the received idea of any description of hero. Most heroes are born perfect— so at least their biographers, or rather their panegyrists, would have us believe. Our hero is far from this happy lot; the readers of his story are in no danger of being wearied at first setting out, with the list of his merits and accomplishments, nor will they be awed or discouraged by the exhibition of virtue above the common standard of humanity, beyond the hope of imitation. On the contrary, most people will comfort and bless themselves with the reflection, that they never were quite so foolish, or quite so bad as Harry Ormond.
For the advantage of those who may wish to institute the comparison, his biographer, in writing the life of Ormond, deems it a point of honour and conscience to extenuate nothing, but to trace, with an impartial hand, not only every improvement and advance, but every deviation or retrograde movement.
Full of sudden zeal for his own improvement, Ormond sat down at the foot of a tree, determined to make a list of all his faults, and of all his good resolutions for the future.—He took out his pencil, and began on the back of a letter the following resolutions, in a sad scrawling hand and incorrect style:— Harry Ormond's good resolutions.
Resolved 1st.—That I will never drink more than (blank number of) glasses.
Resolved 2dly.—That I will cure myself of being passionate.
Resolved 3dly.—That I will never keep low company.
Resolved.—That I am too fond of flattery—women's especially I like most.— To cure myself of that.
Here he was interrupted by the sight of a little gossoon, with a short stick tucked under his arm, who came pattering on barefoot in a kind of pace indescribable to those who have never seen it—it was something as like walking or running as chaunting is to saying or singing.
"The answer I am from the Black Islands, Master Harry, and would have been back wid you afore nightfall yesterday, only he—king Corny—was at the fair of Frisky—could not write till this morning any way—but has his service to ye, Master Harry, will be in it for ye by half after two with a bed and blanket for Moriarty, he bid me say on account he forgot to put it in the note.—In the Sally Cove the boat will be there abow in the big lough, forenent the spot where the fir dale was cut last seraph by them rogues."
The despatch from the king of the Black Islands was then produced from the messenger's bosom, and it ran as follows: "Dear Harry.—What the mischief has come over cousin Ulick to be banishing you from Castle Hermitage?—But since he conformed he was never the same man, especially since his last mis-marriage.— But no use moralising—he was always too much of a courtier for me.— Come you to me, my dear boy, who is no courtier, and you'll be received and embraced with open arms—was I Briareus the same way.—Bring Moriarty Carroll (if that's his name), the boy you shot, which has given you so much concern— for which I like you the better— and honour that boy, who, living or dying, forbad to prosecute—Don't be surprised to see the roof the way it is:— since Tuesday I wedged it up bodily without stirring a stick:—you'll see it from the boat, standing three foot high above the walls, waiting while I'm building up to it—to get attics—which I shall for next to nothing—by my own contrivance.—Mean time, good dry lodging, as usual, for all friends at the palace. He shall be well tended for you by Sheelah Dunshauglin, the mother of Betty, worth a hundred of her! and we'll soon set him up again with the help of such a nurse, as well as ever, I'll engage—for I'm a bit of a doctor, you know, as well as every thing else.—But don't let any other doctor, surgeon, or apothecary, be coming after him for your life—for none ever gets a permit to land, to my knowledge, on the Black Islands—to which I attribute, under Providence, to say nothing of my own skill in practice, the wonderful preservation of my people in health—that, and woodsorrel, and another secret or two not to be committed to paper in a hurry— all which I would not have written to you, but am in the gout since four this morning, held by the foot fast—else I'd not be writing, but would have gone every inch of the way for you myself in stile, in lieu of sending, which is all I can now do, my six-oared boat, streamers flying, and piper playing like mad—for I would not have you be coming like a banished man, but in all glory to Cornelius O'Shane, commonly called king Corny—but no king for you, only your hearty old friend."
"Heaven bless Cornelius O'Shane!" said Harry Ormond to himself, as he finished this letter, "king or no king, the most warm-hearted man on earth, let the other be who he will."
Then pressing the letter to his heart, he put it up carefully, and rising in haste, he dropped the list of his faults.— That train of associations was completely broken, and for the present completely forgotten; nor was it likely to be soon renewed at the Black Islands, especially in the palace, where he was now going to take up his residence. Moriarty was laid on—what he never laid before—a feather-bed, and was transported, with Ormond, in the six-oared boat, streamers flying, and piper playing, across the lake to the islands. Moriarty's head ached terribly, but he nevertheless enjoyed the playing of the pipes in his ear, because of the air of triumph it gave Master Harry, to go away in this grandeur, in the face of the country. King Corny ordered the discharge of twelve guns on his landing, which popped one after another gloriously,—the hospitable echoes, as Moriarty called them, repeating the sound. A horse, decked with ribbands, waited on the shore, with king Corny's compliments for prince Harry, as the boy, who held the stirrup for Ormond to mount, said he was instructed to call him, and to proclaim him—"Prince Harry" throughout the island, which he did by sound of horn, the whole way they proceeded to the palace—very much to the annoyance of the horse, but all for the greater glory of the prince, who managed his steed to the admiration of the shouting ragged multitude, and of his majesty, who sat in state in his gouty chair at the palace door. He had had himself rolled out to welcome the coming guest.
