fc^
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
AT LOS ANGELES
^ •
HARRINGTON,
A TALE;
AND
O R M O N D,
A TALE.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
BY MARIA EDGEWORTH,
Author of Comic Dramas, Tales of Fashionable Life,
fyc. Sfc.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR R. HUNTER,
SUCCESSOR TO MR. JOHNSON, 72, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD,
AND BALDWIN, CRADOCK, AND JOY,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1817.
H. Brycr, Printer, Bridge-street,. Blackfriars, London-
PR
44
VA I
0-k.
ORMOND.
CHAP. I.
« WHAT ! no music, no dancing at
Castle Hermitage to night ; and all the
ladies sitting in a formal circle, petri-
fying into perfect statues," cried Sir
Ulick O' Shane, as he entered the draw-
insr-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 swallow-
VOL. II. B
G c-
* ORMOND.
ing, 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
obnoxicus 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 leg's."
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 1
them ; because, as they observed, " he
always said something' pleasant, or set
something pleasant a-going."
" Lady 0' Shane, for mercy's sake,
let us have no more of these perma-
nent sittings at Castle Hermitage, my
dear — "
" Sir Ulick, I am sure I should be
very glad if it were possible," replied
Lady 0' Shane, " to have no more per-
ORMOND. 6
manent 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 re-
source 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, sing--
ing and playing before the gentlemen
came out."
" These young ladies would not ; I'm
sure, do us old fellows the honour of
waiting for us; and the young beaux
deserted to your tea-table a lono- hour
ago— so why you have not been danc-
ing is a mystery beyond my compre-
hension."
b2
4 ORMOND.
" Tea or coffee, Sir Ulick O'Sbane,
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 won-
der!" 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 lady-
ship ?" asked Miss Black, " I have a
notion it's tremendously late."
<c No matter — we are not pinned to
hours in this house, Miss Black," said
Sir Ulick, walking up to the tea-table,
ORMOND. O
and giving her a look, which said as
plainly as look could say — " You had
better be quiet."
Lady 0' Shane followed her hus-
band, and putting 1 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 re-
plied 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, — Ladv O'Shane
was perhaps the last woman in the room,
whom a stranger would have guessed to
be Sir Ulick's wife.
6 ORMOND.
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 pro-
nounce him to be vulgar j 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 capa-
bility of adapting his conversation to his
company and his views, whether his ob-
ject 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 fur-
ORMOND. 7
ther than his legitimate loves, he had suc-
cessively won three wives, who had each,
in their turn, been desperately enamour-
ed. The first he loved and married im-
prudently,* for love, at seventeen. — The
second he admired, and married pru-
dently, for ambition, at thirty. — The
third he hated, but married from neces-
sity, 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 mo-
ther, and mother of an only son and
heir, the representative of a father in
whom ambition had, by this time, be-
come the ruling passion ; the Lady
Theodosia stood her ground, wrangling
and wrestling through a fourteen years
wedlock, till at last, to Sir Click's great
relief, not to say joy, her ladyship was
o ORMOND.
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
ORMOND. 9
age can purchase for money, it would
not do. — The Widow Scraugs might,
with her " lack lustre" eyes, have spe-
culated 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 Scragm-. — After
a nine days courtship she became a bride
— and she and her plum in the stocks —
but not her messuage, house and lauds, 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
vv^is carried to a new country, and set
down among a people whom she had all
her previous days been taught to hold in
b 3
30 ORMOND.
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 pro-
portion as her sphere of observation had
been contracted, her disposition was in-
tolerant. She made no allowance for the
difference of opinion, customs, and situa-
tion, 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 in-
animate, 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
OKMOND. 11
were repelled by her air of taciturn self-
sufficiency ; and she, for her part, de-
clared, 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 —
lie loved shew and company : he had
been all his life in the habit of enter-
taining all ranks of people at Castle
Hermitage, from his excellency the lord
lieutenant and the commander in chief
tor 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 county, 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 fellows!) ip and apparent thought-
lessness and profusion, there was, what
some thought he inherited from his mo^
12 ORMOND.
ther, a Scotchwoman, an eye to his own
interest, and a keen view to the improve-
ment 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 econo-
mic 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 com-
pany as it could possibly hold ; and her
ladyship was condemned eternally to do
the honours to successive troops offriendsy
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 sur-
rounded by the young, the fair, and the
o-ay, to whom Sir Ulick devoted his
assiduous and gallant attentions ; and
though his age, and his being a married
ORMOND. 13
man, seemed to preclude, in the opinion
of the cool or indiffereut 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 punishmsnt
of misplaced, and yet more of unreason-
able passions, that in their distresses they
obtain no sympathy — and while the pas-
sion is in all its consequences tragic to the
sufferer, in all its exhibitions it is ludi-
crous to the spectator. Lady O 1 Shane
could not be young, and would not be
old ; so without the charms of youth, or
the dignity of age, she could neither in-
spire love, nor command respect. Nor
could she find fit occupation or amuse-
ment, or solace or refuge, in any combi-
nation of company, or class of society.
Unluckily as her judgment, never discri-
14 ORMOND.
minating, was now blinded by jealousy j
the two persons, of all his family connex-
ions, upon whom she pitched as the pecu-
liar 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 oc-
curred, 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 connex-
ions, her high character, her having, from
the time she was left a young and beauti-
ful widow, devoted herself to the educa-
tion and the interests of her children ;
her having persevered in her lofty course,
superior to all the numerous temptations,
ORMOND. 15
of love, vanity, or ambition, by which
she was assailed ; her long and able ad-
ministration of a large property, during
the minority of her son ; her subsequent
graceful resignation of power ; his affec-
tion, 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 at-
tachment is ever excited by certain noble
qualities, congenial to the Irish nature.
Sir Ulick O'Shane, sensible of the dis-
advantage which it had been to him to
have estranged such a family connexion,
and fully capable of appreciating the va-
lue of her friendship, had of late years
taken infinite pains to redeem himself in
Lady Annaly's opinion. His consum-
mate address, aided and abetted, and
concealed as it was by his off-hand man-
ner, would scarcely have succeeded, had
10 ORltiOND.
it not been supported also by some sub-
stantial good qualities, especially by the
natural candour and generosity of his dis-
position. In favour of the originally
strong, and, through all his errors, won-
derfully 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 daugh-
ter — 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 agree-
able. Besides the credit of her friend-
ship, 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, for-
ORMOND. 17
tune, family connexions, every thing that
the hearts of young and old desire. — Be-
sides, (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 inte-
rest, 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 cal-
culated ; but, to say nothing of the cha-
racter, 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
18 ORMOND.
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 reflec-
tively, on account of her matronly dress and
dignified deportment, in too striking con-
trast to her own frippery appearance, in-
creased 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 accomplish-
ments, in which Lady O'Shane was con-
scious that she was irremediably defi-
cient. 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 con-
ceal his dislike. She dreaded the ac-
cession of domestic power and influence
ORMOND. 19
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 UlickO'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, inter-
fered 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,
*20 ORMOND.
was now busily instigating her to be re-
fractory. Miss Black had frequently
whispered, that if Lady 0' 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 encroach-
ments of Sir Ulick' s son, Marcus, and
of his friend and companion, young Or-
mond. In consequence of these sugges-
tions, 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 ex-
pressed, and Orniond 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 Orniond. —
Young Orniond was the son ot the friend
of Sir Ulick O'Shane's youthful and
warm-hearted days — the son of an officer
ORMOND. 21
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 fond-
ness, 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 col-
lege; but Harry Ormond, meantime, had
been let to run wild at home : the <rame-
keeper, the huntsman, and a cousin of
22 ORMOND.
Sir Ulick's, who called himself the king
of the Black Islands, had had the prin-
cipal 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 gen-
tleman, 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 acquire-
ments, and in the orphan Harry's natural
genius. Harry's extremely warm, ge-
nerous, 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 in-
cident to his natural violence of passions
and that might necessarily be expected
from his neglected and deficient educa-
tion. His devoted gratitude and attach-
ORMOND. 23
ment 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 un-
governable 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 guar-
dian's sake, where he himself only was
concerned ; while most imprudently and
fiercely he contended upon every occa-
sion, where Marcus, when aggrieved,
had declined contending with his mother-
in-law.
Upon the present occasion the two
youths 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
24 ORMOND.
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 occa-
sion, 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 danc-
ing 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
OHMOND. 26
— 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.
u 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
0' Shane; " but that is no rule for young
VOL II. C
26 ORMOND.
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."
<c Young men are never punctual,"
said Sir Ulick; " but Marcus is inex-
cuseable to-night on account of the An-
nalys."
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 ho-
nour."
" 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,
ORMOND. 27
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
iustead of swallowing them, for I should
scorn to appear to flinch !"
This was true. Sir Ulick could, and
often did, to the utmost perfection, coun-
terfeit every degree of intoxication. He
could act the rise, decline, and fall of
the drunken man, marking the whole
progress, from the first incipient hesita-
tion 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 preterpluper-
fect ebriety.
c 2
28 ORMOND.
" 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.
u But that's not the matter in hand
at present, my dear,"
Sir Ulick protracted the interval be-
fore 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 de-
clined dancing more than one dance, and
ORMOND. 29
♦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,
lie said, he was sure, the cause of Mar-
cus'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 ano-
ther 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
30 'ORMOND.
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
£teyt 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 start-
led by a peremptory tap on the glass be-
hind 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."
ORMOND. 31
CHAP. II.
L.ADY 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 tin
3& ORMOND.
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 hor-
ror.
" Sir Ulick, did you see," pointing to
the door — " Did you see Mr. Ormond? —
There's blood !"
w 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
ORMOND. 3=3
who was holding a salver of ices, over-
turning them all — and whilst the sur-
rounding' 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, repeat-
ing " 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 mis-
chief if he left her behind, drew her into
the green-house, locked the door, and
]ed 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
c 3
34 ORMOND.
0' Shane, as she tottered on — " you might
I should have thought — "
" No time for such thoughts, my dear,"
interrupted he — " Sit Sown on the steps
— there, she is better now — now what i s
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 !" — Bat he had no time for
that thought — " Which way did he go."
u 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 tine moonlight night.
He saw footsteps on the path leading to
the gardener's house. " Stay here, la-
dies, 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.
ORMOND. 36
Several persons appeared from a turn
in the shrubbery, carrying- some one on
a hand-barrow — a gentleman on horse-
back, and a servant, and many persons
walking'. Sir Ulick hastened towards
them ; the gentleman on horseback spur-
red 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 fol-
lowed, also much intoxicated. While Sir
Ulick had been stopped by their ineffec-
tual attempts to explain, the people who
were carrying the man on the hand-bar-
row 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, 1 am a murderer !" cried 1
he.
36 ORMOND.
"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 articu-
late, " 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 mo-
ment I saw the poor fellow stagger and
fall—"
" It was you, then, that fired at him,"
interrupted Sir Ulick.
'* Yes, oh! yes 1" said he, striking his
forehead — "I did it in the fury of pas.
sion."
Then Ormond taking all the blame
upon himself, and stating what had pass-
ORMOND. '37
etl 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 nar-
row part of the road they were stopped
by some cars. Impatient of the delay,
they abused the men who were driving
them, insisting uoon their orettin£ ut of
the way faster than they could. Moriar-
ty Carroll made some answer, which
Marcus said was insolent ; and enquiring
the man's name, and hearing it was Car-
roll, said, all the Carrolls were bad peo-
ple — rebels. Moriarty defied him to
prove thai — 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 Mo-
riarty'sj and first he lifted his whip to
give the fellow a horse- whipping. Mori-
arty seized hold of the whip, and strug-
38 ORMOND.
gled 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 co-
vered with blood, as has been already de-
scribed.
"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," re-
peated Ormond.
This horrible idea so possessed his ima-
ORMOND. 39
gination, 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 un-
meaning eyes for a moment in silence,
walked rapidly on : as he was passing by
the steps of the green-hoase, 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, re-
turn — 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, 1 believe ?" said Sir Ulick.
" Dance — oh no."
40 ORMOND.
" 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 no-
thing 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 1 think a
very strange step and encroachment of
Mr. Ormond's. It will make the whole
thing so public — and the people here-
ORMONB. 41
ubouts 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 sueh
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
beint'' now in the hiohest state of sus-
pense and irritation, he broke out, for-
42 ORMOND.
getful of all proper respect. Miss Black,
who was saying- something' in corrobora-
tion of Lady O'Shane's opinion, he first
attacked, pronouncing" her to i)e an un-
feeling canting hypocrite ; then, turning
to Lady O'Shane, he said, that she might
send the dying man away if she pleased j
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 for-
getting 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. " For-
give 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
ORMOND. 43
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 scape-
grace, 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 for-
got yourself strangely towards Lady
O'Shane — as to this iel!oT<*~den't maks
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, 1 thought you and
Marcus had been quarrelling-. Miss An-
naly, 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
tilings are going on, and prevent gossip-
ping, for your sake, my boy," resumed Sir
44 ORMOND.
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 1 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 re-
peated, ** 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 Or-
mond.
The surgeon gave Ormond little com-
fort. After extracting the bullet, and
examining the wound, he shook his head
— he had but a bad opinion of the case ;
and when Oi'inond took him aside, and
ORMOND. 4'>
questioned him more closely, he con-
fessed 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 ano-
ther patient -, and Ormond, turning all
the other people out of the room, de-
clared 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 lei-
sure to think, that he was most miserable ;
then the agony of suspense, and the horror
of remorse, were felt, till feeling was ex-
hausted; 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 star tings. Toward morning
46 ORMOND.
the wounded man lay easier ; and as Or-
mond 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 un-
knownst to you — I'm sure was no malice
— let that be your comfort — It mig^ht
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 your-
self 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
ORMOND. 47
upon the other bed, that he might relieve
Moriarty from the sight of him. The
good nature and generosity of this poor
fellow increased Orinond'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 wa-
kened 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 Orinond's ear) — heard him
begin to breathe loudly. The morning
light dawned soon afterwards, and the
48 ORMOND.
crowing of a cock was heard, which Or-
mond feared might waken him j but the
poor man slept soundly through all these
usual noises : the heaving of the bed-
clothes over his breast went on with un- v
interrupted 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 reite-
rated about a hundred times their prophe-
cies, that Moriarty would be as sound and
rjood a man as ever in a fortnight's time.
ORMOND. 49 ,
c< 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 ani-
mal, thought he, as his attention was
caught by the house dog, who was lick-
VOL. II. D
50 ORMOND.
ing 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 —
/ shall be a murderer.
This thought, perpetually recurring-,
oppressed him so, that he stood motion-
less till he was roused by the voice of Sir
UlickO'Shane.
" Well, Harry Ormond, how is it with
you, my boy. — The fellow's alive, I
hope." ,
" Alive. — Thank Heaven !■ — Yes : and
asleep."
<c 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—"
ORMOND. 51
u I am afraid," said Ormond, " that I
spoke too hastily last night : I beg your
pardon — "
u Nay — nay, put me out of the ques-
tion : 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 encou-
rage 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 inti-
mates, 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. — Sepa-
rations are foolish things, as foolish as
marriages — but I'd sooner part with
Lady O'Shane at once, than let Harry
D 2
62 OUMOM),
Ormond think I'd forsake him — espe-
cially in aukward circumstances.*'
" That, Sir Ulick, is what Harry Or-
monde an 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 Or-
mond, " believe me, your kindness is too
full — innumerable instances of your af-
fection 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 j 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.
ORMOND. »*
"Part!" repeated Sir Ulick, "no, by
all the saints arid all the devils in female
torm.
" I am resolved," said Ormond, " firm-
ly 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
0' Shane. — Give her up rather than me I
Heaven forbid ! — I the cause of separa-
tion, never — never. — I am determined —
let what will become of me, I will no
more be an inmate at Castle Hermi-
tage."
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 gra-
dually sunk to hoping it was not neces-
sary, and proposing palliatives and half
measures. — Mori arty must be moved to-
54 ORMOND.
day — sent to his own friends. — That point
lie 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 re-
solution to quit Castle Hermitage, he
threw all the blame on Lady O'Shane;
and Ormond never doubted the steadi-
ness of Sir Ulick's affection, or suspect-
ed 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 be-
comes of me, my dear Sir, — I'll find
means — I have the use of head and
hands."
'« My cousin, Cornelius O'Shane, he
OAMOND. 55
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 ma-
jesty 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 al-
lowance to begin with."
Sir Ulick put a purse into Ormond's
hand, and left him.
56 ORMOLU*.
CHAP. III.
RUT 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 af-
fection 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
fcis own son — He had been his darling ; —
literally his spoiled child j — nor had this
fondness passed away with the prattling 1
ORMOND. 57
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 sel-
dom 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 on many occasions in his
life sacrified them to his scheming ima-
D 3
58 OSMOND.
ginations. Necessity — the necessity of
bis affairs, the consequences of his ex-
travagance, had brought him to this ;
the first sacrifices bad not been made
without painful struggles — but by de-
grees 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 al-
ways 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 P Miss Annaly's turning pale
was the first cause of Sir Ulick's change
of sentiments towards his young favou-
rite. Afterwards, during the whole that
passed, Sir Ulick had watched the im-
pression made upon her — he had observed,
that it was not for Marcus O'Shane's
safety that she was anxious, and he
ORMOND. 59
thought she had betrayed a secret at-
tachment, the commencement of an at-
tachment he thought it, of which she was
perhaps herself unconscious. — Were such
an attachment to be confirmed, it would
disappoint Sir Ulick's schemes : there-
fore, with the coot 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 Her-
mitage : 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 re-
conciliation with Lady O'Shane, and re-
instate 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
60 ORMOND.
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 hor-
ror, could any sentiment like love exist
or arise in a well-principled mind?
Certainly not. — Sir Ulick's acquaint-
ance with unprincipled women misled
him completely in this instance, and cle-r-
prived him of his usual power of dis-
criminating 1 character. Harry Ormond
was uncommonly handsome, and though
so young, had a finely-formed, manly,
graceful figure ; and his manner, when-
ever he spoke to women, was peculiarly
prepossessing. These personal accom-
plishments, 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.
ORMOKD. 6t
Sudden terror, and confused apprehen*
sion of evil, made her grow pale at the
sight of his bloody apparition at the win-
dow 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 mo-
ther, 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
62 ORMOND.
qualities and talents, which might have
made him a useful, amiable, and admira-
ble member of society, being thus early
a victim to his own undisciplined pas-
sion. 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 can-
not 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 guar-
dian.
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 rapidl) r , like one in a
terrible dream. — He returned with the
surgeon to the wounded man.
Moriarty had wakened, much refresh-
ORMOND. 63
ed from his sleep, and the surgeon con-
fessed his patient was infinitely better
than he had expected to find him. Mori-
arty evidently exerted himself as much as
he possibly could to appear better, that he
might calm Ormond's anxiety, who stood
waiting, with looks that shewed his im-
plicit 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 nine-
teen, 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 pro-
nounce any thing decidedly, till the
patient should have passed another night;
but that if the next night proved favour-
able, he might then venture to declare
him out of danger, and might then be-
gin to hope, that with time and care he
64 ORMOND.
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 domi-
nions. By the time he had finished and
dispatched his letter, it was eight o'clock
in the morning; and he was afraid that be-
fore he could receive an answer, it miofht
be too late in the day to carry the wound-
ed 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 astonish-
ment and sorrow, when they heard that
ORMOXD. 65
lie was going 1 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 for-
bade any of his followers or partizans, who
had known any thing of what had passed,
to repeat what the# had heard. It was
late in the day before Marcus rose j he
had to sleep off the effects of his last
night's intemperance ; he was in great
astonishment, when he learned that Or-
niond was really going away. " He could
scarcely believe," as he said repeatedly,
" that Harry was so mad, or such a fool.
As toMoriarty, 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? — Bui
Harry Ormond was always in extremes/'
Marcus, though he had not a very clear
66 ORMOND.
recollection of the events of the pre-
ceding" night, was conscious, however,
that he had been much more to blame
than Ormond had stated ; he had a re-
membrance of having been very violent*
and of having urged Ormond to chas-
tise Moriarty. — It was not the first time
that Ormond had skreened him from
blame, by taking the whole upon him-
self. 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 ihe test of adversity ; still less
would it be capable of standing 1 against
any difference of party opinion. Marcus,
though he appeared a mild, indolent
youth, was violent where his prejudices
were concerned,- — instead of being- go-
verned by justice in his conduct towards
his inferiors, he took strong dislikes,
either upon false informations, or with-
out sufficient examination of the facts —
cringing and flattery easily won his fa-
ORMOND. 67
vour ; and on the contrary, any contra-
diction, or spirit even of independence
in an inferior, he resented. These de-
fects 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 ac-
quire 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 — Mar-
cus resented this sturdiness, and they
parted, displeased with each other. —
Though Marcus expressed in words
milch regret at his companion's ad-
hering to his resolution of quitting his
father's house, yet it might be doubted,
whether at the end of the conference
68 ORMONB.
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 re-
solved 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 suc-
cession of the painful, violently painful
feelings, of the last four and twenty
hours.
The gossoon who he had sent with the
ORMOND. 09
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
Orinond, who never before having been
with any person delirious from fever,
was excessively alarmed. What he en-
dured 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 im-
pression on his mind — nothing less could
have been a sufficient warning to him, to
set a guard upon the violence of his pas-
sion Of anger.
In the morning the fever abated,
about eight o'clock the patient sunk
into a sound sleep — and Ormond kneel-
ing 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
4
70 ORMOND.
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 devo-
tions by any exclamation at her entrance.
" Be not disturbed — let me not feel
that 1 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 fu-
ture fate ! — is it possible !" exclaimed Or-
mond — u is it possible that one of whom
ORMOND. 71
I stood so much in awe — one whom I
thought so much too good, ever to be-
stow a thought on — such a one as I am
— as 1 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."
u True for ye, my lady," said Mo-
riarty, " I'll do my best surely, I'd live
through all, if possible, for his sake,
Jet alone my mudther's, t>r 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
72 ORMOND.
here long ago, and the minute they come,
I'll swear 'em not to prosecute, or har-
bour 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 trijrger,
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, in-
quired 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 1 have a far-
thing I can call my own," cried Or-
mond.
ff 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 miser-
ORMOND. 73
able and good for nothing, by supporting
him in idleness/'
" No, he sha'n't, my lady — I would
not let him be wasting 1 his little sub-
stance on me — and did ye hear, my lady,
how he is going to lave Castle Hermit-
age — 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 Mo-
riarty'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 ac-
tion.
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 dis-
VOL. II. E
74 ORMOND.
tinctly — he was not fit for any profession,
except perhaps the army — he was too
old for the navy — he was at present go-
ing, 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 Her-
mitage — 1 shall hope you will let me see
you at Annaly, when you have deter-
mined your plans ; perhaps you may
shew us how we can assist in forward-
ing them."
" Is it possible," repeated Ormond, in
unfeigned astonishment, " that your
ladyship can be so very good, so con-
descending, to one whoso 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
ORMOND. 75
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" common-
place — worse than commonplace word
— it is a word that leads us to ima-
gine 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 hap-
piness 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 de-
E 2
76 ORMOND.
sired that she should go on speaking,
and stood in such an attitude of atten-
tive 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.
M 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- — 1 don't want to be great!"
Though this resolution was not stea-
dily adhered to, though it was for a time
counteracted by circumstances, it was
never afterwards entirely forgotten, —
ORMOND. 77
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 reforma-
tion 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 accom-
plishments, nor will they be awed or
discouraged by the exhibition of virtue
above the common standard of huma-
nity, beyond the hope of imitation. On
78 ORMOND.
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 Or-
mond, 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 move-
ment.
ORMOND. 79
CHAP. IV.
FULL of sudden zeal for his own im-
provement, Ormond sat down at the
foot of a tree, determined to make a list
of all his faults, and of all his good re-
solutions 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 OrmoncV s.good resolutions.
Resolved 1st. — That 1 will nevei drink
more than (blank number of ) glasses.
Resolved 2dly. — That I will cure my-
self of being passionate.
Resolved 3dly. — That I will nevei
keep low company.
Resolved. — That I am too fond of
80 ORMOND.
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, whe 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 yes-
terday, only he — king Corn y — 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 Mori arty, 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."
ORMOND, 81
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-mar"
riage. — 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 Bria-
reus the same way. — Bring Moriarty
Carroll (if that's his name), the boy you
shot, which has given you so much con-
cern — for which L 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
k3
82 ORMONT).
above the walls, waiting- while I'm
building up to it — to get attics — which 1
shall for next to nothing — by my own
contrivance. — Mean time, good dry lodg-
ing, 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 preser-
vation 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
3
ORMOND. 83
morning 1 , 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 yon be coming like a
banished man, but in all glory to Corne-
lius G'Shane, commonly called king
Corny — but no king for you, only your
hearty eld 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
ether be who he will."
Then pressing the letter to his heart,
he put it up carefully, and rising in
haste, lie dropped the list of his faults. —
That train of associations v. as 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-
84 ORMOND.
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 an-
other 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 — tc Prince
Harry" throughout the island, which he
did by sound of horn, the whole way
they proceeded to the palace — very much
ORMOND. 85
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 wel-
come, with which he was received, de-
lighted 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
1
80 ORMOND.
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 i£ 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 care-
fully conveyed. Here, notwithstanding
ORMOND. 87
his gout, Which affected only his feet,
king- Corny dressed Moriarty's wound
with exquisite tenderness and skill j 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 mix-
ture 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 ki'ig 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 distri-
88 ORMOND.
buted among- the attendant multitude.
The people blest king- and prince^
" wishing them health and happiness
long to reign over them j" — and bowing
suitably to his majesty the king-, and
to his reverence the priest, without
standing upon the order of ^heir 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 5 and you, prince Harry, we will
set to it regally as long as you please."
<e Till tea-time," — thought young
Harry. li Till supper-time," — thought
father Jos. " Till bed-time,"— thought
king Corny.
At tea-time young Harry, in pursu-
ance 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
ORMOND. 89
—so that there was no escape or re-
treat.
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 becaase 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
* But soberly /—not very well, or in good spirits.
90 ORMOND.
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 sotd 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
ORMOND. 91
importance, but our hero was at this
time far from having" any just proportion
in his reasoning*. It was well he rea-
soned 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 command-
ing his passions, if any thing had oc-
curred 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 imn — a bumper toast. Soon
afterwards he detected day-light in
Harry's glass, and cursing it properly,
92 ORMONt).
he insisted on flowing bowls and Ml
glasses. " What ! are you prince pre-
sumptuous P" 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 displea-
sure; after a decent time of sitting, the
bottle passing him without further im-
portunity, Ormond rose — it was a hard
struggle — for in the face of his benefactor,
he saw 7 reproach and rage bursting from
every feature. Still he moved on to-
wards 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.
« c There's gratitude for you ! No heart
after all ! — I mistook him."
ORMOND. 93
Ormond turned back, and firmly stand-
ing-, and firmly speaking, he said, coolly
— " You did not mistake me formerly,
Sir, — but you mistake me now ! — Sneak-
ing ! — Is there any man here sober or
drunk," continued he, impetuously ap-
proaching 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
whatyou 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. iC Some
of you, gentlemen, if any of you think so,
oblige me l»y saying so. — No gratitude,
Sir!" — iiuiiing from them, and address-
ing himseit to the old man, who held an
untasted glass of claret as he listened.
" No gratitude ! Have not I ? — Try me,
&4 ORMOND.
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. w 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 be-
ORMOND. 95
coming ? — 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 re-
formation 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 "lass — 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 sto-
mach ?"
96 ORMOND.
" Against drinking ! do you think I'd
perjure myself? No ! But against press-
ing 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 i( 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 with-
out 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 hojding it."
ORMOKDt 97
At a court where such ingenious casu-
istry prevailed, it was happy for our hero,
that an unqualifying" oath now protected
his resolution.
vol. ir. «•
ORMOND.
CHAP. V:
IN the middle of the nicrht 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 max-
ims 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 de-
sultory manner, and he had thought
often deeply, and not seldom justly. —
The turns of his mind, and the ques-
tions he asked, were sometimes utterly
unexpected —
•' Pray now," said he to Harry, who
stood beside his bed — " now, that I've
ORMOND. 99
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 punish-
ed 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
F 2
100 ORMON1).
o 1 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 va-
riety 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 un-
known 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?"
Tlie old woman now came to assist
at this hed of botany, and with spec-
tacles slipping off, and pushed on her
nose continually, peered over each green
ORMONl>. 101
thing", and named in Irish, " every herb
that sips the dew."
Sheelah was deeper in Irish lore, than
king Corny couid pretend to be : but
then he humbled her with the " black
heilebore of the antients," and he had,
in an unaccountable manner, affected
her imagination by talking- of " that fa-
mous 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 So-
crates — and at the mention of the bowl,
she would regularly sigh, and ex-
claim : —
«' 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 dis-
course at the word where she had left
off.
King Corny set to work compound-
102 ORMOND,
ing plaisters and embrocations, pre-*
paring 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 com-
mands. Sometimes, however, not with
that " prompt and mute obedience,"
which the great require.
It was fortunate for Mori arty, that
king Corny, not having the use of his
nether limbs, could not attend even in
his gouty chair to administer the medi-
cines he had made, and to see them
fairly swallowed. — Sheelah, whose con-
science was easy on this point, con-
tented herself with giving him a strict
charge to u take every bottle to the last
drop." All she insisted upon for her
own part was, that she must tie the
chann 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
ORMOND. 103
certain prayers or incantations : but Mo-
riarty, who had seized and held fast one
good principle of surgery, that the air
must never be let into the wound, held
mainlv 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 trium-
phantly 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 helle-
bore 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 o-ame-
keeper, the one a lucrative place — the
other a si ecure.
Master Harry— Prince Harry, was
now looked up to as a person all power-
ful with the master, and petitions and
104 ORMOND.
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 gene-
rally 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 de-
scription, to rason in the last resort; but
to that ultimate law I have not recourse,
ORMOND. 105
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, MissO'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 unsophis-
ticated opinion, worth all the dancing-
master's positions, contorsions, or drill-
ings ; 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 Conual, of
Glynn — from her birth. That engage-
F 3
106 qrmond.
ment 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 daugh-
ter — but I promised, it* 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 Con-
nal. 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 soher, 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
2
ORMOND. 107
has squeezed a friend's hand on a bargain,
or a promise, 'tis fast, was it ever so
much against me — 'tis as strong 1 to me as
if I had squeezed all the lawyers' wax
in the creation upon it."
Ormond admired the honourable sen-
timent ; but was sorry there was any oc-
casion 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 bov,
Harry Ormond had been in the habit of
ferrying over to the Black Islands, when-
ever Sir Ulick could spare him. The
hunting' and shooting, and the life of law-
less 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 meiij
108 ORMONU.
but of carpenters' tools, and of smiths'
tools ; and of a lathe, and of brass and
ivory ; and of all the thing's 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 dung-
hill 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 con-
sequence of his slight commerce with
the world, he had formed some com-
ORMOND. 109
parisons, and made some reflexions. He
hadh eard, 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 thing's,
which had struck his childish imagination.
— For example, he began to doubt, whe-
ther it were worthy of a king, or a gentle-
man, to be his own shoemaker, hatter, and
taylor ; whether it were not jbetter ma-
naged in society, where these things are
performed by different tradesmen ; still
the things were wonderful, considering-
who made them, and under what dis-
advantages they were made; but Harry
having now seen and compared Corny's
violin with other violins, and having dis-
covered 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 ex-
ternal appearance, on which his eyes
4
1 iO ORMOND.
had been opened. In his boyish days,
king 1 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 man-
kind.
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 sud-
denly from one extreme to the other, and
utterly to despise that which they had
extravagantly admired. From this pro-
pensity, Ormond was in the present in-
stance guarded by affection and grati-
tude. Through ail the folly of his king-
ship, 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
ORMOXD. Ill
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 Uiick, and his cou-
sin Cornelius O'Shane; they disliked and
despised each other. Differing as far i.i
natural disposition, as the subtle and the
bold, their whole course through life,
and the habits contracted during their
progress, had widened the original dif-
ference.
The one living in the world, and mix-
ing 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 emote island,
secluded from all men but ihose over
whom he reigned, caring for no earthly
consideration, and for no human opinion
J 12 omiOND.
but his own — had for himself, and by him-
self, hewed out his way to his own ob.
jects — and then rested, satisfied —
'* Lord of himself, and all his (little) world his
own."
ORMOND. US
CHAP. VI.
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 Click
O'Sliane 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."
114 OBMONDr
" Then what is there extraordinary ? ,r
•' Nothing' at all, plase your honour,
only — thought your honour might like to
know."
" Then you thought wrong, for 1 nei-
ther like it, nor mislike it. — I don't care
a rush about the matter — so take vourself
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 en-
tered the room, for she was a privileged
person, and had les grandes fy les petites
entrees in this palace — " Morning visit ! —
are you sure, father Jos — are you clear
he isn't come, intending to stay dinner P"
" What, in the devil's name, Betty,
does it signify," said the king.
" About the dinner !" said Betty.
" What about it?" said Corny, proud-
ORMOND. 115
ly ; " whether he comes, stays, or goes,
I'll not have a scrap, or an iota of it
changed," added he in a despotic tone.
" WheujHi!" 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
116 ORMONDE
he'll make his own apologies good, I'll
enofaoe, when he comes in ; for he knows
how to speak for himself, as well as any
jrentleman — and I don't doubt but he'll
get my Micky made an exciseman, as
he promised too ; — and sure he has a
ffood rig-lit — Isn't he a cousin of kin«*
Corny's — wherefore I'd wish to have all
things proper* — Bo I'll step out and kill
a couple of chickens — won't I ?"
" Kill what you please," said king
Corny ; " but without my warrant, no-
thing 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 commise-
ration — in vain,
ORMOND. 1 J 7
Meantime father Jos, though he re-
gretted the exertions which Mrs. Betty
mi»'ht 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
J'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 pre-
sent double-dealing with poor Harry Or-
mond — 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
nil his sins, for the generous protection
he afforded the son of his friend."
*' Hdd Captain Ormond, the father,
no fortune?" asked the priest.
" Only a trifle of three hundred »
US ORMONt).
year, and no provision for the education
or maintenance of the boy. Ulick's fond-
ness 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 os-
tensible — 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 : <f like all cun-
ning 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."
ORMOND. 1 19
King Corny seemed lost in examina-
tion of the whistle, when Sir Ulick en-
tered the room ; — and after receiving and
seating him with proud courtesy, he again
returned to the charge, blowing through
the whistle, earnestly dividing his obser-
vation between Sir Ulick and little Tom-
my, 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 be-
lieve, 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 offinto 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
120 ORMOND.
had always, with good reason, been jea-
lous 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 0' Shane.
u 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 domes-
tic reasons," replied Sir Ulick.
" Continental policy, that is, which I
never understood, nor never shall;" said
Corny. ** But I don't enquire any far-
ther. If you are satisfied with yourself*
we ar« 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 ,
OltMOND. 121
to the wood, thought he could not be far
from the house, and went to make en*
quiries ; — and now when Sir Ulick and
king Corny were left alone together, a
dialogue, a sort of single combat, with-
out 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 Cor-
nelius — <f A man must be doing some,
thing 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 cra-
dle to the grave. By the bye, 1 give you
VOL. II. G
122 ORMOND.
joy of your baronetage. I hope they did
not make you pay now too much in con-
science 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 j — 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.
Bat some men have no manner of con-
science — 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 Her-
mitage, or to get a ribbon, or a garter,
or a thistle, or what? But that's only for
Scotchmen, I believe — A thistle I What
asses some men are !"
ORMOND. 123
What savages some men are, thought
Sir Ulick — he walked to the window,
and looking out, hoped that Harry Or-
uiond 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 Corne-
lius — I understand, that after a short
time it relapses, and is worse than ever,
like most things pretending to be re-
claimed."
" Speak for yourself, there, Sir Ulick,"
said Cornelius; " you ought to know
certainly, for some thirty years ago, I
G 2
124 ORMON2>.
think you pretended to be a reclaimed
rake."
" I don't remember it," said Sir Ulick.
" I do, and so would poor Emmy An-
naly, if she was alive, which it's fortu-
nate 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 con-
tinuing his speech to Sir Ulick —
" I say you pretended thirty year ago,
1 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
OFMOND. 12£
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.-r— 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 whieh 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 gra-
tifying — and is doubly commendable
and surprising," — said Sir Ulick.
126 ORMOND.
rt May I ask — for its rny turn now to
play ignoramus — May I ask, what noble
means excites this gratuitous commend-
ation 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.
iC That is against humanity to brute
beasts, which, without any of your
ORMOND. 127
sickening palaver of sentiment, I prac-
tise. Also, its against an act of par-
liament, which I regard sometimes —
that is, when I understand them ; which,
the way you parliament gentlemen draw
them up, is not always particularly in-
telligible 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 t°
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
munying away at their hay ropes."
Cornelius joined in Sir Ulick's laugh,
which shortened its duration.
128 ORMOND.
" '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,
1 Attendance and dependance be his fate.' "
" After all, I have very good pros-
pects 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 moun-
tain in prospect."
" Cornelius, what are you doing here
to (lie roof of your house ?" said Sir
* Ploughing the half acre. The English reader
will please to enquire the meaning of this phrase
from any Irish courtier.
ORMOND. 129
Ulick, striking- off to another subject.
" What a vast deal of work you do con-
trive 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 L know, in your voca-
bulary, 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."
" 1 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
G 3
130 ORMOND.
reproach me; since my jobs, good or
bad, have cost my poor country no-
thing."
On this point Sir Ulick was particu-
larly sore, for he had the character of
being - one of the greatest jobbers in
Ireland With a face of much politi-
cal 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
l ove — 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
ORMOND. 131
himself. — The tomahawk was too much
for him — Sir Ulick felt that it was
fearful odds to stand fencing 1 according"
to rule with one who would not scruple
to gouge or scalp, if provoked. Sir
Ulick now stood silent — smiling forced
smiles, and looking on while Cornelius
played quite at his ease with little
Tommy, blew shrill blasts through the
whistle, and boasted " that he had made
a good job of that whistle any way."
Harry Ormond, to Sir Ulick's great
relief, now appeared. Sir Ulick ad-
vanced to meet him with an air of cor-
dial friendship, which brought the
honest Hush of pleasure and gratitude
into the young man's face, who darted
a quick look at Cornelius, as much as to
say,—
" You see you were wrong — he is
glad to see me — he is come to see me."
Cornelius said nothing, but stroaked
the child's head, and seemed taken up
entirely with him ; Sir Ulick spoke of.
182 ORM£XND.
Lady O'Shane, and of his hopes that
prepossessions were wearing off — " If
Miss Black were out of the way, things
would all go right, but she was one of
the mighty good — too good ladies, who
were always meddling with other peo-
ple's business, and making mischief."
Harry, who hated her, that is* as
much as he could hate any body, railed
at her vehemently, saying more against
her than he thought, and concluded, by
joining in Sir Ulick's wish for her de-
parture from Castle Hermitage, but not
with any view to his own return thitjier.
On that point he was quite resolute and
steady — u He would never," he said,
Ci be the cause of mischief. Lady
O'Shane did not like him, — why, he did
not know, and had no right to enquire —
and was too proud to enquire, if he had
a right. It was enough that her lady-
ship had proved to him her dislike, and
refused him protection at his utmost
need, — he should never again sue for
ORMOND. J 33
her hospitality. He declared, that Sir
Ulick should never more be disquieted,
by his being an inmate at Castle Her-
mitage."
Sir Ulick became more warm and
eloquent in dissuadmg him from this
resolution, the more he perceived that
Ormond was positively fixed in his de-
termination.
The cool looker on all the time re-
marked this, and Cornelius was con ;
vinced, that he had from the first been
right i-n his own opinion, that Sir Ulick
was " shirking the boy."
" And where's Marcus, Sir ? would
not he come with you to see us ?" said
Ormond.
'« Marcus is gone off to England.
He bid me give you his kindest love ;
he was hurried, and regretted he could
not come to take leave of you ; but he
was obliged to go off with the Annalys,
to escort her ladyship to England,
where he will remain this year, I dare
1 34 ORMOND.
say. — I am much concerned to say, that
poor Lady Annaly and Miss Annaly" —
Sir Ulick cleared his throat, and gave a
suspicious look at Ormond
This glance at Harry, the moment Sir
Ulick pronounced the words Miss An-
naly, first directed aright the attention
of Cornelius —
" Lady Annaly and Miss Annaly ! are
they ill ? What's the matter, for Hea-
ven's sake ?" exclaimed Harry, with
great anxiety; but pronouncing both the
ladies' names precisely in the same tone,
and with the same freedom of expres-
sion.
Sir Ulick took breath— « Neither of
the ladies are ill — -absolutely ill — .but
they have both been greatly shocked by
accounts of young Annaly's sudden ill-
ness. It is feared an inflammation upon
his lungs, brought on by violent cold —
his mother and sister left us this morn-
ing — set off for England to him imme-
diately. Lady Annaly thought of you
ORMOND. 1 35
Harry, my boy — you must be a pro-
digious favourite — in the midst of all her
affliction, and the hurry of this sudden
departure, this morning', gave me a letter
for you, which I determined to deliver
with my own hands "
While he spoke, Sir Ulick, affecting
to search for the letter among- many in
his pocket, studied with careless inter-
mitting' glances our young hero's coun-
tenance, and Cornelius O'Shane studied
Sir Uli k's : Harry tore open the letter
eagerly, and coloured a good deal when
he saw the inside.