"By all that's princely," cried he, "then, that young Harry Ormond was intended for a prince, he sits a horse so like myself; and that horse requires a master hand to manage him."
Ormond alighted—
The gracious, cordial, fatherly welcome, with which he was received, delighted his heart.
"Welcome, prince, my adopted son, welcome to Corny castle—palace, I would have said, only for the constituted authorities of the post-office, that might take exceptions, and not be sending me my letters right. As I am neither bishop nor arch—I have in their blind eyes or conceptions no right—Lord help them!—to a temporal palace. Be that as it may, come you in with me, here into the big room—and see! there's the bed in the corner for your first object, my boy—your wounded chap—And I'll visit his wound, and fix it and him the first thing for ye, the minute he comes up."
His majesty pointed to a bed in the corner of a large apartment, whose beautiful painted ceiling and cornice, and fine chimney-piece with caryatides of white marble, ill accorded with the heaps of oats and corn—the thrashing cloth and flail which lay on the floor—
"It is intended for a drawing-room, understand," said king Corny, "but till it is finished, I use it for a granary or a barn, when it would not be a barrack-room or hospital, which last is most useful at present."
To this hospital Moriarty was carefully conveyed. Here, notwithstanding his gout, which affected only his feet, king Corny dressed Moriarty's wound with exquisite tenderness and skill; for he had actually acquired knowledge and address in many arts, with which none could have suspected him to have been in the least acquainted.
Dinner was soon announced, which was served up with such a strange mixture of profusion and carelessness, as showed that the attendants, who were numerous and ill caparisoned, were not much used to gala-days. The crowd, who had accompanied Moriarty into the house, was admitted into the dining- room, where they stood round the king, prince, and father Jos, the priest, as the courtiers, during the king's supper at Versailles, surrounded the king of France. But these poor people were treated with more hospitality than were the courtiers of the French king; for as soon as the dishes were removed, their contents were generously distributed among the attendant multitude. The people blest king and prince, "wishing them health and happiness long to reign over them;"—and bowing suitably to his majesty the king, and to his reverence the priest, without standing upon the order of their going, departed.
"And now, father Jos," said the king to the priest, "say grace, and draw close, and let me see you do justice to my claret, or the whiskey-punch if you prefer; and you, prince Harry, we will set to it regally as long as you please."
"Till tea-time,"—thought young Harry. "Till supper-time,"—thought father Jos. "Till bed-time,"—thought king Corny.
At tea-time young Harry, in pursuance of his resolution the first, rose, but he was seized instantly, and held down to his chair. The royal command was laid upon him "to sit still and be a good fellow."—Moreover the door was locked —so that there was no escape or retreat.
The next morning when he wakened with an aching head, he recollected with disgust the figure of father Jos, and all the noisy mirth of the preceding night. Not without some self-contempt, he asked himself what had become of his resolution?—
"The wounded boy was axing for you, Master Harry," said the girl, who came in to open the shutters.
"How is he?" cried Harry, starting up.
"He is but soberly; he got the night but middling; he concaits he could not sleep because he did not get a sight of your honour afore he'd settle— I tell him 'tis the change of beds, which always hinders a body to sleep the first night."
The sense of having totally forgotten the poor fellow—the contrast between this forgetfulness and the anxiety and contrition of the two preceding nights, actually surprised Ormond; he could hardly believe that he was one and the same person. Then came excuses to himself—"Gratitude—common civility— the peremptoriness of king Corny— his passionate temper, when opposed on this tender point—the locked door— and two to one—In short, there was an impossibility in the circumstances of doing otherwise than what he had done. But then the same impossibility—the same circumstances—might recur the next night, and the next, and so on: the peremptory temper of king Corny was not likely to alter, and the moral obligation of gratitude would continue the same;" so that at nineteen, Ormond was to become, from complaisance, what his soul and body abhorred—an habitual drunkard?—And what would become of Lady Annaly's interest in his fate or his improvement?"