" I've no business here reading that
boy's secrets in his face," cried Cornelius
O'Shane, raising himself on his crutches,
" I'll step out and look at my roof—Will
you come, .Sir Ulick, and see how the
job goes on ?" Mis crutch slipped as he
stepped across the hearth ; Harry ran
to him—" Oli, Sir, what are you doing" ?
You are not able to walk yet without
me : Why are you going' ? secrets, did
136 ORMOND.
yon say ?" — (The words recurred to his
ear.) — " I have no secrets — there's no
secrets in this letter — it's only — the rea-
son 1 looked foolish was that here's a
list of my own faults, which I made like
a fool, and dropped like a fool — but they
could not have fallen into better or
kinder hands than Lady AnnalyV
He offered the letter and its inclosure
to Cornelius and Sir Ulick. Cornelius
drew back—" I don't want to see the
list of your faults, man," said he, " do
you think I haven't them all by heart
already ; and as to the lady's letter,
while you live never shew a lady's
letter."
Sir Ulick, without ceremony, took the
letter, and in a moment satisfying" his
curiosity that it was merely a friendly
note, returned it, and the list of his
faults to Harry, saying-, " If it had been
a young lady's letter I am sure you
would not have shewn it to me, Harry,
nor, of course, would I have looked at it.
ORMOND. 137
But I presumed that a letter from old
Lady Annaly could only be, what I see
it is, very edifying"
" Old Lady Annaly, is it ?" cried
Cornelius : " Oh, then, there's no indis-
cretion, young- man, in the case. You
might as well scruple about your
mother's letter, if you had one ; or your
rnother-in-law, which, to* be sure, you'll
have, [ hope, in due course of nature."
At the sound of the words mother-in-
law a cloud passed over Sir Ulick's
brow, not unnoticed by the shrewd Cor-
nelius; but the cloud passed away
quickly, after Sir Ulick had darted
another reconnoitring glance on Harry's
open unconscious countenance.
" All's safe," said Sir Ulick to him-
self, as he took leave.
" Woodcocked ! that he has ; as I
foresaw he would ;" cried king Corny,
the moment his guest had departed.
*' Woodcocked ! if ever man did, by all
that's cunning-."
138
ORMONJD.
CHAP. VII.
xVING Corny* sat for some minutes
after Sir Ulick's departure, perfectly still
and silent, leaning- both bands and his
chin on bis crutch. Then, looking up at
Harry, be exclaimed —
" What a dupe you are! but I like
you the better for it."
li I am glad you like me the better, at
all events," said Harry ; t{ but I don't
think lam a dupe."
" No — if you did you would not be
one : so you don't see that it was, and is
Sir Ulick, and not her ladyship that
wanted, and wants to get rid of you ?"
No, Harry did not see this, and would
not be persuaded of it. He defended his
ORAIOND. 139
guardian most warmly ; he was certain
of Sir Ulick's affection ; he was sure Sir
Ulick was incapable of acting with such
duplicity.
King Corny repeated, at every pause,
" you are a dupe; but I like you the
better for it." And, added he, " you
don't, blind buzzard ! as your want of
conceit makes you — for which I like you
the better too — you don't see the rea-
son why he banished you Castle Her-
mitage — you don't see that he is jealous
of your rivalling that puppy Marcus his
son."
" Rivalling Marcus in what, or how ?"
" With whom? boy, is the question
you should ask, and in that case the
answer is — Dunce, can't you guess now?
—Miss Annaly."
" Miss Annaly !" repeated Harry with
genuine surprise, and with a quick sense
of inferiority and humiliation. " Oh,
Sir! you would not be so illuatured as
to make a jest of me? — I know how
140 ORMOND.
ignorant, how unformed, what a raw
boy I am. Marcus has been educated
like a gentleman."
" More shame for his father that
couldu't do the same by you when he
was about it.'*
" But Marcus, Sir — there ought to
be a difference — Marcus is heir to a large
fortune — I have nothing — Marcus may
hope to marry whoever he pleases."
" Aye, whoever he pleases, and who
will that be, if women are of my mind,"
muttered Corny. «« I'll engage if you
had a mind to rival him."
«• Rival him ! the thought of rivalling
my friend never entered my head."
u But is he your friend ?" said Cor-
nelius.
" As to that — I don't know — he was
my friend, and I loved him sincerely —
warmly — he has cast me off' — I shall
never complain — never blame him di-
rectly or indirectly — but don't let me be
accused or suspected unjustly — I never
ORMOND. 141
for one instant had the treachery, pre-
sumption, folly, or madness, to think of
Miss Annaly."
" Nor she of you? I suppose you'll
swear."
" Nor she of me ! assuredly not, Sir,"
said Harry, with surprise at the idea.
" Do you consider what I am — and what
she is?"
" Well, I am glad they are gone to
England out of the way !" said Cor-
nelius.
" I am very sorry for that," said Harry,
" for I have* lost a kind friend in Lady
Annaly — one who at least I might have
hoped would have become my friend, if
I had deserved it."
" Might have hoped — Would have be-
come — that's a friend in the air, who may
never be found on earth. If you deserved
it ! — Murder ! — who knows how that
might turn out — if— I don't like that
kind of subjunctive mood tenure of a
friend. Give me the good imparattve
142 ► ORMOND.
mood, which I understand — be my friend
— at once — or not at all — that's my
mood. None of your if friends for me,
setting out with a provisoe and an ex-
cuse to be off ; and may be when you'd
call upon 'em at your utmost need — Oh!
I said if you deserve it — Lie there like a
dog. Now, what kind of a friend is
that? If Lady Annaly is that sort, no
need to regret her. My compliments to
her, and a good journey to England —
Ireland well rid of her ! and so are you
too, my boy !"
" But, dear Sir, how you have worked
yourself up into a passion against Lady
Annaly for nothing.''
" It's not for nothing— -I've good rea-
son to dislike the woman—what business
had she, because she's an old woman and
you a young man, to set up preaching to
you about your faults. I hate prachers,
feminine gender especially."
u She is no preacher, I assure you,
Sir."
ORMOND. 143
" How dare you tell me that — was not
her letter very edifying? Sir Ulick said."
" No, Sir ; it was very kind — will you
read it?"
*' No, Sir, I won't ; I never read an
edifying letter in my life with my eyes
open, nor never will — quite enough for
me that impertinent list of your faults
she inclosed you.'*
" That list was my own, not hers, Sir:
I dropped it under a tree."
" Well, drop it into the fire now, and
no more about it. Pray, after all,
Harry, for curiosity's sake, what faults
have you?"
" Dear Sir, I thought you told me
you knew them by heart."
" I always forget what I learn by
heart; put me in mind, and may be I'll
recollect as you go on."
" Well, Sir, in the first place I am
terribly passionate."
" Passionate! true; that is Moriarty
you are thinking of, and 1 grant you,
144 OR^OND.
that had like to have been a sad job —
you had a squeak for your life there,
and I pitied you as if it had been myself,
for I know what it is after one of them
blind rages is over, and one opens one's
eyes on the wrong one has done — and
then such a cursed feel to be penitent in
vain — for that sets no bones. You were
blind drunk that night, and that was my
fault ; but your late vow has prevented
the future, and Moriarty's better in the
world than ever he was."
iC Thanks to your goodness, Sir."
" Oh ! I wasn't thinking of my good-
ness — little enough that same; but to
ease your conscience, it was certainly the
luckiest turn ever happened him the shot
he got, and so he says himself. Never
think of that more in the way of peni-
tence."
" In the way of reformation though,
I hope, I shall all my life," said Harry.
" One comfort' I have never been in a
passion since."
5
ORMOND. 145
" But then — a rasonable passion's al-
lowable — I wouldn't give a farthing for
a man that could'nt be in a passion on a
proper occasion. I'm passionate myself,
rasonably passionate, and I like myself
the better for it."
" I thought you said just now, you
often repented."
i( Oh! never mind what I said just
now — mind what I'm saying now — Isn't
a red heat that you can see, and that
warms you, better than a white heat that
blinds you. I'd rather a man would
knock me down than stand smiling- at
me, as cousin Ulick did just now, when
I know he could have kilt me ; he is not
passionate — he has the command of him-
self — every feature under the courtier's
regimen of hypocrisy. Harry Ormond,
don't set about to cure yourself of your
natural passions — why, this is rank me-
thodism! all—"
" Methodism, Sir."
" Methodism, Sir!— -don't contradict
VOL, 11. H
146 ORMONI3.
or repeat me — methodism that the wo-
man has brought you to the brink of, and
I warn you from it! I did not know
till now that your Lady Annaly was such
a methodist — No methodist shall ever
darken my doors, or lighten them either,
with their new lights. New lights ! bad !
and nonsense ! — for man, woman, or
beast. But enough of this, and too much,
Harry. Prince Harry, pull that bell a
dozen times for me this minute, till they
bring out my old horse.''
Before it was possible that any one
could have come up stairs, the impatient
monarch, pointing with his crutch, added,
" Run to the head of the stairs, prince
Harry dear, and call, screech to them to
make no delay ; and I want you out with
me, so get your horse, Harry."
" But, Sir — is it possible — are yoti
able—"
" I am able, Sir, possible or no," cried
king Corny, starting up on his crutches.
" Don't stand talking to me of possibili-
ORMOND. 147
ties, when 'tis a friend I am going to
serve, and that friend as dear as yourself.
Aren't you at the head of the stairs yet?
Must I go and fall down them myself?'*
To prevent this catastrophe, our young
hero ran immediately and ordered the
horses ; king Corny mounted, or rather
was mounted upon it, and they proceeded
to one of the prettiest farms in the Black
Islands. As they drove to it, he seemed
pleased by Harry's admiring, as he
could, with perfect truth, the beauty of
the situation.
" And the land — which you are no
judge of yet, but you will — is as good as
it is pretty," said king Corny, i: which
I am glad of for your sake, prince Harry;
I won't have you, like that donny English
princeor king, they nick-named Lackland,
— No : you sha'n't lack land while I have
it to let or give. — I called you prince —
prince of the Black Islands — and here's
your principality. — Call out my prime
minister, Pat Moore. — I sent him across
H 2
148 ORMOND.
the bog to meet us at Moriarty 's. — Here he
is, and Moriarty along- with him to wel-
come you. — Patrick, give prince Harry
possession — with sod and twig 1 . — Here's
the key from my own hand, and I give
you joy. — Nay, don't deny me the plea-
sure — I've a right to it. — No wrong to
my daughter, if that's what you are
thinking of, — a clear improvement of my
own, — and she will have enough without
it. — Besides, her betrothed White Con-
nal is a fat grazier, who will make her
as rich as a Jew; — and any way she is as
generous as a princess herself. — But if it
pains you so„ and weighs you down, as I
see it does, to be under any obligation —
you shall be under none in life. — You
shall pay me rent for it, and you shall
give it up whenever you please. — Well !
we'll settle that between ourselves," said
king Corny, " only take possession, that's
all I ask. But I hope," added he, " before
we've lived a year, or whatever time it is
till you arrive at years of discretion,
ORMOND. 149
you'll know me well enough, and love me
well enough, not to be so stiff about a
trifle, that's nothing between friend and
friend — let alone the joke of king and
prince, dear Harry."
The gift of this principality proved a
most pernicious, nearly a fatal gift to
the young prince. The generosity, the
delicacy, with which it was made, a
delicacy worthy of the most polished,
and little to have been expected from
the barbarian mock-monarch, so touched
our young hero's heart, so subjected
his grateful spirit to his benefactor,
that he thenceforth not only felt bound
to king Corny for life' but prone to deem
every thing he did or thought wisest,
fittest, best. — Besides this sentiment of
gratitude, there arose, in consequence
of this gift, a number of other leelingsj
-^-observe he was still a creature guided
by feeling — not governed by reason.
When he was invested with his petty
principality, it was expected of him to
150 ORMONl>.
give a dinner and a dance to the island,
— so he gave a dinner and a dance, and
everybody said he was a fine fellow, and
had the spirit of a prince. — King Corny,
God bless him, couldn't go astray in his
choice of a favourite — long life to him
and prince Harry, — and no doubt there'd
be fine hunting, and shooting, and cours-
ing continually. — Well, was not it a
happy thing for the islands, when Harry
Ormond first set foot on them ? — From a
boy^'twas asy to see what a man he
would be. — Long may he live to reign
over us.
The taste for vulgar praise grew by
that it fed upon. — Harry was in great
danger of forgetting, that he was too
fond of flattery, — and too fond of com-
pany — not the best. — He excused him-
self to himself, by saying that companions
of some kind or other he must have, and
he was in a situation where good com-
pany was not to be had. — Then Moriarty
Carroll was gamekeeper, and Moriarty
ORMOND. 1&1
Carroll was always out hunting- or shoot-
ing- with him, and he was led by kind
and good feelings, to be more familiar
and/ree with this man, than he would
have been with any other in the same
rank of life. The poor fellow was
ardently attached to him, and repeated,
with delight, all the praises he heard
of Master Harry, through the Islands.
The love of popularity seized him —
popularity on the lowest scale! — To
be popular among the unknown, unheard
of inhabitants of the Black Islands,
could this be an object to any man of com-
mon sense, any one who had lived in civi-
lized society, and who had had any thing
like the education of a gentleman ? The
fact — argue about it as you will — the fact
was as is here stated, and let those who
hear it with a disdainful smile, recollect,,
that whether in Paris, London, or the
Black Islands, the mob are, in all essen-
tial points, pretty nearly the same.
It happened about this time, that
152 ORMOND.
Betty Dunshauglin was rummaging in
her young lady's work-basket for some
ribbon, " which she knew she might
take," to dress a cap that was to be
hung upon a pole as a prize, to be danc-
ed for at the pattern,* to be given next
Monday at Ormond Vale, by prince
Harry. Prince Harry was now standing
by, giving some instructions about the
ordering of the entertainment; Betty, the
while, pursued her own object of the
ribbon, and as she emptied the basket in
haste, threw out a book, which Harry,
though not much at this time addicted to
reading, snatched impatiently, eager to
know what book it was : it was one he
had often heard of — often intended to
read sometime or other, but somehow or
other he had never had time: and now
he was in the greatest possible hurry, for
* Patron, probably— an entertainment held in
honour of the patron saint. A festive meeting,
similar to a wake in England.
ORMOND. lOo
the hounds were all out. But when once
he had opened the book, he could not
shut it again ; he turned over page after
page, peeped at the end, the beginning,
and the middle, then back to the begin-
ning : was diverted by the humour —
every Irishman loves humour, — delighted
with the wit — What Irishman is not? —
And his curiosity was so much raised by
the story; his interest and sympathy so
excited for the hero, that he read on,
standing for a quarter of an hour, fixed in
one and the same position, while Betty
held forth unheard, about cap, supper, and
pattern. At last he carried off the book
to hisown room, that he might finish it in
peace, nor did he ever stop till he came
to the end of the volume. The story not
finishing there, and breaking off in a most
interesting part, he went in search of the
next volume, but that was not to be
found. — His impatience was ravenous.
" Mercy, Master Harry," cried Mrs.
Betty, " don't eat one up ! I know no--
1£4 ORMOND.
thing at all — at all about the book, and
I'm very sorry 1 tumbled it out of the
basket. That's all there is of it — to be
had high or low, — so don't be tormenting
me any more out of my life, for no-
thing."
But having seized upon her, he re-
fused to let her go, and protested, that
he would continue to be the torment of
her life, till she should find the odd volume.
— Betty, when her memory was thus
racked, put her hand to her forehead,
and recollected that in the apple-room,
there was a heap of old books. Harry
possessed himself of the key of the ap-
ple-room, tossed over the heap of tat-
tered mouldy books, and at last found
the precious volume. He devoured it ea-
gerly — nor was it forgotten as soon as
finished. As the chief part of the en-
tertainment depended on the characters,
it did not fade from his imagination. He
believed the story to be true, for it was
constructed with unparallelled ingenuity,
ORMOND. 155
and developed with consummate art.
The character which particularly inte-
rested him was that of the hero, the
more peculiarly, because he saw, or
fancied that he found a resemblance to-
his own, with some differences to be
sure, — but young readers readily assimi-
late and identify themselves with any
character, the leading points of which
resemble their own, and in whose gene-
ral feelings they sympathise. — In some
instances, Harry, as he read on, said to
himself — " I would not — I could not
have done so and so." — But upon the
whole, he was charmed by the character
— that of a warm hearted, generous, im-
prudent young man, with little education,
no literature, governed more by feeling
than by principle, never upon any occasion
reasoning, but keeping right by happy
moral instincts ; or when going wrong,
very wrong, forgiven easily by the
reader and by his mistress, and rewarded
at the last with all that love and fortune
156 ORMOND.
can bestow, in consideration of his being'
— a very fine fellow."
Closing- the book, Harry Ormond
resolved to be what he admired — and if
possible to shine forth an Irish Tom
Jones. — For this purpose he was not at
all bound to be a moral gentleman, nor,
as he conceived, to be a gentleman at all —
not at least in the commencement of his
career; he might become accomplished
at any convenient period of his life, and
become moral at the end of it, but he"
might begin by being an accomplished
— blackguard. Blackguard is a harsli
word ;■ — but what other will express the
idea P — Unluckily the easiest points to
be imitated in any character are not al-
ways the best, and where any latitude
is given to conscience, and if any pre-
cedents be allowed to the grosser pas-
sions for their justification, these are the
points which are afterwards remember-
ed and applied in practice, when the
moral salvo sentences are forgotten, or
ORMOND. 157
are at best but of feeble countervailing
effect.
At six o'clock on Monday evening,
the cap, — the prize cap, flaming with
red ribbons, from the top of the pole,
streamed to the summer air, and de-
lighted the upturned eyes of assembled
crowds upon the green below. — The
dance began, and our popular hero, the
delight of all the nymphs, and the envy
of all the swains, danced away with
dne of the prettiest, " smartest," il most
likely looking " " lasses," that ever ap-
peared at any former patron. She was
a degree more refined in manner, and
polished in appearance, than the fair of the
Black Islands, for she came from the
continent of Ireland — she had the ad-
vantage of having been sometimes at the
big house at Castle Hermitage — she was
the gardener's daughter — Peggy Sheri-
dan — distinguished among her fellows
by a nosegay, such as no other could have
procured — distinguished more by her
1
158 OI1MONB.
figure and her face, than by her nosegay,
and more by her air and motions, than
even by her figure or her face — she stepped
well, and stepped out — she danced an
Irish jig to admiration, and she was not
averse from admiration; village prudes,
perhaps, might call her a village coquet ;
but let not this suggest a thought deroga-
tory to the reputation of the lively Peggy.
She was a well behaved, well meaning,
innocent, industrious girl — a good daugh-
ter, a good sister, and more than one
in the neighbourhood thought she would,
make a good wife. She had not only
admirers, but suitors in abundance.
Harry Ormond could not think of her
as a wife, but he was. evidently — more
evidently this day than ever before, one
of Peggy's admirers. His heart or his
fancy was always warmly susceptible to
the charms of beauty ; and, never well
guarded by prudence, he was now, with
his head full of Tom Jones, prone to
run into danger himself, and rashly
ORMOND. 1-59
ready to hurry on an innocent girl to
her destruction. — He was not without
hopes of pleasing 1 — what young man of
nineteen or twenty is? — He was not
without chance of success, as it is called,
with Peggy — what woman can be pro-
nounced safe, who ventures to extend to a
young lover the encouragement of coquet-
tish smiles — Peggy said, " innocent smiles
sure'* — " meaning nothing" — but they
were interpreted to mean something —
less would in his present dispositions
have excited the hero, who imitated
Tom Jones, to enterprise. Report says,
that about this time, Harry Ormond was
seen disguised in a slouched hat and
trusty, wandering about the grounds at
Castle Hermitage. Some swear they
saw him pretending to dig in the gar-,
den, and under the gardener's windows,
seeming to be nailing up jessamine.
Some, would not swear, but if they
might trust their own eyes, they might
verily believe, and could, only that they
3
160 ORMOND.
would not, take their oath to having* seen
him once cross the lake alone by moon-
light. — But without believing" above
half what the world says, candour
obliges us to acknowledge, that there
was some truth in these scandalous re-
ports. — He certainly pursued, most im-
prudently " pursued the chace of youth
and beauty ;" nor would he, we fear,
have dropped the chace till Peggy was
his prey, but that fortunately, in the full
headlong career of passion, he was sud-
denly startled and stopped by coming-
in view of an obstacle, that he could
not overleap— a greater wrong than he
had foreseen, at least a different wrong,
and in a form that made his heart trem-
ble. He reined in his passion, and stood
appalled.
In the first hurry of that passion he had
seen nothing, heard nothing, understood
nothing, but that Peggy was pretty, and
that he w'as in love. It happened one day,
one evening, that he, with a rose yet un-
ORMOND. 161
faded in his hand — a rose which he had
snatched from Peggy Sheridan, took the
path toward Moriarty Carroll's cottage.
Moriartv, seeing him from afar, came out
to greet him, but when he came within
sight of the rose, Moriarty 's pace slack-
ened, and turning aside, he stepped
out of the path, as if to let Mr. Ormond
pass.