The two questions were not of equal importance, but our hero was at this time far from having any just proportion in his reasoning. It was well he reasoned at all.—The argument as to the obligation of gratitude, and the view he had taken of the never-ending nature of the evil, that must be the consequence of beginning with weak complaisance,— above all, the feeling that he had so lost his reason as to forget Moriarty, and to have been again incapable of commanding his passions, if any thing had occurred to cross his temper, determined Ormond to make a firm resistance on the next occasion that should occur. It occurred the very next night.—After a dinner given to his chief tenants and the genteel people of the islands, a dinner in honour and in introduction of his adopted son, king Corny gave a toast "to the prince presumptive," as he now stiled him—a bumper toast. Soon afterwards he detected day-light in Harry's glass, and cursing it properly, he insisted on flowing bowls and full glasses. "What! are you prince presumptuous?" cried he, with a half angry and astonished look, "Would you resist and contradict your father and king at his own table after dinner!— Down with the glass!"— Further and steady resistance changed the jesting tone and half angry look of king Corny into sullen silence, and a black portentous brow of serious displeasure; after a decent time of sitting, the bottle passing him without further importunity, Ormond rose—it was a hard struggle—for in the face of his benefactor, he saw reproach and rage bursting from every feature. Still he moved on towards the door—he heard the words "sneaking off sober!—let him sneak!"
Ormond had his hand on the lock of the door—it was a bad lock, and opened with difficulty.
"There's gratitude for you! No heart after all!—I mistook him."
Ormond turned back, and firmly standing, and firmly speaking, he said, coolly— "You did not mistake me formerly, Sir,—but you mistake me now!—Sneaking!— Is there any man here sober or drunk," continued he, impetuously approaching the table, and looking round full in every face—"is there any man here dares to say so but yourself.—You, you my benefactor, my friend; you have said it—think it you did not—you could not, but say it you may.—You may say what you will to Harry Ormond, bound to you as he is—bound hand and foot and heart!—Trample on him as you will—you may—No heart—Oblige me, gentlemen, some of you," cried he, his anger rising and his eyes kindling as he spoke. "Some of you, gentlemen, if any of you think so, oblige me by saying so.—No gratitude, Sir!"—turning from them, and addressing himself to the old man, who held an untasted glass of claret as he listened. "No gratitude! Have not I?—Try me, try me to the death—you have tried me to the quick of the heart, and I have borne it."
He could bear it no longer, he threw himself into the vacant chair—flung out his arms on the table, and laying his face down upon them, wept aloud. Cornelius O'Shane pushed the wine away. "I've wronged the boy, grievously—" said he, and forgetting the gout, he rose from his chair, hobbled to him, and leaning over him—"Harry, 'tis I—Look up my own boy, and say you forgive me, or I'll never forgive myself. That's well," continued he, as Harry looked up and gave him his hand—"That's well!—you've taken the twinge out of my heart, worse than the gout—not a drop of gall or malice in your nature, nor ever was, more than in the child unborn. But see, I'll tell you what you'll do now, Harry, to settle all things—and lest the fit should take me ever to be mad with you on this score again. You don't chuse to drink more than's becoming? —Well, you're right, and I'm wrong. 'Twould be a burning shame of me to make of you what I have made of myself—I was born afore the present reformation in manners, in that respect.— We must do only as well as we can. But I will ensure you against the future—and before we take another glass—There's the priest—and you Tom Ferrally there, step you for my swearing book. Harry Ormond, you shall take an oath against drinking more glasses than you please evermore, and then you're safe from me. But stay, you are a heretic. Phoo! What am I saying—'Twas seeing the priest put that word heretic in my head— you're not a catholic, I mean. But an oath's an oath, taken before priest or parson—an oath, taken how you will, will operate. But stay, to make all easy, 'tis I'll take it."
"Against drinking, you! King Corny!" said Father Jos," stopping his hand, "and in case of the gout in your stomach?"
"Against drinking! do you think I'd perjure myself? No! But against pressing him to it—I'll take my oath I'll never ask him to drink another glass more than he likes."
The oath was taken, and king Corny concluded the ceremony by observing, that "after all there was no character he despised more than that of a sot. But every gentleman knew that there was a wide and material difference betwixt a gentleman who was fond of his bottle, and that unfortunate being, an habitual drunkard. For his own part, it was his established rule never to go to bed without a proper quantity of liquor under his belt; but he defied the universe to say he was ever known to be drunk."
This startling assertion could not bring his majesty's veracity into question; for according to his definition, and to the received opinion at his court, "No man could be called drunk, so long as he could lie upon the ground without holding it."
At a court where such ingenious casuistry prevailed, it was happy for our hero, that an unqualifying oath now protected his resolution.
In the middle of the night our hero was wakened by a loud bellowing. It was only king Corny in a paroxysm of the gout. His majesty was naturally of a very impatient temper, and his maxims of philosophy encouraged him to the most unrestrained expression of his feelings.—The maxims of his philosophy— for he had read, though in a most desultory manner, and he had thought often deeply, and not seldom justly.— The turns of his mind, and the questions he asked, were sometimes utterly unexpected—
"Pray now," said he to Harry, who stood beside his bed—"now, that I've a moment's ease—did you ever hear of the stoics that the bookmen talk of, and can you tell me what good any one of them ever got by making it a point to make no noise, when they'd be punished and racked with pains of body or mind. Why I will tell you all they got— all they got was no pity—who would give them pity, that did not require it?— I could bleed to death in a bath, as well as the best of them, if I chose it; or chew a bullet, if I set my teeth to it, with any man in a regiment—but where's the use? nature knows best, and she says roar!"
And he roared—for another twinge seized him—nature said—sleep! several times this night to Harry, and to every body in the palace, but they did not sleep, they could not, while the roaring continued. So all had reason to rejoice, and Moriarty in particular, when his majesty's paroxysm was past. Harry was in a sound sleep at twelve o'clock, the next day, when he was summoned into the royal presence. He found king Corny sitting at ease in his bed, that bed strewed over with a variety of roots and leaves, weeds and plants. An old woman was hovering over the fire, stirring something in a black kettle.—
"Simples these! of wonderful unknown power," said king Corny to Harry, as he approached the bed, "and I'll engage you don't know the name even of the half of them."— Harry confessed his ignorance.
"No shame for you—was you as wise as King Solomon himself, you might not know them, for he did not, nor couldn't, he that had never set his foot a grousing on an Irish bog.—Sheelah! come you over, and say what's this?"
The old woman now came to assist at this bed of botany, and with spectacles slipping off, and pushed on her nose continually, peered over each green thing, and named in Irish, "every herb that sips the dew."
Sheelah was deeper in Irish lore, than king Corny could pretend to be: but then he humbled her with the "black hellebore of the antients," and he had, in an unaccountable manner, affected her imagination by talking of "that famous bowl of narcotic poisons, which that great man Socrates drank off."— Sheelah would interrupt herself in the middle of a sentence and curtsy, if she heard him pronounce the name of Socrates— and at the mention of the bowl, she would regularly sigh, and exclaim:—
"Lord save us!—But that was a wicked bowl."
Then after a cast of her eyes up to heaven, and crossing herself on the forehead, she would take up her discourse at the word where she had left off.
King Corny set to work compounding plaisters and embrocations, preparing all sorts of decoctions of roots, and leaves famous through the country. And while he directed and gesticulated from his bed, the old woman worked over the fire in obedience to his commands. Sometimes, however, not with that "prompt and mute obedience," which the great require.
It was fortunate for Moriarty, that king Corny, not having the use of his nether limbs, could not attend even in his gouty chair to administer the medicines he had made, and to see them fairly swallowed.—Sheelah, whose conscience was easy on this point, contented herself with giving him a strict charge to "take every bottle to the last drop." All she insisted upon for her own part was, that she must tie the charm round his neck and arm. She would fain have removed the dressings of the wound to substitute plaisters of her own, over which she had pronounced certain prayers or incantations: but Moriarty, who had seized and held fast one good principle of surgery, that the air must never be let into the wound, held mainly to this maxim, and all Sheelah could obtain was permission to clap on her charmed plaister over the dressing.
In due time, or as king Corny triumphantly observed, in "a wonderful short period," Moriarty got quite well, long before the king's gout was cured, even with the assistance of the black hellebore of the antients.—King Corny was so well pleased with his patient for doing such credit to his medical skill, that he gave him and his family a cabin, and spot of land, in the Islands—a cabin near the palace—and at Harry's request made him his wood-ranger and his gamekeeper, the one a lucrative place—the other a sinecure.
Master Harry—Prince Harry, was now looked up to as a person all powerful with the master, and petitions and requests to speak for them, to speak just one word, came pouring from all sides; but however enviable his situation as favourite and prince presumptive might appear to others, it was not in all respects comfortable to himself.
Formerly when a boy in his visits to the Black Islands he used to have a little companion of whom he was fond— Dora—king Corny's daughter. Missing her much, he inquired from her father where she was gone, and when she was likely to return.