" How now, Moriarty ?" said Harry.
But looking in his face, he saw the poor
fellow pale as death.
" What ails you Moriarty ?"
" A pain I just took about my heart !"
said Moriarty, pressing both hands to his
heart.
" My poor fellow ! —Wait !— you'll
be better just now, I hope," said Or-
mond, laying his hand on Moriarty's
shoulder.
" I'll never be better of it, I fear,"
said Moriarty, withdrawing his shoulder,
and giving a jealous glance at the rose,
he turned hjs head away again.
162 ORMOND.
" I'll thank your honour to go on,
and leave me — I'll be better by myself.
It is not to your honour above all, that
I can open my heart,"
A suspicion of the truth now flashed
across Ormond's mind, he was deter-
mined to know, whether it was the truth
or not.
" I'll not leave you, till I know what's
the matter?" said be.
" Then none will know that till I die,"
said Moriarty, adding, after a little
pause, " There's, no knowing what's
wrong within side of a man, till he is
opened."
" But alive, Moriarty, if the heart is
in the case only," said Orruond, " a
man can open himself to a friend."
«' Aye, if he had a friend," said Mo-
riarty, " I'll beg your honour to let me
pass — I am able for it now — I am quite
stout again."
" Then if you are quite stout again,
I'll want you to row me across the lake,"
ORMOND. 163
" I am not able for that, Sir," re-
plied Moriarty, pushing- past him.
" But," said Ormond, catching- hold of
his arm, " aren't you able or willing to
carry a note for me?'' As he spoke,
Ormond produced the note, and let him
see the direction — to Peggy Sheridan.
" Sooner stab me to the heart again"
cried Moriarty, breaking from him.
" Sooner stab myself to the heart
then !" cried Ormond, tearing the note
to bits. " Look Moriarty ! Upon my
honour, till this instant, I did not know
you loved the girl — from this instant
I'll think of her no more — never more
will I see her, hear of her, till she be
your wife."
" Wife !" repeated Moriarty, joy il-
luminating — but fear as instantly dark-
ening his countenance. " How will
that be now ?"
" It will be — it shall be— as happily as
honourably. Listen to me, Moriarty, as
honourably now as ever. Can you think
104 OHMOND.
me so wicked, so base, as to say wife, if — •
No : passion might hurry me to a rash,
but of a base action I'm incapable. —
Upon my soul, upon the sacred honour
of a gentleman."
Moriarty sighed.
"Look!" continued Ormond, taking
the rose from his breast, " this is the
utmost that ever passed between us, and
that was my fault : I snatched it, and
thus — thus" — cried he, tearing the rose
to pieces, " I scatter it to the winds of
heaven, and thus may all trace of past
fancy and folly be blown from remem-
brance."
<c Amen !" said Moriarty, watching
the rose leaves for an instant, as they
flew and were scattered out of sight ;
then, as Ormond broke the stalk to
pieces, and flung it from him, he asked,
with a smile,
" Is the pain about your heart gone
now, Moriarty ?"
" No : plase your honour, not gone >
ORMOXD. 165
— but a quite different — better — but
worse. — So strange with me — 1 can't
speak rightly tor the pleasure has
seized me stronger than the pain."
" Lean against me, poor fellow. — Oh,
if I had broke such a heart!"
" Then how wrong I was when I said
that word I did," said Moriarty. " T ask
your honour — your dear honour's pardon
on my knees."
" For what ? — For what ? — You have
done no wrong."
" No :■ — but I said wrong — very wrong
— when I said stab me to the heart again,
— Oh, that w r ord again. — It was very
ungenerous."
" Noble fellow !" said Orinond.
" Boys, to your supper, and a good
night to your honour, kindly," said Mo-
riarty.
" How happy am I now," said our
young hero to himself, as he walked
home, " which I never should have been
if 1 had done this wrong."
166 ORMONB.
A fortunate escape ! — yes : but when
the escape is owing to good fortune, not
to prudence ; to good feeling, not to prin-
ciple; there is no security for the fu-
ture.
Ormond was steady to his promise
toward Moriarty : to do him justice he
was more than this, he was generous,
actively, perseveringly generous in his
conduct to him. With open heart, open
purse, public overture, and private nego-
ciation with the parents of Peggy Sheri-
dan, he at last succeeded in accomplish-
ing Moriarty's marriage.
Ormond's biographer may well be
allowed to make the most of his perse-
vering generosity on this occasion, be-
cause no other scrap of good can be
found to make any thing of in his favour,
for several months to come. Whether
Tom Jones was still too much, and Lady
Annaly too little in his head, whether it
was that king Corny's example and pre-
cepts were not always edifying — whether
ORMONl>. 167
this young man had been prepared by
previous errors of example and education
— or whether he fell into mischief, be-
cause he had nothing 1 else to do in these
Black Islands, certain it is, that from the
operation of some or all of these causes
conjointly, he deteriorated sadly. — He
took to " vagrant courses," in which the
muse forbears to follow him.
168 ORMONJD,
CHAP. VIII.
IT is said that the Turks have a very
convenient recording angel, who, without
dropping a tear to blot out that which
might be wished unsaid or undone, fairly
shuts his eyes, and forbears to record
whatever is said or done by man in three
circumstances : when he is drunk, when
he is in a passion, and while he is under
age. What the wider age, or what the
years of discretion of a Turk may be,
we do not at this moment recollect. We
know only that our own hero is not yet
twenty. — Without being quite as accom-
modating as the Mahommetan angel,
we should wish to obliterate from our
record some months of Ormond's exist-
ORMOND. 169
ence. He felt and was ashamed of his
own degradation ; but, after having lost,
or worse than lost, a winter of his life, it
was in vain to lament; or it was not
enough to weep over the loss, how to re-
pair it was the question.
Whenever Ormond returned to his
better self, — whenever he thought of im-
proving, he remembered Lady Annaly :
— and he now recollected with shame,
that he had never had the grace to an-
swer or to thank her for her letter. He
had often thought of writing, but he had
put it off from day to day, and now
months had passed ; he wrote a sad
scrawling hand, and he had always been
ashamed that Lady Annaly should see it;
but now the larger shame got the better
of the lesser, and he determined he would
write. He looked for her letter, to read
it over again before he answered it — the
letter was very safe, for he considered it
as his greatest treasure.
On reading the letter over again, he
VOL. II. I
170 ORMOND.
found that she had mentioned a present
of books which she intended for him. —
A set of books which belonged to her
son, Sir Herbert Annaly, and of which
she found they had duplicates in their
library. She had ordered the box, con-
taining them, to be sent to Annaly : she
had desired her agent there, to forward
it to him; but in case any delay should
occur, she begged Mr. Ormond would
take the trouble to inquire for them him-
self. This whole affair about the books
had escaped Mr. Ormond's memory : he
felt himself blush all over when he read
the letter again : he sent off a messenger
immediately to the agent at Annaly,
who had kept the box till inquired for.
It was too heavy for the boy to carry,
and he returned saying that two men
would not carry it, nor four, a slight
exaggeration ! A car was sent for it, and
at last Harry obtained possession of the
books. It was an excellent collection of
what may be called the English and
ORMOND. 171
French classics : the French books were,
at this time, quite useless to him, for
he could not read French. Lady An-
naly, however, sent these books on pur-
pose to induce him to learn a language,
which, if he should go into the army, as
he seemed inclined to do, would be par-
ticularly useful to him. Lady Annaly
observed, that Mr. Ormond, wherever
he might be in Ireland, would probably
find even the priest of the parish a person
who could assist him sufficiently in learn-
ing French, as most of the Irish parish
priests were, at that time, educated
at St. Omer's, or Lou vain.
Father Jos had been at St. Omer's,
and Harry resolved to attack him with
a French grammar and dictionary, but
the French father Jos had learnt at St.
Omer's was merely from ear, he could
not bear the sight of a French grammar.
Harry was obliged to work on by himself.
He again put off writing- to thank Lady
Annaly, till he could tell her that he had
I 2
J 72 ORMOND.
obeyed her commands ; and that he could
read at least a page of Gil Bias. But
before he had accomplished this, he learnt
from the agent that Lady Annaly was in
great affliction about her son, who had
broken a blood-vessel. He could not
think of intruding upon her at such a
time — and, in short, he put it off till he
thought it was too late to do it at all.
Among the English books was one in
many volumes, which did not seize his
attention forcibly, like Tom Jones, at
first, but which won upon him by degrees,
drew him on against his will, and against
his taste. He hated moralizing and re-
flections ; and there was here an abun-
dance both of reflections and morality ;
these he skipped over, however, and
went on. The hero and the heroine too
were of a stiff fashion, which did not suit
his taste, yet still there was something in
the book, that, in spite of the terrible
array of good people, captivated his atten-
tion. The heroine's perpetual egotism
5
ORMOND. 173
disgusted him — she was always too good
and too full of herself — and she wrote
dreadfully long' letters. The hero's dress
and manner were too splendid, too stiff,
for every day use — at first he detested Sir
Charles Grand ison — he was so different
from the friends he loved in real life, or the
heroes he had admired in books; just as
in old portraits, we are at first struck with
the costume, but soon, if the picture be
really by a master hand, our attention is
fixed on the expression of the features and
the life of the figure.
Sensible i* a Ormond was of the power
of humour and ridicule, he was still more
susceptible, as all noble natures are, of
sympathy with elevated sentiments, and
with generous character. The character
of Sir Charles Grandison, in spite of his
ceremonious bowing on the hand, touched
the nobler feelings of our \ounir hero's
mind, inspired him with virtuous emula-
tion, made him ambitious to be a gentle-
man in the best and highest sense of the
174 ORMOND.
word. In short, it completely counter-
acted in his mind the effect of Tom Jones
— all the generous feelings which were so
congenial to his own nature, and which
he had seen combined in Tom Jones, as
if necessarily, with the habits of an ad-
venturer, a spendthrift, and a rake, he
now saw united with high moral and re-
ligious principles, in the character of a
man of virtue, as well as a man of honour j
a man of cultivated understanding and ac-
complished manners. In Sir Charles
Grandison's history he read that of a gen-
tleman, who, fulfilling every duty of his
station in society, eminently useful, re-
spected and beloved, as brother, friend,
master of a family, guardian, and head of
a large estate, was admired by his own
sex, and, what struck Ormond far more
forcibly, loved, passionately loved by
women — not by the low and profligate,
but by the highest and most accomplished
of the sex.
Ormond has often declared, that Sir
ORMOXD. 175
Charles Grandison did him more good,
than any fiction he ever read in his life.
Indeed, to him it appeared no fiction —
while he was reading it, his imagination
was so full of Clementina, and the whole
Porretta family, that he saw them in his
sleeping and waking dreams. The deep
pathos so affected him, that he could
scarcely recall his mind to the low con-
cerns of life. Once, when king Corny-
called him to go out shooting — he found
him with red eyes. — Harry was ashamed
to tell him the cause, lest he should laugh
at him. But Corny was susceptible of
the same kind of enthusiasm himself;
and though he had, as he said, never been
regularly what is called a reading man,
yet, the books he had read, which were
always for his own pleasure, left inefface-
able traces in his memory. Fictions, if
they touched him at all, struck him with
all the force of reality, and he never spoke
of characters as in a book, but as if they
had lived and acted. Harry was glad
176 ORMOND.
to find that here again, as in most
things, they sympathized and suited each
other.
But Corny, if ready to give sympathy,
was likewise imperious in requiring it,
and Harry was often obliged to make
sudden transitions from his own thoughts
and employments to those of his friend.
These transitions, however difficult and
provoking at the time, were useful dis-
cipline to his mind, giving him that ver-
satility in which persons of powerful
imagination, accustomed to live in retire-
ment and to command their own time
and occupations, are often most defi-
cient.
At this period, when our young hero
was suddenly seized with a voracious ap-
petite for books, it was trying to his pa-
tience to be frequently interrupted.
" Come, come! Harry Bookworm,
you are growing — no good! — come out!'
cried king Corn) — " Lay down what-
ever you have in your hand, and come
ORMOND. 177
off this minute, till I shew you a bad-
ger at bay, with half a dozen dogs, and
defending itself in the keenest man-
ner."
" Yes, Sir, this minute — be kind
enough to wait one minute."
<c It has been hiding and skulking this
week from me — we have got it out of its
snug hole at last. I bid them keep the
dogs off till you came. Don't be waiting
any longer. Come off, Harry, come !
— Phoo ! Phoo ! That book will keep
cold, and what is it ? Oh ! the last vo-
lume of Sir Charles, not worth troubling
your eyes with. The badger is worth a
hundred of it, not a pin's worth in that
volume but worked stool and chairs, and
china jugs and mugs. Oh! throw it
from you. Come away."
Another time, at the very death of
Clarissa, king Corny would have Harry
out to see a Solan goose.
"Oh! let Clarissa die another time;
come now, you that never saw a Solan
i 3
178 ORMOND.
goose — it looks for all the world as if it
wore spectacles ; Moriarty says so."
Harry was carried off to see the goose
in spectacles, and was pressed into the
service of king Corny for many hours
afterwards, to assist in searching for its
eggs. One of the Black Islands was a
bare, high, pointed, desart rock, in which
the sea-fowl bnilt ; and here, in the
highest point of rock, this Solan goose
had deposited some of her eggs, instead
of leaving them in nests on the ground,
as she usually does. The more danger*
ous it was to obtain the eggs, which the
bird had hidden in this pinnacle of the
rock, the more eager king Corny was
to have them ; and he, and Ormond, and
Moriarty, were at this perilous work for
hours. King Corny directing and bawl-
ing, and Moriarty and Ormond with
pole, net, and pole-hook, swinging and
leaping from one ledge of rock to ano-
ther, clambering, clinging, sliding, push-
ing, and pulling each other alternately,
ORMOND. 179
from hold to hold, with frightful preci-
pices beneath them. As soon as Ormond
had warmed to the business, he was de-
lighted with the dangerous pursuit; but
suddenly, just as he had laid his hand on
the egg, and that king Corny shouted in
triumph, Harry, leaping back across the
cleft in the rock, missed his footing and
fell, and must have been dashed to pieces,
but for a sort of projecting landing place,
on which he was caught, where he lay
for some minutes stunned. The terror
of poor Corny was such, that he could
neither move nor look up, till Moriarty
called out to him, that Master Harry was
safe, all to a sprained ancle. The fall,
and the sprain, would not have been
deemed worthy of a place in these memoirs
of our hero, but from their consequences.
— the consequences, not on his body, but
on his mind. He could not for some
weeks afterwards stir out, or take any
bodily exercise : confined to the house,
and forced to sit still, he was glad to
180 ORMOND.
read, during these long 1 hours, to amuse
himself. When he had read all the
novels in the collection, which were very
few, he went on to other books. Even
those, which were not mere works of
amusement, he found more entertaining",
than netting fishing nets, or playing back-
gammon with father Jos, who was al-
ways cross when he did not win. Kind-
hearted king Corny, considering always
that Harry's sprain was got in his ser-
vice, would have sat with him all day
long, but this Harry would not suffer,
for he knew that it was the greatest
punishment to Corny to stay within doors
a whole day. When Corny in the even-
ing: returned from his various out-of-doors
occupations and amusements, Harry was
glad to talk to him of what he had been
reading, and to hear his odd summary
reflexions.
u Well, Harry, my boy, now I've told
you how it has been with me all day,
now let's hear how you have been getting
ORMOND. 18 1
on with your bookmen ; — has it been a
good day with you to-day ? — was you
with Shakespear — worth all the rest —
all the world in him ?"
Corny was no respecter of authorities
in books ; a great name went for nothing
with him — did not awe his understand-
ing in the slightest degree.
" Did it touch the heart, or inflame"
— if it was poetry — " the imagination?" —
If it was history, " was it true?" — If it
wasphilosophy," wasit sound reasoning?"
These were the questions he asked. — " No
cramming any thing down his throat,"
he said. This daring temper of mind,
though it sometimes led him wrong, was
advantageous to his young friend. It
wakened Ormond's powers, and pre-
vented his taking upon trust the asser-
tions, or the reputations, even of great
waiters.
The spring was now returning, and
Dora was to return with spring. He
looked forward to her retiirn, as to a
382 ORl^OND.
new, era in his existence : then he should
live in better company, he should see
something 1 better than he had seen of
late — be something- better. His chief,
his best occupations during this winter,
had been riding, leaping, and breaking-
horses : he had broke a beautiful mare
for Dora. Dora, when a child, used to
be very fond of riding-, and constantly
rode out with her father. At the time
when Harry Or mood's head was full
of Tom Jones, Dora had always been
his idea of Sophy Weston, though no-
thing else that he could recollect in her
person, mind, or manner, bore any re-
semblance to Sophia : and now that Tom
Jones had been driven out of his head
by Sir Charles Grandison, — now that his
taste for women was a little raised, by
the pictures which Richardson had left
in his imagination, Dora, with equal fa-
cility, turned into his new idea of a
heroine — not his heroine, for she was
engaged to White Connal — merely a
ORMOtfD. 183
heroine in the abstract. — Ormond had
been warned, that he was to consider
Dora as a married woman ; — well, so he
would, of course. — " She was to be Mrs.
Connal — so much the better; — he should
be quite at ease with her, and she should
teach him French, and drawing', and
dancing 1 , and improve his manners. He
was conscious that his manners had, since
his coming to the Black Islands, rus-
ticated sadly, and lost the little polish
they had acquired at Castle Hermitage,
and during- one famous winter in Dublin.
His language and dialect, he was afraid,
had become somewhat vulgar; but Dora,
who had been refined by her residence
with her aunt, and by her dancing 1 -
master, would polish him up, and set all
to rights, in the most agreeable manner
possible." In the course of these his spe-
culations on his rapid improvements, and
his reflections on the perfectibility of
man's nature under the tuition of wo-
man, some idea of its fallibility did cross
184 ORMOND.
his imagination or his memory ; but then
he blamed, most unjustly, his imagina-
tion, for the suggestion. The danger
would prove, as he would have it, to be
imaginary. " What danger could there
be, when he knew," as he began and
ended, by saying to himself, " that he was
to consider Dora as a married woman —
Mrs. Connal."
Dora's aunt, an aunt by the mother's
side, a maiden aunt, who had never be-
fore been at the Biack Islands, and whom,
Ormond had never seen, was to accom-
pany Dora on her return to Corny Castle;
our young hero had settled it in his head,
that this aunt must be something like
Aunt Ellenor, in Sir Charles Grandison ;
a stiff- backed, prim, precise, old fashion-
ed looking aunt. Never was man's asto-
nishment more visible in his counte-
nance, than was that of Harry Ormond,
on the first sight of Dora's aunt. His
surprise was so great, as to preclude the
sight of Dora herself.
ORMOND. 185
There was nothing surprising in the
lady, but there was, indeed, an extraor-
dinary difference between our hero's
preconceived notion, and the real per-
son whom he now beheld ! Mademoiselle,
as Miss O'Faley was called, in honour
of her French parentage and education*
and in commemoration of her having at
different periods spent above half her life
in France, looking for an estate that
could never be found. — Mademoiselle was
dressed in all the peculiarities of the
French dress of that day — she was of
that indefinable age, which the French
describe by the happy phrase of " une
femme dun certain age" and which
Miss O'Faley happily translated, " a
woman of no particular age." Yet
though of no particular age in the eye of
politeness, to the vulgar eye she looked
like what people, who knew no better,
might caM an elderly woman, but she
was as alert and lively as a girl of fifteen,
— a little wrinkled, but withal in fine
186 ORMOND.
preservation. She wore abundance of
rouge, obviously — still more obviously
took superabundance of snuff — and with-
out any obvious motive, continued to
play unremittingly a pair of large black
French eyes, in a manner impracticable
to a mere English woman, and which
almost tempted the spectator to beg she
would let them rest. — Mademoiselle or
Miss O'Faley was in fact half French,
and half English — born in France she
was the daughter of an officer of the
Irish Brigade, and of a French lady
of good family. In her gestures, tones,
and language, there was a striking
mixture, or rapid succession of French
and Irish. When she spoke French,
which she spoke well, and with a true
Parisian accent, her voice, gestures,
air, and ideas were all French, and she
looked and moved a well born, well
bred woman. — The moment she attempt-
ed to speak English, which she spoke
with an inveterate brogue, her ideas,
ORMOND. ] 87
manner, air, voice, and gestures were
Irish ; she looked and moved a vulgar
Irishwoman.
" What do you see so wonderful in
aunt O'Faley ?" said Dora.
« Nothing— only — "
The sentence was never finished, and
the young lady was satisfied, for she
perceived that the course of his thoughts
was interrupted, and all idea of her
aunt effaced, the moment he turned his
eyes upon herself. Dora, no longer a
child and his playfellow, but grown and
formed, was, and looked, as if she ex-
pected to be treated as a woman. — She
was exceedingly pretty, not regularly
handsome, but with most brilliant eyes
— there was besides a childishness in her
face, and in her slight figure, which
disarmed all criticism on her beauty,
and which contrasted strikingly, as our
hero thought agreeably, with her woman-
ish airs and manner. — Nothing but her ex-
ternal appearance could be seen this first
188 ORMOND.
evening — she was tired, and went to bed
early.