"She is gone off to the continent, to the continent of Ireland, that is; but not banished for any misdemeanour. You know," said king Corny, "'tis generally considered as a punishment in the Black Islands to be banished to Ireland. A threat of that kind I find sufficient to bring the most refractory and ill-disposed of my subjects, if I had any of that description, to rason in the last resort; but to that ultimate law I have not recourse, except in extreme cases: I understand my business of king too well to wear out either shame or fear; but you are no legislator yet, prince Harry. So what was you asking me about Dora; she is only gone a trip to the continent, to her aunt's, by the mother's side, Miss O'Faley, that you never saw, to get the advantage of a dancing-master, which myself don't think she wants,—a natural carriage, with native graces, being, in my unsophisticated opinion, worth all the dancing- master's positions, contorsions, or drillings; but her aunt's of a contrary opinion, and the women say it is essential— so let 'em put Dora in the stocks, and punish her as they will, she'll be the gladder to get free, and fly back from their continent to her own Black Islands and to me, and to you and me—I ax your pardon, Harry Ormond; but you know, or I should tell you in time, she is engaged already to White Connal, of Glynn—from her birth. That engagement I made with the father over a bowl of punch—I promised—I'm afraid it was a foolish business—He had two sons, twins, at that time, and I had no daughter— but I promised, if ever I should have one—and I had one unluckily ten years after, which is Dora—I promised, I say, and took my oath, I'd give the daughter in marriage to Connal of Glynn's eldest son, which is White Connal. Well, it was altogether a rash act!— So you'll consider her as a married woman, though she is but a child—It was a rash act between you and I—for Connal's not grown up a likely lad for the girl to fancy; but that's neither here nor there; no—my word is passed—when half drunk may be—but no matter—it must be kept sober—drunk or sober, a gentleman must keep his word—a-fortiori a king—a-fortiori king Corny—See!— was there this minute no such thing as parchment, deed, stamp, signature, or seal in the wide world, when once Corny has squeezed a friend's hand on a bargain, or a promise, 'tis fast, was it ever so much against me—'tis as strong to me as if I had squeezed all the lawyer's wax in the creation upon it."
Ormond admired the honourable sentiment; but was sorry there was any occasion for it—and he sighed; but it was a sigh of pity for Dora—not that he had ever seen White Connal, or known any thing of him; but White Connal did not sound well, and her father's avowal that it had been a rash engagement did not seem to promise happiness to Dora in this marriage.
From the time he had been a boy, Harry Ormond had been in the habit of ferrying over to the Black Islands, whenever Sir Ulick could spare him. The hunting and shooting, and the life of lawless freedom he led on the Islands, had been delightful. King Corny, who had the command not only of boats, and of guns, and of fishing tackle, and of men, but of carpenters' tools, and of smiths tools; and of a lathe, and of brass and ivory; and of all the things that the heart of boy could desire, had appeared to Harry, when he was a boy, the richest, the greatest, the happiest of men.—The cleverest too—the most ingenious;—for king Corny had with his own hands made a violin and a rat-trap; and had made the best coat, and the best pair of shoes, and the best pair of boots, and the best hat; and had knit the best pair of stockings, and had made the best dunghill in his dominions; and had made a quarter of a yard of fine lace, and had painted a panorama. No wonder that king Corny had been looked up to by the imagination of childhood, as "a personage, high as human veneration could look."
But now, although our hero was still but a boy in many respects, yet in consequence of his slight commerce with the world, he had formed some comparisons, and made some reflexions. He had heard, accidentally, the conversation of a few people of common sense, besides the sly, witty, and satirical remarks of Sir Ulick, upon Cousin Cornelius; and it had occurred to Harry to question the utility and real grandeur of some of those things, which had struck his childish imagination.— For example, he began to doubt, whether it were worthy of a king, or a gentleman, to be his own shoemaker, hatter, and taylor; whether it were not better managed in society, where these things are performed by different tradesmen; still the things were wonderful, considering who made them, and under what disadvantages they were made; but Harry having now seen and compared Corny's violin with other violins, and having discovered that so much better could be had for money, with so much less trouble, his admiration had a little decreased. There were other points relative to external appearance, on which his eyes had been opened. In his boyish days, king Corny, going out to hunt with hounds and horn, followed with shouts by all who could ride, and all who could run, king Corny hallooing the dogs, and cheering the crowd, appeared to him the greatest, the happiest of mankind.
But he had since seen hunts in a very different style, and he could no longer admire the rabble rout.
Human creatures, especially young human creatures, are apt to swing suddenly from one extreme to the other, and utterly to despise that which they had extravagantly admired. From this propensity, Ormond was in the present instance guarded by affection and gratitude. Through all the folly of his kingship, he saw that Cornelius O'Shane was not a person to be despised. He was indeed a man of great natural powers, both of body and mind;—of inventive genius, energy, and perseverance, which might have attained the greatest objects; though from insufficient knowledge, and self-sufficient perversity, they had wasted themselves on absurd or trivial purposes. There was a strong contrast between the characters of Sir Ulick, and his cousin Cornelius O'Shane; they disliked and despised each other. Differing as far in natural disposition, as the subtle and the bold, their whole course through life, and the habits contracted during their progress, had widened the original difference.
The one living in the world, and mixing continually with men of all ranks and characters, had, by bending easily, and being all things to all men, won his courtier-way onwards and upwards to the possession of a seat in Parliament, and the prospect of a peerage.
The other, inhabiting a remote island, secluded from all men but those over whom he reigned, caring for no earthly consideration, and for no human opinion but his own—had for himself, and by himself, hewed out his way to his own objects— and then rested, satisfied—
"Lord of himself, and all his (little) world his own."One morning, when Harry Ormond was out shooting, and king Corny, who had recovered tolerably from the gout, was re-instated in his arm chair, in the parlour, listening to father Jos, reading "The Dublin Evening Post," a gossoon, one of the runners of the Castle, opened the door, and putting in his curly red head and bare feet, announced, in all haste, that he "just seen Sir Ulick O'Shane in the boat, crossing the lake for the Black Islands."
"Well, breathless blockhead! and what of that?" said king Corny, "did you never see a man in a boat before?"
"I did, plase your honour."
"Then what is there extraordinary?"
"Nothing at all, plase your honour, only—thought your honour might like to know."
"Then you thought wrong, for I neither like it, nor mislike it.—I don't care a rush about the matter—so take yourself down stairs."
"'Tis a long time," said the priest, as the gossoon closed the door after him; "'tis a longer time than he ought, since Sir Ulick O'Shane paid his respects here, even in the shape of a morning visit."
"Morning visit!" repeated Mrs. Betty Dunshauglin, the housekeeper, who entered the room, for she was a privileged person, and had les grandes & les petites entrées in this palace—"Morning visit!— are you sure, father Jos—are you clear he isn't come, intending to stay dinner?"
"What, in the devil's name, Betty, does it signify," said the king.
"About the dinner!" said Betty.
"What about it?" said Corny, proudly; "whether he comes, stays, or goes, I'll not have a scrap, or an iota of it changed," added he in a despotic tone.
"Wheugh!" said Betty, "one would not like to have a dinner of scraps—for there's nothing else to day for him."
"Then if there's nothing else, there can be nothing else," said the priest, very philosophically.
"But when strangers come to dine, one would fain make an exertion, if one could," said Betty.
"It's his own fau't to be a stranger," said father Jos, watching his majesty's clouding countenance; then whispering to Betty, "that was a faulty string you touched upon, Mrs. Betty, and can't you make out your dinner without saying any thing?"
"A person may speak in this house, I suppose, besides the clergy, father Jos," said Mrs. Betty, under her breath.
Then looking out of the window, she added, "he's half-way over the lake, and he'll make his own apologies good, I'll engage, when he comes in; for he knows how to speak for himself, as well as any gentleman—and I don't doubt but he'll get my Micky made an exciseman, as he promised too;—and sure he has a good right—Isn't he a cousin of king Corny's—wherefore I'd wish to have all things proper.—So I'll step out and kill a couple of chickens—won't I?"
"Kill what you please," said king Corny; "but without my warrant, nothing killed or unkilled shall come up to my table this day—and that's enough.— No more reasoning—quit the subject and the room, Betty."
Betty quitted the room; but every stair, as she descended to the kitchen, could bear witness, that she did not quit the subject; and for an hour afterwards, she reasoned against the obstinacy and folly of man, and the chorus in the kitchen moralized, in conformity and commiseration— in vain.
Meantime father Jos, though he regretted the exertions which Mrs. Betty might discreetly have made in favour of a good dinner, was by no means, as he declared, a friend or fauterer of Sir Ulick O'Shane's—how could he, when Sir Ulick had recanted?—The priest looked with horror upon the apostacy.—The king with contempt, upon the desertion of his party. "Was he sincere any way I'd honour him," said Cornelius, "or forgive him;—but, not to be ripping up old grievances when there's no occasion, I can't forgive the way he is at this present double-dealing with poor Harry Ormond— cajoling the grateful heart, and shirking the orphan boy that he took upon him to patronize.—Why there I thought nobly of him, and forgave him all his sins, for the generous protection he afforded the son of his friend."
"Had Captain Ormond, the father, no fortune?" asked the priest.
"Only a trifle of three hundred a year, and no provision for the education or maintenance of the boy. Ulick's fondness for him, more than all, shewed him capable of the disinterested touch; but then to belie his own heart—to abandon him he bred a favourite, just when the boy wants him most—Oh! how could he? And all for what? To please the wife he hates—that can't be—that's only the ostensible— but what the real reason is I can't guess.—No matter, he'll soon tell us."
"Tell us, Oh! no!" said the priest, "he'll keep his own secret."