Ormond Jonged to see more of her,
on whom so much of his happiness was
to depend.
GRMOND. 189
CHAP. IX.
iHIS was the first time Mademoiselle
O'Faley had ever been at Corny Castle.
Hospitality, as well as gratitude, de-
termined the king of the Black Islands
to pay her honour due
" Now, Harry Ormond," said he,
" I have made one capital, good re-
solution. Here is my sister-in-law,
Mademoiselle O'Faley, coming to reside
with me here, and has conquered her
antipathy to solitude, and the Black
Islands, and all from natural love and
affection for my daughter Dora, for
which I have a respect for her, not-
withstanding all her eternal jabbering
about politesse, and all her manifold
190 ORMOND.
absurdities, and infinite female vani-
ties, of which she has a double propor-
tion, being half French. — But so was
my wife, that I loved to distraction —
for a wise man may do a foolish thing-.
— Well, on all those accounts, I shall
never contradict or gainsay this Made-
moiselle — in all things I shall make it
my principle to give her her swing and
her fling. But now observe me, Harry,
I have no eye to her money — let her
leave that to Dora or the cats, which-
ever pleases her — I am not looking to,
nor squinting at her succession. I am a
great hunter, but not legacy hunter,
that is a kind of hunting I despise — and
I wish every hunter of that kind may
be thrown out, or thrown off, and may
never be in at the death !"
Corny 's tirade against legacy hunters
was highly approved by Ormond, but
as to the rest he knew nothing about
Miss O'Faley's fortune. — He was now
to learn that a rich relation of hers, a
ORMOND. 191
merchant in Dublin, whom living* she
had despised, because he was " neither
noble, nor comme il faut," dying", had
lately left her a considerable sum of
money, — so that after having been
many years in straitened circumstances,
she was now quite at her ease. — She
had a carriage, and horses, and servants,
she could indulge her taste for dress and
make a figure in a country place.
The Black Islands was to be sure of
all places the most unpromising- for her
purpose, and the first sight of Corny
Castle was enough to throw her into
despair.
As soon as breakfast was over, she
begged her brother-in-law would shew
her the whole of the chateau from the
top to the bottom.
" With all the pleasure in life," he
said, " he would attend her from the at-
tics to the cellar, and shew her all the
additions, improvements, and contri-
vances he had made, and all he intended
192 ORMOND.
to make, if heaven should lend him life
to complete every thing, or any thing —
there was nothing finished."
" Nor ever will be," said Dora, look-
ing from her father to her aunt with a
sort of ironical smile.
" Why, what has he been doing all
his life?" said Mademoiselle.
" Making a shift" said Dora. " I
will shew you dozens of them as we go
over this house — he calls them substi-
tutes, I call them make-shifts."
Ormond followed as they went over
the house, and though he was some-
times amused by the smart remarks,
which Dora made behind backs as they
went on, yet he thought she laughed too
scornfully at her father's oddities, and
he was often in pain for his good friend
Corny.
King Corny was both proud and
ashamed of his palace — proud of the
various instances it exhibited of his taste,
originality, and daring — ashamed of the
ORMOND. 193
deficiencies and want of comfort and
finish.
His ready wit had excuses, reasons, or
remedies for all Mademoiselle's objec-
tions. Every alteration she proposed,
he promised to get executed, and he pro-
mised impossibilities with the best faith
imaginable.
44 As the Frenchman answered to the
Queen of France," said Corny, " if it
is possible, it shall be done, and if it
is impossible it must be done."
Mademoiselle, who had expected to
find her brother-in-law, as she owned, a
little more difficult to manage, a little
savage, and a little restive — was quite
delighted with his politeness, but pre-
suming on his complaisance, she went too
far. — In the course of a week, she made
so many innovations, that Corny, seeing
the labour and ingenuity of his life in
danger of being at once destroyed, made
a sudden stand.
VOL. II. K
194 ORMOND.
" This is Corny Castle, Mademoi-
selle," said he, " and you are making- it
Castle Topsy-Turvey, which must not
be. — Stop this work, for T'll have no more
architectural innovations done here — but
by my own orders. — Paper and paint, and
furnish and finish, you may, if you will,
or you can, I give you carte-blanche, but
I won't have another wall touched, nor
chimney pulled down ; so far shalt thou
go but no farther, Mademoiselle O'Fa-
ley." Mademoiselle was forced to sub.
mit, and to confine her brilliant imagi-
nation to papering, painting, and glaz-
ing.
Even in the course of these operations
king Corny became so impatient, that
she was forced to get them finished sur-
reptitiously, while he was out of the way
in the mornings.
She made out who resided at every
place within possible reach of morning
or dinner visit : every house on the oppo-
site banks of the lake was soon known to
ORMOND. 195
her, and she was current in every house.
The boat was constantly rowing back-
wards and forwards over the lake; cars
waiting or driving 1 on the banks j in
short, this summer, all was gaiety at the
Black Islands. Miss O'Faley was said
to be a great acquisition in the neigh-
bourhood : she was so gay, so sociable,
so communicative ; and she certainly,
above all, knew so much of the world;
she was continually receiving letters, and
news, and patterns from Dublin, and the
Black Rock, and Paris. Each of which
places, and all standing nearly upon the
same level, made a great figure in her
conversation, and in the imagination of
the half or quarter gentry, with whom she
consorted in this remote place. Every
thing is great or small by comparison,
and she was a great person in this little
world. It had been the report of the
country, that her niece was promised to
the eldest son of Mr. Connal, of Glynn ;
but the aunt seemed so averse to the
K 2
196 ORMOND.
match, and expressed this so openly, that
some people began to think it would
be broken off; others, who knew Corne-
lius O'Shane's steadiness to his word of
honour, were convinced that Miss O'Fa-
ley would never shake king Corny, and
that Dora would assuredly be Mrs. Con-
nal. All agreed that it was a foolish
promise,— that he might do better for
his daughter. Miss O' Shane, with her
father's fortune and her aunt's, would be
n great prize ; besides she was thought
quite a beauty, and remarkable elegant.
Dora was just the thing to be the
belle and coquet of the Black Islands ;
the alternate scorn and familiarity with
which she treated her admirers, and the
interest and curiosity she excited, by
sometimes taking delightful pains to
attract, and then capriciously repelling,
succeeded, as Miss O'Faley observed,
admirably. Harry Ormond accompa-
nied her and her aunt on all their parties
ef pleasure : Miss O'Faley would never
ORMOND. 197
venture in the boat or across the lake
without him. — He was absolutely essen-
tial to their parties; — he was useful in
the boat; — he was useful to drive the
car ; — Miss O'Faley would not trust any-
body else to drive her; — he was an orna-
ment to the ball, Miss O'Faley dubbed
him her beau : — she undertook to polish
him, and to teach him to speak French ;
she was astonished by the quickness with
which he acquired the language, and
caught the true Parisian pronunciation ;
— sheoften reiterated to her niece, and to
others, who repeated it to Ormond, " that
it was the greatest of pities he had but
three hundred a year upon earth, but
that, even with that pittance, she should
prefer him for a nephew, to another with
his thousands — Mr. Ormond was well-
born, and he had some polilesse ; and a
winter at Paris would make him quite
another person, quite a charming young-
man. He would have great success, she
could answer for it, in certain circles
and sallons that she could name, only it
198 ORMONB.
might turn his head too much." — So
far she said, and more she thought.
It was a million pities, that such a
woman as herself, and such a girl as
Dora, and such a young man as Mr.
Ormond might be made, should be bu-
ried all their days in the Black Islands.
Mademoiselle O'Faley's heart still turned
to Paris — in Paris she was determined
to live, there was noliving, what you call
living, any where else, — elsewhere peo-
ple only vegetate, as somebody said.
Miss O'Faley, nevertheless, was exces-
sively fond of her niece, and how to
make the love for her niece and the love
for Paris coincide, was the question : she
long had formed a scheme of carrying
her dear niece to Paris, and marrying
her there to some M. le Baron, or M.
le Marquis ; but Dora's father would not
hear of her living any where but in Ire-
land, or marrying any one but an Irish-
man. Miss O'Faley had lived long
enough in Ireland lo know, that the usual
method, in all disputes, is to split the
ORMONJi. 199
difference ; — therefore she decided, that
her niece should marry some Irishman
who would take her to Paris, and reside
with her there, at least a great part of
his time. The latter part of the bargain
to be kept a secret from the father, till
the marriage should be accomplished.
Harry Ormond appeared to be the very
man for this purpose : he seemed to hang
loosely upon the world, no family
connexions seemed to have any rights
over him : he had no profession, — but a
very small fortune. — Miss O'Faley's for-
tune might be very convenient, and
Dora's person very agreeable to him;
and it was scarcely to be doubted, that he
would easily be persuaded to quit the
Black Islands, and the British Islands,
for Dora's sake.
The petit menage was already quite
arranged in Mademoiselle O'Faley's
head. — Even the wedding dresses had
floated in her fancy.
u As to the promise given to White
200 ORMOND.
Connal," as she said to herself, " it
would be a mercy to save her niece
from such a man, for she had seen him
lately, when he had called upon her in
Dublin, and he was a vulgar person :- —
his hair looked as if it had not been cut
these hundred years, and he wore — any
thing- but what he should wear — there-
fore it would be a favour to her brother-
in law, for whom she had in reality a
serious regard, it would be doing him
the greatest imaginable benefit, to save
him from the shame of either keeping or
breaking his ridiculous and savage pro-
mise."
Her plan was therefore to prevent the
possibility of his keeping it, by marrying
her niece privately to Ormond, before
White Connal should return in October.
When the thing was done and could not
be undone, Cornelius O'Shane, she was
persuaded, would be very glad of it, for
Harry Ormond was his particular favou-
rite : he had called him his son, son-in-law
ORMOND. 201
was almost the same thing. Thus arguing
with happy female casuistry, Mademoi-
selle went on with the prosecution of her
plan. To the French spirit of intrigue
and gallantry she joined Irish acuteness,
and Irish varieties of odd resource, with
the art of laying suspicion asleep by
the appearance of an imprudent, blun-
dering, good-nature ; add to all this a
degree of confidence, that could not have
been acquired by any means but one.
Thus accomplished, " rarely did she
manage matters."
By the very boldness and openness of
her railing against the intended bride-
groom, she convinced her brother-in-law,
that she meant nothing more than talk. —
Besides, through all her changing varie-
ties of objections, there was one point on
which she never varied : — she never ob-
jected to going to Dublin, in September,
to buy the wedding clothes for Dora.
This seemed to Cornelius O'Shane per-
fect proof, that she had no serious inten-
k3
202 ORMOND.
tion to break off or defer the match. As
to the rest, he was glad to see his own
Harry such a favorite : — he deserved to
be a favorite with everybody, Cornelius
thought. The young people were conti-
nually together, " So much the better,"
he would say, -* all was above board,
and there could be no harm going for*
ward, and no danger in life." — All was
above board on Harry Ormond's part ;
he knew nothing of Miss O'Faley's de-
signs, nor did he as yet feel that there
was for him much danger. He was not
thinking as a lover of Dora in particu-
lar, but he felt a new and extraordinary
desire to please in general. On every
fair occasion, he liked to shew how well
he could ride ; how well he could dance ;
how gallant and agreeable he could be :
— his whole attention was now turn-
ed to the cultivation of his personal
accomplishments. He succeeded: — he
danced, rode to admiration ; — he danced
all night ; he rode all morning : — his
ORMOND. 203
glories of horsemanship, and sportsman-
ship ; the birds that he shot, and the
fish that he caught, and the leaps that
he took, are to this hour recorded in the
tradition of the inhabitants of the Black
Islands. At that time his feats of per-
sonal activity and address made him the
theme of every tongue, the delight of
every eye, the admiration of every
woman, and the envy of every man : not
only with the damsels of Peggy Sheri-
dan's class was he the favorite, but with
all the young ladies, the belles of the half
gentry, who fiiled the ball-rooms; and
who made the most distinguished figure in
the riding, boating, walking, tea-drink-
ing parties. To all or any of these belles
he devoted his attention, rather than to
Dora ; for he was upon honour, and very
honourable he was, and very prudent,
moreover, he thought himself. He was,
at present, quite content with general
admiration ; there was, or there seemed,
at this time, more danger for his head
204 ORMOND.
than his heart, — more danger that his
head should be turned with the foolish
attentions paid him by many silly girls,
than that he should be a dupe to a passion
for any one of them : there was immi-
nent danger of his becoming a mere
dancing, driving, country coxcomb.
ORMOND. 205
CHAP. X.
ONE day, when Harry Ormond was*
out shooting with Moriarty Carroll, Mo-
riarty abruptly began with —
" Why then, 'tis what I am thinking",
Master Harry, that king Corny don't
know as much of that White Connal as I
do."
" What do you know of Mr. Connal,"
said Harry, loading his piece, " I didn't
know you had ever seen him."
" Oh, but I did, and no great sight to
see. — Unlike the father, old Connal, of
Glynn, who is the gentleman to the last
every inch, even with the coat dropping
ofi his back ; and the son, with the best
coat in Christendom, has not the look of
a gentleman at all, at all! — Nor hasn't
•in him, inside no more than outside."
206 ORMOND.
" You may be mistaken there, as you
have never been within-side of him, Mo-
riarty," said Ormond.
"Oh faith, and if I have not been
within-side of him, 1 have heard enough
from them that seen him turned inside
out, hot and cold. Sure I went down
there last summer, to his country, to see
a sbister of my own, that's married in it;
and lives just by Connal's Town, as the
man calls that sheep farm of his."
" Well, let the gentleman call his own
place what he will- — **
" Oh! he may call it what he plases
for me, I know what the country calls,
him; and, lest your honour should not
ax me, I'll tell you : — they call him
White Connal, the negre. — Think of him
that would stand browbating the butcher
an hour, to bate down the farthing a
pound in the price of the worst bits of
the meat, which he'd bespeak always for
the servants ; or stand, he would, I've
seen him with my own eyes, higgling
with the poor child, with the apron
ORMONB. 207
round the neck, that was sent to sell him
the eggs — "
" Hush ! Moriarty," said Ormond,
who did not wish to hear any further
particulars of Mr. Connal's domestic
economy, and he silenced Moriarty, by
pointing to a bird. — But the bird flew
away, and Moriarty returned to his
point.
" I wouldn't be telling the like of any
jantleman, but to shew the nature of
him. The minute after he had screwed
the halfpenny out of the child, he'd
throw down, may-be, fifty guineas in
gould, for the horse he'd fancy for his
own riding : not that he rides better than
the sack going to the mill, nor so well j
but that he might have it to show, and
say, he was better mounted than any
man at the fair : and the same he'd
throw away more guineas than 1 could
tell, at the head of a short-horned bull,
or a long-horned bull., or some kind of
a bull from England, may-be, just he-
a
208 ORMOND.
caase he'd think nobody else had one of
the breed in all Ireland but himself."
" A very good thing-, at least, for the
country, to improve the breed of cattle.'*
"The country!— 'Tis little the man
thinks of the country, that never thought
of any thing but himself, since his mother
sucked him."
" Suckled him, you mean," said Harry.
" No matter — I'm no spaker — but I
know that man's character, nevertheless
—he is rich ; — but a very bad character
the poor gives him up and down."
" Perhaps, because he is rich."
" Not at all ; the poor loves the rich
that helps with the kind heart. — Don't
we all love king Corny to the blacking
of his shoes ?— Oh ! there's the differ-
ence ! — who could like the man that's
always talking of the craturs, and yet to
save the life of the poorest cratur that's
forced to live under him, wouldn't for-
bear to drive, and pound, and process,
for the little con acre, the potato ridge.
ORMOND. 209
the cow's grass, or the trifle for the wo-
man's peck of flax, was she dying, and sell
the woman's last blanket ?— White Con-
nai is a hard man, and takes all to the
uttermost farthing- the law allows."
tC Well, even so, I suppose the law
does not allow him more than his due,"
said Ormond.
*'Oh! begging your pardon, Master
Harry," said Moriarty, " that's becaase
you are not a lawyer."
u And are you?" said Harry.
" Only as we all are through the coun-
try. — And now I'll only just tell you,
Master Harry, how this White Connal
sarved my shister's husband, who was
an under-tenant to him. — See, the case
was this — "
" Oh! don't tell me a long case, for
pity's sake. — I am no lawyer, I shall
not understand a word of it."
" But then, Sir, through the whole
consarning White Connal, what I'm
thinking of, Master Harry," said Mori-
210 ORMOND.
arty, «' is, I'm grieving that a daughter
of onr dear king Corny 's, and such a
pretty likely girl as Miss Dora — "
" Say no more, Moriarty, for there's
a partridge."
" Oh ! is it so with you ?** thought
Moriarty, " that's just what I wanted to
know — and I'll keep your secret ; — I
don't fo rget Peggy Sheridan — and his
goodness."
Moriarty said not a word more about
White Connal or Miss IXora j — and he and
Harry shot a great many birds this day.
It is astonishing how quickly and how
justly the lower class of people in Ireland
discover and appreciate the characters
of their superiors ; especially of the class
just above them in rank.
Ormond hoped that Moriarty had been
prejudiced in his account of White Con-
nal, and that private feelings had in-
duced him to exaggerate. Harry was
persuaded of this, because Cornelius
O'Shane had spoken to him of Connal,
ORMOND. 211
and had never represented him to be a
hard man. In fact, 0' Shane did not
know him. White Connal had a pro-
perty in a distant county, where he re-
sided, and only came up from time to
time to see his father. O' Shane ,had
then wondered to see the son grown so
unlike the father ; and he attributed the
difference to White Connal's having
turned grazier. The having derogated
from the dignity of an idle gentleman,
and having turned grazier, was his chief
fault in king Corny 's eyes : so that the
only point in Connal's character and
conduct, for which he deserved esteem,
was that for which his intended father-
in-law despised him. Connal had early
been taught by his father's example, who
was an idle, decayed, good gentleman, of
the old Irish stock, that genealogies and
old maps of estates in other people's pos-
sessions do not gain quite so much xe~
spect in this world as solid wealth. The
son was determined, therefore, to get
212 ORMONB.
money ; but in his horror of his father's
indolence and poverty, he ran into a
contrary extreme — he became not only
industrious, but rapacious. — He was -
right to avoid being 1 a stalko, as his
father was ; but it was not absolutely
necessary, that all his talk should be of
bullocks, or that his whole soul should
be in gain.
In going lately to Dublin to settle
with a sales-master, he had called on
Dora at her aunt's in Dublin, and he
had been " greatly struck," as he said,
(t with Miss O'Shane; she was as fine a
girl as any in Ireland — turn out who
they would against her; alt her points
good. But, better than beauty, she
would be no contemptible fortune :
with her aunt's assistance she woulu cut
up well ; she was certain of all her
father's Black Islands— fine improvable
land, if well managed."
These considerations had their full
effect ; Connal, knowing that the young-
ORMOND. 213
lady Was his destined bride, had begun
by taking the matter coolly, and resolv-
ing to wait for the properest time to
wed ; yet the sight of Dora's charms
had so wrought upon him, that he was
now impatient to conclude the marriage
immediately. Directly after seeing Dora
in Dublin, he had gone home and put
things in order and in train to bear his
absence, while he should pay a visit to
the Black Islands. Business, which
must always be ^considered before plea-
sure, had detained him at home longer
than he had foreseen ; but now certain
rumours he heard of gay doings in the
Black Islands, and a letter from his
father, advising him not to delay longer
paying his respects at Corny Castle,
determined him to set out. He
wrote to Mr. O' Shane to announce his
intentions, and begged to have the
answer directed to his father's at
Glynn.
One morning as Miss O'Faley, Mr.
£14 ORMOND.
0' Shane, and Ormond, were at break-
fast, Dora, who was usually late, not
having 1 yet appeared, Miss O'Faley saw
a little boy running across the fields
towards the house —
" That boy runs as if he was bringing
news," said she.
" So he has a right to do," said
Corny ; " if I don't mistake, that's the
post j that is, it is not the post, but a
little special of my own — a messenger I
sent off to catch post."
u To do what?" said Mademoiselle.
" Why, to catch post," said Corny,
" I bid him gallop off for the life and
put across (lake understood) to the next
post town, which is Ballynaslugger,
and to put in the letters that were too
late here at that office there ; and to
bring back whatever he found with no
delay — but gallop off for the bare life."
This was an operation which the boy
performed, whenever requisite, at the
imminent hazard of his neck every time,
ORMOND. 2 15
to say nothing of his chance of drown-
ing.
" Well, catch-post, my little rascal,"
said king Corny, " what have you for us
the day ?"