"He'll let it out, I'll engage, trying to hide it," said Corny: "like all cunning people he woodcocks—hides his head, and forgets his body can be seen. But hark! he is coming up.—Tommy!" said he, turning to a little boy of five years old, who was playing about in the room, "hand me that whistle you're whistling with, till I see what's the matter with it for you."
King Corny seemed lost in examination of the whistle, when Sir Ulick entered the room;—and after receiving and seating him with proud courtesy, he again returned to the charge, blowing through the whistle, earnestly dividing his observation between Sir Ulick and little Tommy, and asking questions, by turns, about the whistle, and about all at Castle Hermitage.
"Where's my boy? Where's Harry Ormond?" was the first leading question Sir Ulick asked.
"Harry Ormond's out shooting, I believe, some where or some how, taking his pleasure, as I hope he will long, and always as long as he likes it, at the Black Islands; at least, as long as I live."
Sir Ulick branched off into hopes of his cousin Cornelius's living long, very long; and in general terms, that were intended to avoid committing himself, or pinning himself to any thing, he protested, that he must not be robbed of his boy, that he had always, with good reason, been jealous of Harry's affection for king Corny, and that he could not consent to let his term of stay at the Black Islands be either as long as Harry himself should like, or during what he hoped would be the life of his cousin, Cornelius O'Shane.
"There's something wrong, still, in this whistle.—Why, if you loved him so, did you let him go when you had him?" said Corny.
"He thought it necessary, for domestic reasons," replied Sir Ulick.
"Continental policy, that is, which I never understood, nor never shall;" said Corny. "But I don't enquire any farther. If you are satisfied with yourself, we are all satisfied, I believe."
"Pardon me, I cannot be satisfied without seeing Harry this morning, for I've a little business with him—will you have the goodness to send for him?"
Father Jos, who, from the window, saw Harry's dog snuffing along the path to the wood, thought he could not be far from the house, and went to make enquiries;— and now when Sir Ulick and king Corny were left alone together, a dialogue, a sort of single combat, without any object but to try each other's powers and temper, ensued between them, in which the one on the offensive came on with a tomahawk, and the other stood on the defensive parrying with a polished blade of Damascus; and sometimes, when the adversary was off his guard, making a sly cut at an exposed part.
"What are you so busy about?" said Sir Ulick.
"Mending the child's toy," said Cornelius— "A man must be doing something in this world."
"But a man of your ingenuity! 'tis a pity it should be wasted, as I have often said, upon mere toys."
"Toys of one sort or other we are all taken up with through life, from the cradle to the grave. By the bye, I give you joy of your baronetage. I hope they did not make you pay now too much in conscience for that poor tag of nobility."
"These things are not always matters of bargain and sale—mine was quite an unsolicited honour, a mark of approbation and acceptance of my poor services, and as such, gratifying;—as to the rest, believe me, it was not, if I must use so coarse an expression, paid for."
"Not paid for—what, then it's owing for? To be paid for, still? Well, that's too hard, after all you've done for them. But some men have no manner of conscience— at least, I hope you paid the fees."
"The fees of course—but we shall never understand one another," said Sir Ulick.
"Now what will be the next title or string you look forward to, Ulysses, may I ask? Is it to be a Baron Castle Hermitage, or to get a ribbon, or a garter, or a thistle, or what? But that's only for Scotchmen, I believe—A thistle! What asses some men are!"
What savages some men are, thought Sir Ulick—he walked to the window, and looking out, hoped that Harry Ormond would soon make his appearance.
"You are doing, or undoing, a great deal here, cousin Cornelius, I see, as usual."
"Yes, but what I am doing, stand or fall, will never be my undoing; I am no speculator. How do your silver mines go on, Sir Ulick? I hear all the silver mines in Ireland turn out to be lead."
"I wish they did," said Sir Ulick, "for then we could turn all our lead to gold. Those silver mines certainly did not pay— I've a notion you found the same with your reclaimed bog here, cousin Cornelius— I understand, that after a short time it relapses, and is worse than ever, like most things pretending to be reclaimed."
"Speak for yourself, there, Sir Ulick, said Cornelius; "you ought to know certainly, for some thirty years ago, I think you pretended to be a reclaimed rake."
"I don't remember it," said Sir Ulick.
"I do, and so would poor Emmy Annaly, if she was alive, which it's fortunate for her she is not—(broken hearted angel, if ever there was one, by wedlock! and the only one of the Annalys I ever liked)" said Cornelius to himself, in a low leisurely voice of soliloquy. Then resuming his conversation tone, and continuing his speech to Sir Ulick—
"I say you pretended thirty year ago, I remember, to be a reformed rake, and looked mighty smooth and plausible—and promised fair that the improvement was solid, and was to last for ever and a day.— But six months after marriage comes a relapse, and the reclaimed rake's worse than ever. Well, to be sure, that's in favour of your opinion against all things pretending to be reclaimed. But see, my poor bog, without promising so well, performs better, for it's six years instead of six months, that I've seen no tendency to relapse. See, the cattle upon it speak for themselves; an honest calf won't lie for any man."
"I give you joy of the success of your improvements.—I admire, too, your ploughing team and ploughing tackle," said Sir Ulick, with a slightly ironical smile—"You don't go into any indiscreet expense for farming implements or prize cattle."
"No," said Cornelius, "I don't prize the prize cattle; the best prize a man can get, and the only one worth having, is, that which he must give himself, or not get, and of which he is the best judge at all seasons."
"What prize, may I ask?"
"You may ask—and I'll answer— the prize of success—And, success to myself, I have it."
"And succeeding in all your ends by such noble means must be doubly grattifying —and is doubly commendable and surprising,"—said Sir Ulick.
"May I ask—for its my turn now to play ignoramus—May I ask, what noble means excites this gratuitous commendation and surprise."
"I commend in the first place the economy of your ploughing tackle—hay ropes, hay traces, and hay halters—doubly useful and convenient for harness and food."— Corny replied, "Some people, I know, think the most expensive harness and tackle, and the most expensive ways of doing every thing the best—But I don't know if that is the way for the poor to grow rich—It may be the way for the rich to grow poor—We are all poor people in the Black Islands, and I can't afford or think it good policy to give the example of extravagant new ways of doing old things."
"'Tis a pity you don't continue the old Irish style of ploughing by the tail," said Sir Ulick.
"That is against humanity to brute beasts, which, without any of your sickening palaver of sentiment, I practise. Also, its against an act of parliament, which I regard sometimes— that is, when I understand them; which, the way you parliament gentlemen draw them up, is not always particularly intelligible to plain common sense, and I have no lawyers here, thank Heaven! to consult; I am forced to be legislator, and lawyer, and ploughman and all, you see, the best I can for myself."
He opened the window, and called to give some orders to the man, or, as he called him, the boy—a boy of sixty— who was ploughing.
"Your team, I see, is worthy of your tackle," pursued Sir Ulick. "A mule, a bull, and two lean horses,—I pity the foremost poor devil of a horse, who must starve in the midst of plenty, while the horse, bull, and even mule, in a string behind him, are all plucking and munging away at their hay ropes."
Cornelius joined in Sir Ulick's laugh, which shortened its duration.
"'Tis comical ploughing, I grant," said he, "but still, to my fancy, any thing's better and more profitable nor the tragi-comic ploughing you practise every season in Dublin."
"I?" said Sir Ulick.
"Aye, you, and all you courtiers, ploughing the half acre continually, pacing up and down that Castle yard, while you're waiting in attendance there. Every one to his taste, but— If there's a man on earth I hate, Attendance and dependance be his fate."'
"After all, I have very good prospects in life," said Sir Ulick.
"Aye, you've been always living on prospects; for my part, I'd rather have a mole-hill in possession, than a mountain in prospect."
"Cornelius, what are you doing here to the roof of your house?" said Sir Ulick, striking off to another subject. "What a vast deal of work you do contrive to cut out for yourself."
"I'd rather cut it out for myself, than have any body to cut it out for me," said Cornelius.
"Upon my word, this will require all your extraordinary ingenuity, cousin."
"Oh, I'll engage I'll make a good job of it, in my sense of the word, though not in yours; for I know, in your vocabulary, that's only a good job where you pocket money, and do nothing; now my good jobs never bring me in a farthing, and give me a great deal to do into the bargain."
"I don't envy you such jobs, indeed," said Sir Ulick; "and are you sure that at last you make them good jobs in any acceptation of the term?"
"Sure! a man's never sure of any thing in this world, but of being abused. But one comfort, my own conscience, for which I've a trifling respect, can't reproach me; since my jobs, good or bad, have cost my poor country nothing."
On this point Sir Ulick was particularly sore, for he had the character of being one of the greatest jobbers in Ireland. With a face of much political prudery, which he well knew how to assume, he began to exculpate himself. He confessed that much public money had passed through his hands; but he protested that none of it had stayed with him. No man, who had done so much for different administrations, had been so ill paid—
"Why the deuce do you work for them, then—You won't tell me it's for love—Have you got any character by it—if you haven't profit, what have you? I would not let them make me a dupe, or may-be something worse, if I was you," said Cornelius, looking him full in the face.
"Savage!" said Sir Ulick again to himself.—The tomahawk was too much for him—Sir Ulick felt that it was fearful odds to stand fencing according to rule with one who