" I got nothing at all, only a wetting
for myself, plase your honour ; and one
bit of a note for your honour, which I
have here for you as dry as the bone in
my breast."
He produced the bit of a note, which,
king Corny's hands being at that time?
too full of the eggs and the kettle to
receive graciously, was laid down on the
corner of the table, from which it fell,
and Miss O'Faley picking it up, and
holding it by one corner, exclaimed —
" Is this what you call dry as a bone
in this country ? And mighty clean, too
— faugh ! — When will this entire nation
leave off chewing tobacco, 1 wonder ?
This is what you style clean, too, in this
country ?"
" Why, then,'* said the boy, looking
216 ORMOND.
close at the letter, " I thought it was
clane enough when I got it — and give it
— but 'tis not so clane now, sure enough ;
this corner — whatever come over it —
Would it be the snuff, my lady ?"
The mark of Miss OTaley's thumb
was so visible, and the snuff so palpable,
and the effort to brush it from the wet
paper so disastrous, that Miss O'Faley
let the matter rest where it was. King-
Corny put silver into the boy's hand,
bidding him not be too much of a
rogue ; the boy, smiling furtively,
twitched the hair on his forehead, bob-
bed his head in sign of thanks, and
drawing, not shutting the door after him,
disappeared.
" As sure as I'm Cornelius O'Shane,
this is White Connal in propria per-
sona" said he, opening the note.
" Dora's White Connal ?" said Or-
mond.
" Mon Dieu ! Bon Dieu ! Ah Dieu !"
cried Mademoiselle O'Faley.
ORMOND. '217
« Hush ! Whisht !" cried the father,
** here's Dora coming."
Dora came in- — 6I Any letter for me ?'*
" Aye, darling", owe for you!*
•* Oh, give it me j I'm always in a
desperate hurry for my letters : Where
is it ?"
" No — you need not hold out your
pretty hand ; the letter is for you, but
not to you,*' said king Corny ; " And
now you know ; aye, now you guess,
my quick little blusher, who 'tis
from ?"
" I guess ? not I, indeed ; not worth
my guessing," cried Dora, throwing her-
self sideways into a chair. " My tea,
if you please, aunt ;" then taking the
cup, without adverting to Harry, who
handed it to her, she began stirring
the tea, as if it and all things shared
her scorn.
Mademoiselle O'Faley now addressed
herself to her niece in French. We
shall in future call her Mademoiselle,
VOL. II. L>
218 ORMOND.
when she speaks in French, and Miss
when she speaks in English.
" Mon chere ! mon chat !" said Made-
moiselle O'Faley, " you are quite right
to spare yourself the trouble of guess-
ing ; for I give it you in two, I give it
you in four, I give it you in eight, and
you would never guess right. Figure to
yourself only, that a man, who has the
audacity to call himself a lover of Miss
O' Shane's, could fold, could seal, could
direct a letter in such a manner as that,
which you here behold."
Dora, who during this speech had sat
fishing for sugar in her tea-cup, raised
her long eye-lashes, and shot a scornful
glance at the letter, but intercepting a
crossing look of Ormond*s, the expres-
sion of her countenance suddenly chang-
ed, and with perfect composure she ob-
served, —
" A man may fold a letter badly, and
be nevertheless a very good man."
" That nobody can possibly contra-
ORMQND. 219
diet," said her father, <c and on all occa-
sions 'tis a comfort to be able to say
what no one can contradict."
" No well-bred person will never con-
tradict nothing"," said Miss O'Faley—
" But, without contradicting you, my
child," resumed Miss O'Faley, " I mam-
tain the impossibility of his being a gen-
tleman, who folds a letter so."
" But if folding a letter is all a man
wants of being a gentleman," said Dora,
" it might be learnt, I should think ; it
might be taught — "
" If you were the teacher, Dora, it
might, surely," said her father.
*' But heaven, I tsust, will arrange
that better," said Mademoiselle.
" Whatever heaven arranges must be
best," said Dora.
" Heaven and your father, if you
please, Dora," said her father, ( * put
that and that together like a dutiful
daughter, as you must be."
" Must !" said Dora, an,grily.
l2
220 ORMOND.
" That offensive must slipped out by
mistake, darling ; I meant only being
you, you must be all that's dutiful and
good."
" Oh !" said Dora, " that's another
view of the subject."
" You have a very imperfect view of
the subject, yet ;" said her father, " for
you have both been so taken up with the
manner, that you have never thought of
inquiring into the matter of this letter."
'* And what is the matter ?" said
Miss O'Faley.
" Form /" continued ihe father, ad-
dressing himself to his daughter ; "Jbrm,
I acknowledge, is one thing, and a great
thing in a daughter's eyes."
Dora blushed—" But in a father's
eyes, substance is apt to be more."
Dora raised her cup and saucer to-
gether to her lips at this instant, so that
the substance of the saucer completely
hid her face from her father.
« But," said Miss O'Faley, « you
m
ORMOND. 221
have not told us yet what the man
says."
" He says he wilt be here whenever
we please."
" That's never," said Miss O'Faley —
" never, I'd give for answer, if my plea-
sure is to be consulted."
" Luckily, there's another person's
pleasure to be consulted here," said the
father, keeping his eyes fixed upon his
daughter.
** Another cup of tea, aunt, if you
please."
u Then the sooner the better, I say,"
continued her father, " for when a dis-
agreeable thing is to be done — that is,
when a thing that's not quite agreeable
to a young lady, such as marriage — "
Dora took the cup of tea from her
aunt's hand, Harry not interfering.
" I say," persisted her father, " the
sooner it's done and over, the better."
Dora saw that Ormond's eyes were
fixed upon her ; she suddenly tasted, and
222 ORTVfcOND.
suddenly started back from her scalding
tea j Harry involuntarily uttered some
exclamation of pity ; she turned, and
seeing his eyes still fixed upon her, said,
" Very rude to stare at any body so,
Sir;'
" I only thought you had scalded
yourself."
" You only thought wrong."
tc At any rate, there's no great occa-
sion to be angry with me, Dora."
" And who is angry, pray, Mr. Or-
mond ? What put it in your head that I
was doing you the honour to be angry
with you?"
iC The cream ! the cream !" cried
Miss O'Faiey.
A sudden motion, we must not say an
angry motion, of Dora's elbow, had at
this moment overset the cream ewer,
but Harry set it up again, before its
contents poured on her new riding habit.
" Thank you," said she, " thank you ;
but," addejfl she, changing the places of
ORMOND. 223
the cream ewer and cups and saucers
before her, <c I'd rather manage my own
affairs, my own way, if you'd let me,
Mr. Ormond — if you'd leave me — I can
take care of myself my own way."
" I beg your pardon for saving your
habit from destruction, for that is the
only cause of offence that I am conscious
of having given. But I leave you to
your own way, as I am ordered," said
he, rising from the breakfast-table.
" Sparring ! sparring, again, you
two !" said Dora's father, " But Dora, I
wonder whether you and White Connal
were sparring that way when you met."
<l Time enough for that, Sir, after
marriage," said Dora.
Our hero, who had stood leaning on
the back of his chair, fearing that he
had been too abrupt in what he had
said, cast a lingering look at Dora, as
her father spoke about White Connal,
and as she replied ; but there was some-
thing so unfeminine, so unamiable, so
224 ORMOND.
decided and bold, he thought, in the tone
of her voice, as she pronounced the word
marriage, that he then, without re-
luctance, and with a feeling of disgust,
quitted the room, and left her *' to
manage her own affairs, and to take
her own way."
ORllOND. 225
CHAP. XT.
OUR young hero, hero like, took a so-
litary walk to indulge his feelings, and
as he rambled, he railed to his heart's
content against Dora.
" Here all my plans of happiness and
improvement are again overturned. Dora
cannot improve me, can give me no mo-
tive for making myself any thing better
than what I am — Polish my manners!
no; when she has such rude, odious
manners herself — much changed for the
worse — a hundred times more agreeable
when she was a child — Lost to me she is
every way — no longer my playfellow —
no chance of her being my friend — Her
good father hoped she would be a sister
L3
226 ORMOND.
to me — very sorry I should be to have
such a sister — Then I am to consider her
as a married woman — Pretty wife she
will make ! I am convinced she cares no
more for that man she is going to marry
than I do — Marrying merely to be mar-
ried, to manage her own affairs, and have
her own way — so childish! — or mar-
rying merely to get an establishment —
so base ! — to secure a husband, so inde-
licate! — How women, and such young
creatures, can bring themselves to make
these venal matches — I protest Peggy
Sheridan's worth a hundred of such.
Moriarty may think himself a happy
fellow — Suzy — Jenny, any body — only
with dress and manner a little different —
is full as good in reality. I question
whether they'd give themselves, without
liking, to any White Connal in their
own rank, at the first offer, for a few
sheep, or a cow, or to have their own
way?"
Such was the summing up of the topics
ORMOND. 227
of invective, which, during a two hours'
walk, ramble we should say, had come
round and round continually in Ormond's
indignant fancy. He went plucking off
the hawthorn blossoms in his path, till at
one desperate tug, that he gave to a branch
that crossed his way, he opened to a bank
which sloped down to the lake. At a
little distance below him he saw old
Sheelah sitting under a tree, rocking her-
self backwards and forwards, while Dora
stood motionless opposite to her, with her
hand covering her eyes, and her head
drooping. They neither of them saw
Ormond, and he walked on pursuing his
own path ; it led close behind the hedge
to the place where they were, so close
that the sounds " Willastrew ! Wiilas-
trew!" from old Sheelah, in her funereal
tone, reached his ear, and then the words,
" Oh, my heart's darling ! So young to
be a sacrifice — but what next did he
say?"
Ormond's curiosity was strongly ex-
228 ORMOND.
cited ; but he was too honourable to
listen, or to equivocate with conscience ;
so to warn them that some one was within
hearing, he began to whistle clear and
strong. Both the old woman and the
young lady started.
" Murder!" cried Sheelah, "it's Harry
Ormond ! — Oh ! did he overhear any thing
— or all, think ye?"
" Not I," answered Ormond, leaping
over the hedge directly, and standing
firm before them ; " I overheard nothing
— I heard only your last words Sheelah —
you spoke so loud I could not help it —
They are as safe with me as with your-
self — but don't speak so loud another time
if you are talking secrets, and whatever
you do, never suspect me of listening — I
am incapable of that, or any other base-
ness."
So saying, he turned his back, and was
preparing to vault over the hedge again,
when he heard Dora, in a soft low voice,
sav —
ORMOND. 220
" I never suspected you, Harry, of
that, or any other baseness."
" Thank yon, Dora," said he, turning
with some emotion — " thank you, Dora,
for this first, this only kind word you've
said to me since you came home."
Looking- at her earnestly, as he ap-
proached nearer, he saw the traces of
tears, and an air of dejection in her coun-
tenance, which turned all his anger to
pity and tenderness in an instant. With
a soothing tone he said, " Forgive my
unseasonable reproach — I was wrong — ■
I see you are not as much to blame as I
thought you were."
" To blame!" cried Dora. « c And
pray how — and why — and for what did
you think me to blame, Sir."
Suddenly the impossibility of explana-
tion, the impropriety of what he had said,
flashed on his mind, and in a few mo-
ments a rapid succession of ideas fol-
lowed. " Was Dora to blame for obeying
her father, for being ready to marry the
230 oriMDnd.
man to whom her father had destined —
promised her hand — and was he, Harry
Ormond ! — the adopted child, the trusted
friend of the family, to suggest to the
daughter the idea of rebelling against
her father's will, or disputing the pro-
priety of his choice ?"
Ormond's imagination took a rapid
flight on Dora's side of the question, and
he finished with the conviction that she
was " a sacrifice, a martyr, and a miracle
of perfection !"
" Blame you, Dora !" cried he, " blame
you ! No — I admire, I esteem, I respect
you. Did I say that I blamed you? 1
did not know what I said or what I
meant."
" And are you sure you know any bet-
ter what you say or what you mean,
now?" said Dora.
The altered look and tone of tartness
in which this question was asked, pro-
duced as sudden a change in Harry's cow-
viction. He hesitatingly answered —
" I am—"
ORMOND. 231
" He is," said Sheelah, confidently.
" I did not ask your opinion, Sheelah. I
can judge for myself," said Dora. — " Your
words tell me one thing, Sir, and your
looks another," said she, turning to Or-
mond, " which am I to believe, pray-?''
" Oh! believe the young man any way,
sure," said Sheelah, " silence speaks best
for him."
" Best against him, in my opinion,"
said Dora.
" Dora, will you hear me," Ormond
be of am
" No, Sir, I will not," interrupted
Dora — " What's the use of hearing or
listening to a man, who does not, by the
confession of his own eyes, and his own
tongue, know two minutes together what
he means, or mean two minutes together
the same thing. A woman might as well
listen to a fool or a madman !"
" Too harsh, too severe, Dora," said he.
*' Too true, too sincere, perhaps, you
mean."
232 ORMOND.
" Since I am allowed, Dora, to speak
to you as a brother — '*
** Who allowed you, Sir ?" interrupted
Dora.
'* Your father, Dora."
« My father can not, shall not. Nobody
but nature can make any man my bro-
ther — nobody but myself shall allow any
man to call himself my brother."
" I am sorry I presumed so far, Miss
O'Shane, I was only going to offer one
word of advice."
" I want no advice — I will take none
from you, Sir."
" You shall have none, madam, hence-
forward, ever, from Harry Ormond."
"'Tis well, Sir, come away, Sheelah V*
(i Oh ! wait, dear — Och ! I am too
old," said Sheelah, groaning as she rose
slowly. '* I'm too slow entirely for these
quick passions !"
" Passions !" cried Dora, growing
scarlet and pale in an instant — " What
do you mean by passions, Sheelah."
ORMOND. 233
" I mean changes" — said Sheelah, —
" changes, dear. — I am ready now —
where's my stick. — Thank you, Master
Harry. — Only I say I can't change my
quarters and march so quick as you, dear."
" Well, well, lean on me," said Dora,
impatiently.
" Don't hurry, poor Sheelah — no ne-
cessity to hurry away from me," said Or-
mond, who had stood for a few moment*
like one transfixed. *' 'Tis for me to go —
and I will go as fast and as far as you
please, Dora, away from you and for
ever."
" For ever!" said Dora — " what do
you mean ?"
" Away from the Black Islands ! he
can't mean that," said Sheelah.
" Why not — Did not 1 leave Castle
Hermitage at a moment's warning?"
" Warning ! — nonsense," cried Dora,
" lean on him, Sheelah — he has fright-
ened you j lean on him, can't you — sure
he's better than your stick. Warning —
234 ORMOND.
where did you find that pretty word ?
Warning ! are you a footman ? I thought
you were a gentleman— born and bred.
But when you talk of going off at a mo-
ment's warning from this place and that,
what can I think but that Harry Ormond
is turned serving man."
" Harry Ormond ! — And a minute ago
she would not let me — Miss O' Shane, I
shall not forget myself again, — be as ca-
pricious, amuse yourself with being as
capricious as you please, but not at my
expense ; — little as you think of me, I am
not to be made your butt or your dupe^
therefore, I must seriously beg, at once,
that I may know whether you wish me
to stay or to go."
" To stay, to be sure, when my father
invites you. Would you expose me to
his displeasure, — you know he can't bear
to be contradicted ; and you know that
he asked you to stay and live here."
li But without exposing you to any dis-
pleasure, I can," replied Ormond, iS con-
trive—"
ORMOND. 235
" Contrive nothing at all — do leave me
to contrive for myself. I don't mean to
say leave me — you take up one's words so
quickly, and are so passionate, Mr. Or-
monde*
" If you would make me understand
you, Dora, let ■■. understand how you
wish me to live win you."
" Lord bless me, what a fuss the man
makes about living with one — one would
think it was the most difficult thing: in the
world. Can't you live on like any body
else. There's my aunt in the hedge-row
walk, all alone, 1 must go and take care
of her — I leave you to take care of Shee-
lah — you know you were always very
good natured when we were children.''
Dora went off quick as lightening, and
what to make of her Ormond did not
well know. Was it mere childishness,
or affectation, or coquetry ? No, the real
tears and real expression of look and word
forbade each of these suppositions. One
other cause for her conduct might have
236 ORMOND.
been suggested by a vain man. Harry
Ormond was not a vain man ; but a little
fluttering delight was just beginning to
play round his head, when Sheelah, lean-
ing heavily on his arm as they ascended
the bank, reminding him of her exist-
ence —
* My poor old Sheelah !" said he, " are
not you tired ?"
" Not now, thanks to your arm, Mas-
ter Harry, dear, that was always good
to me. Not now, I am not a whit tired ;
now I see all right again between my
chiider — and happy 1 was, these five mi-
nutes past, watching you smiling to your-
self j and I don't doubt but all the world
will smile on ye yet. If it was my
world it should. But I can only wish
you my best wish, which I did long ago
— may you live to wonder at your own good
luck."
Ormond looked as if he was ffoinof to
ask some question, that interested him
much, but it ended by wondering what
0RMOSD. 237
o'clock it was. Sheelah wondered at
him for thinking what the hour was, when
she was talking of Miss Dora. After a
silence, which brought them to the
chicken-yard gate, where Sheelah was
" to quit his arm" — she leaned heavily
aj>*ain.
" The marriage — that they are all
talking of in the kitchen, and every
where through the country — Miss Dora's
marriage with. White Connal, is repriev-
ed for the seasou. She axed time till
she'd be seventeen — very rasonable. So
it's to be in October — if we all live till
those days — in the same mind. Lrrd,
he knows — I know nothing at all about
it ; but I thank you kindly, Master
Harry, and wish you well any way. Did
you ever happen to see the bridegroom
that is to be ?"
•' Never."
Harry longed to hear what she longed
to say ; hut he did not deem it prudent,
he did not think it honourable, to lefc her
238 ORMOND.
enter on this topic. The prudential con-
sideration might have been conquered by
curiosity ; but the honourable repugnance
to obtaining' second-hand information, and
encouraging improper confidence, pre-
vailed. He deposited Sheelah safe on
her stone bench in the chicken yard gate,
and much against her will, he left her
before she had told, or hinted to him all
she knew. — and all she did not know.
The flattering delight that played
about our young hero's head had in-
creased, was increasing, and ought to be
diminished. Of this he was sensible. It
should never come near his heart, of that
he was determined ; he would exactly
follow the letter and spirit of his bene-
factor's commands — or he would always
consider Dora as a married woman — but
the prospect of there being some tempta-
tion, and some struggle, was, however,
infinitely agreeable to our young hero —
it would give him something to do, some-
thing to think of, something to feel.
ORMOND. 239
It was much in favour of his resolu-
tion, that Dora really was not at ail the
kind of woman he had pictured to him-
self either as amiable or charming ; she
was not in the least like his last patterns
of heroines, or any of his approved ima-
ginations of the beau ideal. But she was
an exceedingly pretty girl ; she was the
only very pretty and tolerably accom-
plished girl immediately near him. A
dangerous propinquity !
240 ORMOND.
CHAP. XII.
WHITE Connal ana his father— we
name the son first, because his superior
wealth, inverting the order of nature,
gave him, in his own opinion, the pre-
cedency on all occasions — White Con-
nal and his father arrived at Corny
Castle. King" Corny rejoiced to see his
old friend, the elder Connal ; but through
all the efforts that his majesty made to be
more than civil to the son, the degene-
rate grazier, his future son-in-law, it was
plain that he was only keeping his pro-
mise, and receiving such a guest as he
ought to be received.
Mademoiselle decided, that old Con-
nal, the father, was quite a gentleman,
ORMOND. 241
for he handed her about, and in his way,
had some politeness towards the sex;
but as for the son, her abhorrence must
have burst forth in plain English, if it
had not exhaled itself safely in French,
in every exclamation of contempt which
the language could afford. She called
him bete! and grand bete! — by turns,
butor! cine! and grand butor! — nigaud!
and grand nigaud! — pronounced him to
be, " Un homme qui ne dit rien — D'ail-
leurs un homme qui n'a pas l'air comme
il faut — Un homme enfin qui n'est pas
presentable, meme en fait de mari."
Dora looked unutterable things; but
this was not unusual with her. Her
equally scornful airs, her short answers,
were not more decidedly rude to White
Connal than to others ; she was rather
more civil to him than to Ormond. In
short, there was nothing in her manner
of keeping Connal at a distance, beyond
what he who had not much practice 01
skill in the language of female coquetry
VOL. II. M
242 ORMOND.
might construe into maiden coyness to
the acknowledged husband lover.
It seemed as if she had some secret
hope or fear, or reason for not coming to
open war. In short, as usual, she was
odd, if not unintelligible. White Con-
nal did not disturb himself at all to
follow her doublings, his pleasure was
not in the chace — he was sure the game
was his own.
Be bold ! but not too bold, White
Connal ; be negligent, but not too negli-
gent, of the destined bride. "Tis bad, as
you say, to be spoiling a wife before
marriage ; but what if she should never
be your wife — thought some !
That was a contingency that never
had occurred to White Connal. Had
he not horses, and saddles, and bridles,
and bits, finer than had ever been seen
before in the Black Islands? And had
he not the finest pistols, and the most
famous fowling-pieces? And had he not
thousands of sheep, and hundreds of oxen P
ORMOND. 24S
And had he not thousands in paper,
and thousands in gold ; and if he lived,
would he not have tens of thousands
more? And had he not brought with
him a plan of Connal' s Town, the name
by which he dignified a snug slated
lodge he had upon one of his farms — an
elevation of the house to be built, and of
the offices that had been built?
He had so. — But it happened one
day, when Connal was going to ride out
with Dora, thatjustashe mounted, her
veil fluttering before his horse's eyes,
startled the animal; and the awkward
rider, unable to manage him, king Corny
begged Harry Ormond to change horses
with him, that Mr. Connal might go
quietly beside Dora, " who was a bit of
a coward." — Imprudent father! Harry
obeyed — and the difference between the
riders and the gentlemen was but too
apparent. For what avails it that you
have the finest horse, if another ride him
better? What avails it that you have
M 2
244 ORMOND.
the finest saddle, if another become it
better ? What use to you your Wogden
pistols, if another hit the mark you miss?
What avails the finest fowling-piece to
the worst sportsman ? The thousands
upon thousands to him who says but
little, and says that little ill? What
avail that the offices at Connal's Town
be finished, dog-kennel and all ; or what
boots it that the plan and elevation of
Connal's Town be unrolled, and submitted
to the fair one's inspection and remarks,
if the fair disdain to inspect, and if she
remark only, that a cottage and love are
more to her taste ? White Connal fput
none of these questions to himself, he
went on his own way. — Faint heart never
won fair lady. — Then no doubt he was
in a way to win, for his heart never
quailed, his colour never changed when he
saw his fair one's furtive smiles, or heard
her aunt's open praises of the youth, by
whom riding, dancing, shooting, speak-
ing, or silent, he was always eclipsed.
ORMOKD. '245
Connal of Connal's Town despised Harry
Ormond of no-town — viewed him with
scornful, but not with jealous eyes. — Idle
jealousies were far from Connal's thoughts.
— He was intent upon the noble recreation
of cock-fighting. Cock-lighting had been
the taste of his boyish days, before he
became a money-making man; and at
every interval of business, at each inter-
mitting of the passion of avarice, when
he had leisure to think of amusement,
this his first idea of pleasure recurred.
Since he came to Corny Castle, he had
at sundry times expressed to his father
his " hope in heaven, that before they
would leave the Black Islands, they
should get some good fun cock fighting,
for it was a poor case for a man that is
not used to it, to be tied to a female's
apron strings, twirling his thumbs all
mornings, for form's sake."
There was a strolling kind of gentle-
man in the Islands, a Mr. O'Tara, who
was a famous cock-fighter, O'Tara
246 ORMOND.
came one day to dine at Corny Castle.
The kindred souls found each other out,
and an animated discourse across the
tabie commenced concerning cocks. Af-
ter dinner, as the bottle went round, the
rival cock-fighters warmed to enthusi-
asm in praise of their birds. Each re-
lating wonders, they finished, by pro-
posing a match, laying bets, and dis-
patching messengers and hampers for
their favourites. The cocks arrived, and
were put in separate houses, under the
care of separate feeders.
Moriarty Carroll, who was curious, and
something of a sportsman, had a mind
to have a peep at the cocks. Opening
the door of one of the buildings hastily,
he disturbed the cock, who taking
fright, flew about the barn with such
violence, as to tear off several of his fea-
thers, and very much to deface his ap-
pearance. Unfortunately, at this in-
stant White Connal and Mr. O'Tara
came by, and finding what had hap-
ORMOND. 247
pened, abused Moriarty with all the vul-
gar eloquence which anger could supply.
Ormond, who had been with Moriarty,
but who had no share in the disaster, en-
deavoured to mitigate the fury of White
Connal, and apologized to Mr. O'Tara;
O'Tara was satisfied — shook hands with
Ormond, and went off. But White Con-
nal's anger lasted longer — for many rea-
sons he disliked Ormond — and thinking
from Harry's gentleness, that he might
venture to insult him, returned to the
charge, and becoming high and brutal in
his tone, said, that " Mr. Ormond had
committed an ungentlemanlike action,
which it was easier to apologize for, than
to defend." Harry took fire, and in-
stantly was much more ready than his
opponent wished, to give any other
satisfaction that Mr. Connal desired.
Well, " Name his hour— his place." " To-
morrow morning, six o'clock, in the east
meadow; — out of reach and sight of all — "
Ormond said, " or he was ready that in-
248 ORMOND.
stant, if Mr. Connal pleased : he hated,
he said, to bear malice — he could not
sleep upon it."
Moriarty now stepping up privately
besought Mr. Connal's cc honour, for hea-
ven and earth's sake, to recollect, if he
did not know it, what a desperate good
shot Mr. Harry notoriously was always."
" What ! you rascal ! are you here
still ?" cried White Connal, " hold your
peace j — how dare you speak between
gentlemen ?"
Moriarty begged pardon and departed.
The hint he had given, however, ope-
rated immediately upon White Connal.
" This scattered-brained young Or-
mond," said he to himself, " desires no-
thing better than to fight. — Very natural,
he has nothing to lose in the world but
his bare life. — Neither money, nor land-
ed property, as I have to quit, in leaving
the worid — unequal odds. — Not worth
my while to stand his shot, for the fea-
ther of a cock," concluded Connal, a
ORMOND. 249
he pulled to pieces one of the feathers,
which had been the original cause of all
the mischief.
Thus cooled, and suddenly become rea-
sonable, he lowered his tone, declaring'
that he did not mean to say any thing
in short that could give offence, nothing
but what it was natural for any man in
the heat of passion to say, and it was
enough to put a man in a passion at
first sight to see his cock disfigured.
— If he had said any thing too strong,
he hoped Mr. Ormond would excuse it.
Ormond knew what the heat of pas-
sion was, and was willing to make all
proper allowances. — White Connal made
more than proper apologies ; and Or-
mond rejoiced that the business was
ended. But White Connal, conscious
that he had first bullied, then quailed,
and that if the story were repeated, it
would tell to his disadvantage, made
it his anxious request, that he would say
nothing to Cornelius O'Shane of what
m3
256 ORMOND.
had passed between them, lest it should
offend Cornelius, who he knew was so
fond of Mr. Ormond. — Harry eased the
gentleman's mind, by promising that he
would never say a word about the mat-
ter. Mr. Connal was not content till
this promise was solemnly repeated. Even
this, though it seemed quite to satisfy
him at the time, did not afterwards relieve
Connal from the uneasy consciousness
lie felt in Ormond's company. He could
bear it only the remainder of this day.
The next morning he left the Black
Islands, having received letters on busi-
ness, he said, which required his imme-
diate presence at Connal's Town.— Many
at Corny Castle seemed willing to dis-
pense with his further stay, but king
Corny, true to his word and his character,
took leave of him as his son-in-law, and
only as far as hospitality required was
ready to " speed the parting guest."
At parting White Connal drew his fu-
ture father-in-law aside, and gave him a
1
OKMOND. 251
hint, that " he had better look sharp
after that youth he was fostering."
" Harry Ormond, do you mean?'*
said 0' Shane.
" I do," said Connal, " but Mr.
O' Shane, don't go to mistake me, I am
not jealous of the man — not capable — of
such a fellow as that, a wild scatter-
brains, who is not worth a sixpence
scarce — I have too good an opinion of
Miss Dora. But if I was in your place*
her father, just for the look of the thing
in the whole country, I should not like it
— not that 1 mind what people say a
potato skin, but still if I was her father,
I'd as soon have the devil an inmate
and intimate in my house, muzzling in.
my daughter's ear behind backs."
Cornelius 0' Shane stoutly stood by his
young friend.
" He never saw Harry Ormond
muzzling — behind backs, especially—
did not believe any such thing — all
Hairy said and did was always above
252 ORMOND.
board, and before faces, any way. In
short," said Cornelius, " I will answer
for Harry Ormond's honour with my
own honour. After that 'twould be use-
less to add with my life, if required,
that of course — and this ought to satisfy
any son-in-law, who was a gentleman
— none such could glance or mean to re-
flect on Dora."
Connal, perceiving he had overshot
himself, made protestations of his inno-
cence of the remotest intention of glan-
cing at, or reflecting upon, or imagin-
ing any thing but what was perfectly
angelic and proper in Miss Dora — Miss
O Shane.
•• Then that was all as it should be,"
Mr. O'Shane said, " so far — but another
point, he would not concede to mortal
man, was he fifty times his son-in-law
promised, that was his own right to have
who he pleased and willed to have, at
his own castle, his inmate and his inti-
mate,"
ORMOND. 253
" No doubt — to be sure," Connal said,
•' he did not mean — he only meant —
he could not mean — in short he meant
nothing- at all, only just to put Mr.
O'Shane on his guard — that was all he
meant."
" Phoo !" said Cornelius O'Shane, but
checking the expression of his contempt
for the man, he made an abrupt transi-
tion to Connal's horse, which had just
come to the door.
" That's a handsome horse ! certainly
you are well mounted, Mr. Connal. ''
O'Shane' s elision of contempt was
beyond Mr. Connal's understanding or
feeling.
* l Well mounted! — certainly I am
that, and ever will be, while I can so
well afford it," said Connal, mounting 1
his horse — and identifying Iiimself with
the animal, he sat proudly, then bowing
to the ladies, who were standing- at an
open window —
" Good day to ye — ladies — till Oc-
tober, when I hope " —
254 ORMOND.
But bis horse, who did not seem quite
satisfied of his identity with the man,
would not permit him to say more, and
off he went — half his hopes dispersed in
empty air.
" I know I wish," said Cornelius
O'Shane to himself, as he stood on the
steps, looking after the man and horse —
u I wish that that unlucky bowl of
punch had remained ior ever unmixed,
at the bottom of which I found this
son-in-law for my poor daughter, my
innocent Dora, then unborn — but she
must make the best of him for me and
herself, since the fates and my word, ir-.
revocable as the Styx, have bound me to
him, the purse-proud grazier and mean
man — not a remnant of a gentleman !
as the father was. — Oh my poor Dora !'*
As king Corny heaved a heartfelt sigh,
very difficult to force from his anti senti-
mental bosom, Hairy Ormond, with a
plate of meat in his hand, v* histling to his
dog to follow him, ran down the steps.
" Leave feeding that dog, and come here
©RMOND. 255
to me, Harry," said O'Shane, " and
answer me truly, such questions as I shall
ask."
" Truli/ — if I answer at all," said
Harry.
" Answer you must — when I ask you
—every man, every gentleman must
answer in all honour for what he does."
" Certainly, answerer what he does,'*
said Harry.
" For ! — Phoo ! — come none of your
tricks upon prepositions to gain time — I
never knew you do the like — you'll give
me a worse opinion. — I'm no school
master, nor you a grammarian, I hope,
to be equivocating' on monosyllables.''
4C Equivocate! I never equivocated,
Sir," said Harry.
" Don't begin now then," said Cor-
nelius, " I've enough to put me out of
humour already — so answer straight, like
yourself. What'* this you've done to
get the ill-will of White Connal, that's
just gone?"
Surprised and embarrassed — Ormond
256 ORMONB.
answered, " I trust I have not his ill will,
Sir."
•« You have, Sir," said O'Shane.
" Is it possible?" cried Harry, "when
we shook hands — )ou must have mis-
understood, or have been misinformed.
How do you know, my dear Sir?"
" I know it from the man's own lips —
see ! I can give you a straight answer
at once. — Now answer me, was there any
quarrel between yon, and what cause of
offence did you give ?"
" Excuse me, Sir, those are questions
which I cannot answer."
" Your blush, young man, answers me
enough, and too much. — Mark me, I
thought I could answer for your honour
with my own, and I did so,"
( > Thank you, Sir, and you shall never
have reason — "
" Don't interrupt me, young man. —
What reason can I have to judge of the
future, but from the past — I am not
an idiot to be bothered with fair words."
** Oh, Sir, can you suspect ?"
ORMOND. 26?
" I suspect nothing, Harry Ormond,
I am, I thank my God, above suspicion.
— Listen to me — you know, whether I
ever told it you before or not, I can't
remember, but whether or not, you
know, as well as if you were withinside
of me, that in my heart's core there's
not a man alive 1 should have preferred
for my son-in-law, to the man I once
thought Harry Ormond, without a pen-
ny "-
" Once thought!"
" Interrupt me again, and I'll lave
you, Sir. In confidence between our-
selves, thinking as once I did, that I
might depend on your friendship and
discretion, equally with your honour,
I confessed I repented a rash promise, and
let you see my regret deep enough — that
my son-in-law will never be what Dora
deserves — I said, or let you see as much,
no matter which, I am no equivocator,
nor do I now unsay or retract a word.-^-
You have my secret, but remember when
258 ORMONB.
first I had the folly to tell it you, same
time I warned you, I warned you, Harry,
like the moth from the candle — I warned
you in vain. In another tone, 1 warn
you now, young man, for the last, time —
I tell you my promise to me is sacred —
she is as good as married to White
Connal — fairly tied up neck and heels
— and so am I, to all intents and purposes,
and if I thought it were possible you
could consider her, or make her, by any
means, consider herself in any other
light, I will tell you what I would do
—I would shoot myself, for one of us
must fall, and I wouldn't chuse it
should be you, Harry. — That's all."
" Oh hear me, Sir," cried Harry,
seizing his arm as he turned away, " kill
me if you will, but hear me — I give ycu
my word you are from beginning to
end mistaken. — I cannot tell you the
whole — but this much believe, Dora was
not the cause of quarrel."
" Then there was a quarrel..*— Oh for
ORMOND. 259
shame ! for shame ! — you are not used
to falsehood enough yet — you can't carry
it through — why did you attempt it with
me?"
" Sir, though I can't tell you the truth,
the foolish truth, I tell you no falsehood. —
Dora's name, a thought of Dora, never
came in question between Mr. Connal
and me, upon my honour."
" Your honour!" repeated Cornelius,
with a severe look, severe more in its
sorrow than its anger — " Oh Harry Or«
xnond ! — what signifies whether the name
was mentioned — you know she was the
thing — the cause of offence. — Stop, I
charge you — equivocate no more. If a
lie's beneath a gentleman, an equivocation
is doubly beneath a man."
260 ORMOND.
CHAP. XIII.
HARRY Ormond thought it hard to
bear unmerited reproach and suspicion ;
found it painful to endure the altered
eye of his once kind and always generous,
and to him, always dear friend and bene-
factor. But Ormond had given a solemn
promise to White Connal, never to
mention any thing that had passed be-
tween them to O' Shane ; and he could
not therefore explain the circumstances
of the quarrel. However painful this
misunderstanding, this first misunder-
standing Harry had ever had with his
friend — and very painful it was at the
time, yet this was one of the circum-
stances, which tended to form Ormond's
OAMOND. 261
character ; conscious that he was doing
right, he kept his promise to the person
he hated and despised, at the hazard — at
the certainty of displeasing the man he
most loved in the world ; and to whom
he was the most obliged. While his
heart yearned with tenderness towards
his adopted father, he endured the re-
proach of ingratitude ; and while he
knew he had acted perfectly honourably,
he suffered under the suspicion of equivo-
cation and breach of confidence : he
bore it all, — and in reward, he had the
conviction of his own firmness, and an
experience, upon trial, of his adherence
to his word of honour. The trial may
seem but trivial, the promise but weak ;
still it was a great trial to him, and he
thought the promise as sacred, as if it
had been about an affair of state.
It happened some days after the con-
versation had passed between him and
O'Shane, that Cornelius met O'Tara,
the gentleman who had laid the bets
262 ORMONB.
about the cock-fight with Connal, and
chancing to ask him what had prevented
the intended battle, O'Tara told all he
knew of the adventure. Being a good-
natured and good-humoured man, he
stated the matter as playfully as possible
— acknowledged that they had all been
foolish and angry, but that Harry Or-
mond and Moriarty had at last pacified
them by proper apologies. Of what had
passed afterwards, of the bullying, and
the challenge, and the submission,
O'Tara knew nothing, but king Corny
baving once been put on the right scent,
soon made it all out. He sent for Mo-
riarty, and cross questioning him, heard
the whole ; for Moriarty had not been
sworn to secresy, and had very good
ears. When he had been turned out
of the stable, he had retreated only to the
harness-room, and had heard all that had
passed. King Corny was delighted with
Harry's spirit. — and now he was prince
Harry again, and the generous, warm-
ORMOND. 263
hearted Cornelius, went, in impatience,
to seek him out, and to beg" his pardon
for his suspicions. He embraced him— -
called him son, and dear son, said he had
now found out, no thanks to him, Con-
nal's cause of complaint, and it had no-
thing to do with Dora —
" But why could not you say so,
man ?"
He had said so repe
" Well, so I suppose ade
out clearly to be all my fai n
a passion, and could not hear, u (,
or believe. — Weil, be it so •■' as
unjust, 1*11 make it up to yo Til
never believe my own ears, ts,
against you, Harry, while I live, end
upon it : — if I heard you asking • to
marry you, I would believe my sars
brought me the words wrong : — ii aw
you even leading her into the * ich
instead of the chapel, and the priest rum-
self warning me of it, I'd say and ti, ink,
father Jos, 'tis a mistake-r~a vision — or
264 ORMOND.
a defect of vision. In short — I love and
trust you as my own soul, Harry Or-
mond, for I did you injustice."
This full return of kindness and confi-
dence, besides the present delight it gave
him, left a permanent and beneficial im-
pression upon our young hero's mind.
The admiration he felt for O'Shane's ge-
nerous conduct, and the self approbation
he enjoyed in consequence of his own
honourable firmness, had a great effect in
strengthening and forming his character.
— It also rendered him immediately more
careful in his whole behaviour towards
Miss O'Shane. He was prudent till both
aunt and niece felt indignantastonishment.
There was some young lady with whom
Harry had danced and walked, and of
whom he had, without any design, spoken
as a pleasing gentle girl. Dora recollect-
ed this praise, and Joining it with his pre-
sent distant behaviour toward herself, she
was piqued and jealous, and thenshe be-
came, what probably she would x never
ORMOND. 265
otherwise have been, quite decided in her
partiality for Harry Ormond. The proofs
of this were soon so manifest, that many
thought, and Miss O'Faley in particular,
that Harry was grown stupid, blind, and
deaf. He was not stupid, blind, or deaf
— he had felt the full power of Dora's per-
sonal charms, and his vanity had been
flattered by the preference which Dora
shewed for him. Where vanity is the
ruling- passion, young men are easily flat-
tered into being in love with any pretty,
perhaps with any ugly girl, who is, or who
affects to be, in love with them. But
Harry Ormond had more tenderness of
heart than vanity — against the sugges-
tions of his vanity he had struggled suc-
sessfully, but now his heart had a hard
trial. Dora's spirits were failing, her
cheek growing pale, her tone of voice
was quite softened — sighs would some-
times break forth — persuasive sighs! —
Dora was no longer the scornful lady in
rude health, but the interesting invalid—
VOL. II. N
266 ORMOND.
the victim going to be sacrificed. Dora ? s
aunt talked of the necessity of advice for
her niece's health. Great stress was laid
on air and exercise, and exercise on
horseback. — Dora rode every day on the
horse Harry Ormond broke for her, the
only horse she could now ride ; and
Harry understood its ways, and managed
it so much better than any body else ; and
Dora was grown a coward, so that it was
quite necessary he should ride or walk
beside her. Harry Ormond's tenderness
of heart encreased his idea of the danger.
Her personal charms became infinitely
more attractive to him ; her defects of
temper and character were forgotten and
lost in his sense of pity and gratitude ;
and the struggle of his feelings was now
violent.
One morning our young hero rose
early, for he could no longer sleep, and
he walked out, or, more properly, he ram-
bled, or he strolled, or he roamed or
stroamed out, and he took his way ; — no,
ORMOND. 267
his steps were irresistibly led to his accus-
tomed haunt by the waterside, under the
hawthorn bank, and there he walked and
picked daisies, and threw stones into the
lake — and he loitered on, still thinking
of Dora and death, and of the circles in
the water, and again of the victim and of
the sacrifice, when suddenly he was
roused from his reverie by a shrill whistle,
that seemed to come from the wood above,
and an instant afterwards he heard some
one shouting —
" Harry Ormond ! — Harry Ormond 1"
" Here!" answered Harry — and as the
shouts were repeated he recognised the
voice of O'Tara, who now came, whip in
hand, followed by his dogs, running down
the bank to him.
" Oh ! Harry Ormond, I've brought
great news with me for all at Corny Cas-
tle — but the ladies are not out of their
nests, and king Corny's Lord knows how
far off. Not a soul or body to be had but
yourself here, by good luck, and you
N 2
268 ORMOND.
shall have the first of the news, and the
telling of it."
" Thank yon," said Ormond, " and
what is the news ?"
" First and foremost," said O'Tara,
" yon know birds of a feather flocji to-
gether. White Connal, though except
for the cock fighting I never relished
him, was mighty fond of me, and invited
me down to Connal's Town, where I've
been with him this week — yon know that
much, I conclude."
Harry owned he did not.
O'Tara wondered how he could help
knowing it — <c But so it was ; we had a
great cock fight, and White Connal,
who knew none of my secret, secrets
in the feeding line, was bet out and out,
and angry enough he w as ; and then I
offered to change birds with him, and
beat him with his own Ginger by my su-
periority of feeding, which he scoffed at,
but took up the bet."
Ormond sighed with impatience in
vain — he was forced to submit, and to go
ORMOND. 269
through the whole detail of the cock fight.
" The end of it was, that White Cormal
was tvorsted by his own bird, and then
mad angry was he. So, then," continued
O'Tara, " to get the triumph again on
his side, one way or another, was the
thing. — I had the advantage of him in
clogs too, for he kept no hounds; you
know he is close, and hounds lead to a
gentlemanlike expense ; — but very fine
horses he had, I'll acknowledge, and,
Harry Ormond, you can't but remember
that one which lie could not manage the
day he was out riding here with Miss
Dora, and you changed with him."
" 1 remember it well," said Ormond.
" Aye, and he has got reason to re-
member it now, sure enough."
" Has he had a fall ?" said Ormond,
stopping.
" Walk on » can't ye — keep up, and I'll
tell you all regular."
" There is king Corny," exclaimed
Ormond, who just then saw him come in
view.
270 ORMOND.
" Come on, then," cried O'Tara, leap-
ing over a ditch that was between them,
and running" up to king Corny, " Great
news for you, king Corny, I've brought —
your son-in-law elect, White Connal, is
off."
« Off— how?"
" Out of the world, clean ! Poor fellow,
broke his neck with that horse he could
never manage — on Sunday last. I left
him for dead Sunday night — found him
dead Monday morning — came off straight
with the news to you."
" Dead !" repeated Corny and Harry,
looking at one another.
" Heaven forbid !" said Corny, " that
I should — "
il Heaven forbid !" repeated Harry ;
« but—"
" But good morning to you both, then,"
said O'Tara, " shake hands either way,
and I'll condole or congratulate to-morrow
as the case may be, with more particulars
if required."
ORMOND. 271
CVTara ran off, saying he would be
back again soon ; but he had great busi-
ness to do. " 1 told the father last night."
" I am no hypocrite," said Corny.
" Rest to the dead and all their faults —
White Connal is out of my poor Dora's
way! and I am free from my accursed
promise!" Then clasping his hands,
" Praised be Heaven for that! — Heaven
is too good to me! — Oh, my child ! how
unworthy White Connal of her ! — Thank
Heaven on my knees, with my whole
heart, thank Heaven that 1 am not forced
to the sacrifice ! — My child, my darling
Dora, she is free! — Harry Ormond, my
dear hoy, I'm free," cried O'Shane, em-
bracing Harry with all the warmth of
paternal affection.
Ormond returned that embrace with
equal warmth, and with a strong sense
of gratitude; but was his joy equal to
O'Shane's? What were his feelings at
this moment? They were in such con-
fusion, such contradiction, he could
272 ORMOND.
scarcely tell. Before he heard of White
Connai's death, at the time when he was
throwing pebbles into the lake, he de-
sired nothing- so much as to be able to
save Dora from being sacrificed to that
odious marriage ; he thought, that if he
were not bound in honour to his bene-
factor, he should instantly make that offer
of his hand and heart to Dora, which
would at once restore her to health and
happiness, and fulfil the wishes of her
kind generous father. But now, when
all obstacles seemed to vanish — when his
rival was no more — when his benefactor
declared his joy at being freed from his
promise — when he was embraced as
O' Shane's son, he did not feel joy — he
was surprised to find it ; but he could
not — Now that he could marry Dora —
now that her father expected that he
should, he was not clear that he wished
it himself. Quick as obstacles vanished,
objections recurred ; faults which he had
formerly seen so strongly, which of late
ORMOND. 273
compassion had veiled from his view,
re-appeared — the softness of manner, the
improvement of temper, caused by love,
might be transient as passion. Then her
coquetry — her frivolity. She was not
that superior kind of woman, which his
imagination had painted, or which his
judgment could approve in a wife. How
was he to explain this confusion of feel-
ing to Corny ? Leaning on his arm,
he walked on towards the house. He
saw Corny, smiling at his own medita-
tions, was settling the match, and an-
ticipating the joy to all beloved. Harry
sighed, and was painfully silent.
" Shoot across like an arrow to the
house," cried Corny, turning suddenly to
him, and giving him a kind push —
11 shoot off, Harry, and bring Dora to
meet me like lightning, and the poor aunt
too, 'twould be cruel else ; but ! — what
stops you, son of my heart?"
" Stay!" cried Corny, a sudden
thought striking him, which accoumed
N 3
274 ORMOND.
for Harry Ormond's hesitation — " Stop,
Harry ! You are right, and I am a fool.
There is Black Connal, the twin bro-
ther — Oh, mercy ! — against us still. What
shall we do with Black Connal, eldest
son, now — Promise fettering still! — Bad
off I as ever, may be," said Cornelius. His
whole countenance and voice changed ;
he sat down on a fallen tree, and rested
his hands on his knees. " What shall
we do now, Harry, with Black Connal ?"
" He may be a very diiferent man
from White Connal — in every respect,"
said Ormond.
O'Shane looked up for a moment, and
then interpreting his own way, exclaim-
ed, " That's right, Harry, that thought
is like yourself, and the very thought I
had myself. We must make no declara-
tions, till we have cleared the point of
honour. Not the most beautiful angel
that ever took more beautiful woman's
form — and that's the greatest temptation
man can meet — could tempt my Harry
ORMOND. 275
Ormond from the straight path of ho-
nour."
Harry Ormond stood, at this moment,
abashed by praise which he did not quite
deserve.
" Indeed, Sir," said he, " you give
me too much credit."
" I cannot give you too much credit;
you are an honourable young man, and I
understand you through and through."
That was more than Harry did for
himself. Corny went on talking to him-
self aloud, " Black Connal is abroad
these great many years, ever since he
was a boy — never saw him since a child
that high — An officer he is in the Irish
brigade now — Black eyes and hair, that
was why they called him Black Connal
• — Captain Connal now — and I heard
the father say he was come to England,
and there was some report of his going
to be married, if I don't mistake," cried
Corn}, turning again to Harry, pleasure
rekindling in his eye — (i If that should
be 1 there's hope for us still ; but I see
276 ORMONO.
you are right not to yield to the hope
till we are clear. My first step, in ho-
nour, no doubt must be across the lake
this minute to the father — Connal of
Glynn ; but the boat is on the other side.
The horn is with my fishing- tackle,
Harry, down yonder — run, for you can
run — horn the boat! or if the horn be
not there, sign to the boat with your
handkerchief — bring it up here, and I
will put across before ten minutes shall
be over — my horse I will have down to
the water edge by the time you have got
the boat up — when an honourable tough
job is to be done, the sooner the better."
The horse was brought to the water
edge, the boat came across, Corny and
his horse were in ; and Corny, with his
own hands on the oar, pushed away from
land ; then calling to Harry, he bid him
wait on the shore by such an hour, and
he should have the first news.
" Rest on your oars, you, while I
speak to prince Harry."
" That you may know all, Harry, sooner
ORMOND. 2? 7
than I can tell yon, if all be safe, or as
we wish it, see, I'll hoist ray neckcloth,
white, to the top of this oar — If not, the
Hack flag- — or none at all, shall tell you*
Say nothing till then — God biess yon,
boy."
Hairy was glad that he had these
orders, for lie knew that as soon as Made-
moiselle shonld be up, and hear of O'Tara's
early visit, with the message he said he
had left at the house, that he brought
great news, Mademoiselle would soon
sally forth to learn what that news might
be. In this conjecture, Ormond was not
mistaken. — He soon heard her voice—.
" Mon-Dieu!-ing" at the top of the
bank — he ducked — he dived — he darted
through nettles and brambles, and escap-
ed. — Seen or unseen he escaped, nor
stopped his flight even when out of rear h
of the danger.— As to trusting himself to
meet Dora's eyes, " 'twas what he dared
not."
He hid, and wandered up and down.
3
278 ORMOND.
till near dinner time. — At last, O' Shane's
boat was seen returning — but no white
flag ! — The boat rowed nearer and near-
er, and reached the spot where Harry
stood motionless.
" Aye, my poor boy, I knew I'd find
you so," said O'Shane, as he got ashore.
(i There's my hand, yon have my heart —
I wish I had another hand to give you —
but it's all over with us, I fear. Oh! my
poor Dora ! — and here she is coming
down the bank, and the aunt ! — Oh,
Dora ! you have reason to hate me."
" To hate you, Sir ! — impossible !" said
Ormond, squeezing his hand strongly, as
lie felt.
" Impossible ! — true — for her to hate,
who is all love and loveliness ! — impossi-
ble too for you, Harry Ormond, who is
all gfoodness !"
"Bon Dien," cried Mademoiselle, who
was now within exclamation distance.—
" What a course we have had after you,
gentlemen. — Ladies looking for gentle"
ORMOND. 279
men! — C'est inoui! — What is it all? for
1 am dying- with curiosity."
Without answering- Mademoiselle, the
father, and Harry's eyes, at the same
moment, were fixed on one who was
some steps behind, and who looked as if
dying' with a softer passion. Harry
made a step forward to offer his arm, but
stopped short ; the father offered his, in
silence.
" Can nobody speak to me? — Bien
poli!" said Mademoiselle.
" If you please, Miss O'Faley, ma'am,"
cried a hatless footman, who had run
after the ladies the wrong' way from the
house : "if you please, ma'am, will she
send up dinner now ?"
" Oui, qu'on serve ! — Yes, she will. — .
Let her dish — by that time she is dished,
we shall be in — and have satisfied our
curiosity, i hope?" added s!;e, turning- to
her brother-in-law.
" Let us dine first," said Cornelius,
• i and when the cloth is removed, and
280 ORMOND.
the waiting-ears out of hearing-, time
enough to have our talk to ourselves"
" Bien singulier, ces Anglois!" mutter-
ed Mademoiselle to herself, as they pro-
ceeded to the house. — " Here is a young
man, and the most polite of the silent
company, who may well be in some
haste for his dinner ; for to my knowledge,
he is without his breakfast."
Harry had no appetite for dinner, but
swallowed as much as Mademoiselle
O'Faley desired. A remarkably silent
meal it would have been, but for her hap-
py volubility, equal to all occasions. At
last came the long expected words, " Take
away." — When all was taken away, and
all were gone, but those who, as 0' Shane
said, would too soon wish unheard, what
they were dying to hear — he drew his
daughter's chair close to him — placed
her so as " to save her blushes j" — and
began his story, by relating all that
O'Tara had told.
"■ It was a sudden death — shocking F
ORMOND. 281
Mademoiselle repeated several times ; — -
but both she and Dora recovered from
the shock, or from the word " shocking- !"
and felt the delight of Dora's being no
longer a sacrifice.
After a general thanksgiving having
been offered for her escape from the
butor, Mademoiselle, in transports, was
going on to say, that now her niece was
free to make a suitable match ; and she
was just turning to wonder, that Harry
Ormond was not that moment at her
niece's feet ; — and Dora's eyes raised
slowly towards him, and suddenly re-
tracted, abashed and perplexed Harry
indescribably, when he was relieved by
his dear friend's continuing thus —
" Dora is not fvte, nor am I free in
honour yet, nor can I give any body
freedom of tongue or heart, until I know
fai ther."
Various exclamations of surprise and
sorrow interrupted him.
iC Vni I never, never to be free!" cried
Dora, — «« Oh ! am not I now at liberty ?"
282 ORMOND.
" Hear me, my child," said her father,
" I feel it as you do."
" And what is it next — Qu'est ce que
c'est — this new obstacle. — What can it
be?" said Mademoiselle.
The father stated, sorrowfully, the dif-
ficulty respecting the present eldest son,
Black Connal. — Old Connal, of Glynn,
would by no means relinquish O' Shane's
promise. — He said he would write imme-
diately to his son, who was now in Eng-
land.
" And now tell me what kind of a
person is this new pretender, this Mr.
Black Connal," cried Mademoiselle.
" Of him we know nothing as yet,"
said O'Shane, ik but I hope, in heaven,
that the man that is coming, is as dif-
ferent from the man that's gone, as black
from white."
Harry heard Dora breathe quick and
quicker, but she said nothing.
" Then we shall get his answer to the
father's letter in eight days, I count,"
said Mademoiselle ; et and I have great
ORMOND. 283
hopes we shall never be troubled with
him ; we shall know if he will come or
not, in eight days."
" About that time!" said 0' Shane, « but
sister O'Faley, do not nurse my child
or yourself up with deceitful hopes. —
There's not a man alive — not a Connal,
surely, hearing what happiness he is
heir to, but would come flying- over
post haste. — So you may expect him-
self his answer, in eight days — Dora,
my darling, and God grant he may
be—"
" No matter what he is, Sir, I'll die
before I will see him, ,: cried Dora, rising
and bursting into tears.
" Oh ! my child, you won't die ! — you
can't — from me, your father ?" — Her fa-
ther threw his arm round her, and would
have drawn her to him, but she turned
her face from him ; Harry was on the
other side, her eyes met his, and her
face became covered with blushes — in
his life he never was so moved.
284 ORMONJ>.
" Open the window, Harry," said
O' Shane, who saw the conflict; " open
the window ! — we all want it."
Harry opened the window, and hung"
out of it gasping- for breath.
" She's gone — the aunt has taken her
off — it's over for this fit," said O'Shane*
" Oh ! my child, I must go through with
it — and, Oh! my boy, I honour as I love
you — I have a great deal to say about
your own affairs, Harry."
<c My affairs, oh! what affairs have
I ? Never think of me — dear Sir — "
" I will — but can't now — I am spent
for this day — leave out the bottle of claret
for father Jos, and I'll get to bed — I'll see
nobody, tell father Jos — I'm gone to my
room.''
The next morning O'Tara came to
breakfast. Every person had a different
question to ask him, except Dora, who
was silent. Corny asked what kind of
man Black Connal was? Mademoiselle
inquired whether he was French or Eng-
ORMOND. 265
lish. Ormond, whether he was going- to
be married ?
To all these questions O'Tara jDlead-
ed ignorance, except with respect to the
sports of the field, he had very little cu-
riosity or intelligence.
A ray of hope again darted across the
mind of Corny. From his knowledge of
the world he thought it very probable,
that a young officer in the French brigade
would be well contented to be heir to his
brother's fortune, without encumbring
himself with an Irish wife, taken from
an obscure part of the country. Corny,
therefore, eagerly inquired from O'Tara
what became of White Connal's property.
O'Tara answered, that the common cry
of the country was, that all White Con-
nal's profitable farms were leasehold pro-
perty, and upon his own life. — Poor Cor-
ny 's hopes were thus frustrated ; he had
nothing left to do for some days but to
pity Harry Ormond ; to bear with the
curiosity and impatience of Mademoiselle,
286 ORMOND.
and with the froward sullenness of Dora
till some intelligence should arrive re-
specting the new claimant to Dora's des-
tined hand.
ORMOND. 287
CHAP. XIV.
A FEW days afterwards, Sheelah bursts
nig into Dora's room, exclaimed, " Miss
Dora ! Miss Dora ! for the love of God,
they are coming- ! They're coming down
the avenue, powdering along ! Black
Connal himself flaming away with one
in a gold hat, this big, galloping after,
and all gold over he is, entirely ! — Oh !
what will become of us, Master Harry,
now. Oh ! it took the sight out of my
eyes ! — And yours as red as ferrets, dear !
— Oh ! the cratur. — But come to the
window and look out — nobody will mind
— stretch out the body, and I'll hold ye
fast, never fear ! — at the turn of the big-
wood, do you see them behind the trees,
288 ORMOND.
the fir dales, glittering and flaming?—
Do you see them at all ?"
" Too plainly," said Dora, sighing,-—
" but I did not expect he would come in
such a grand style — I wonder!" —
" Oh! so do I, greatly ; mostly at the car-
riage. Never saw the like with the Con-
nals, so grand — but the queer thing — "
" Ah ! my dear Dore! — un cabriolet !"
cried Mademoiselle, entering in ecstacy
— " Here is Monsieur de Connal for you in
a French cabriolet, and a French servant
riding on to advertise you and all. Oh !
what are you twisting your neck child —
I will have no toss at him, now — he is all
the gentleman, you shall see — so let me
sifyou all to rights while your father is
receive — I would not have him see you
such a horrible figure — not presentable —
you look — "
" I do not care how 1 look ; the worse
the better," said Dora, tc I wish to look
a horrible figure to him — to Black Con-
nal."
ORMOND. 289
* c Oh ! put your Black Connals out of
your head ; that is always in your mouth
— I tell you he is call M. cle Connal.
Now did I not hear him this minute an-
nounced hy his own valet. — Monsieur de
Connal present his complimens — he beg
permission to present himself — and there
was I, luckily, to answer for your father
in French."
" French ! sure Black Connai's Irish
born/' said Sheelah — " that much I know*
any way."
A servant knocked at the door with
king - Corny 's request the ladies would
come down stairs, to see, as the footman
added to his master's message, to see old
Mr. Connal and the French gentleman.
" There, French, 1 told you," said
Mademoiselle, " and quite the gentle-
man, depend upon it, my dear — come
your ways."
" No matter what he is," said Dora
i( I shall not go down to see him ; so you
had better go by yourself, aunt."
VOL. II. O
290 ORMOND.
iS Not que step ! Oh ! that would be
the height of impolitesse and disobedience
— you could not do that, my dear Dore ;
consider, he is not a man that nobody
know, like your old butor of a White Con-
nal. Not signify how bad you treat him,
like the dog. But here is a man of a cer-
tain quality — who knows the best people
in Paris — who can talk — and tell every
where. Consider, when he is a friend of
my friend La Comtesse d'Auvergne. Oh ?
in conscience, my dear Dore, I shall not
suffer these airs — -with a man who is
somebody, and — "
" If he was the king of France," cried
Dora, s< if he was Alexander the Great
himself, I would not be forced to see the
man, and marry him against my will."
" Marry who ? Talk of marry ! — Not
come to that yet ; ten to one he has no
thought of you, more than politeness re-
quire."
" Oh! as to that," said Dora, " aunt,
you certainly are mistaken there. What
ORMOND. 291
do you think he comes over to Ire-
land, what do you think he comes here
for?"
« Hark! then," said Sheelah, "don't
I hear them out of the window. Faith !
there they are, walking and talking and
laughing, as if there was nothing at all iu
it."
'• Just heavens ! What a handsome
uniform !" said Mademoiselle, ** and a
very proper looking man behind," said
she. " Lah ! well, who'd have thought
Black Connal, if it's him, would ever
have turned out so fine a presence of a
man to look at."
" Very cavalier, indeed, to go out to
walk, without waiting to see us," said
Dora.
" Oh ! I will engage it was that dear
father of yours hoisted him out."
" Hoisted him out ! Well, aunt, you
do sometimes speak the oddest English
— But I do think it odd he should be so
very much at his ease. — Look at him —
o 2
292 ORMOND.
— bear him— I wonder what he is saying
— and Harry Ormond! — Give me my
bonnet, Sheelah — behind you, quick. —
Aunt, let us go out of the garden door,
and meet them out walking- by accident
— that is the best way — I long- to see how
somebody will look."
" Very good — and now yon look all
life and spirit, and look that manner!
perfectly charming" ; and I'll engage he
will fall in love with you."
" He had better not, I can tell him,
unless he has a particular pleasure in
being refused," said Dora, with a toss of
her head and neck, and at the same time
a glance at her looking glass as she
passed quickly out of the room.
Dora and her aunt walked out, and
accidentally met the gentlemen in their
walk. As M. de Connai approached,
be gave them full leisure to form their
opinions as to his personal appearance.
He had the air of a foreign officer — easy,
fashionable, and upon uncommonly good
ORMOND. 29'>
terms with himself — conscious, but with
no vulgar consciousness, of possessing* a
fine figure and a good face, — his was
the air of a French coxcomb, who in
unconstrained delight was rather proud
to display, than anxious to conceal, his
perfect self-satisfaction. Interrupting
his conversation only when he came
within a few paces of the ladies, he ad-
vanced with an air of happy confidence
and Parisian gallantry, begging Mr.
O'Shane to do him the honour and plea-
sure to present him. After a bow, that
said nothing, to Dora, he addressed his
conversation entirely to her aunt, walk-
ing beside Mademoiselle, and neither
approaching nor attempting to speak to
Dora • he did not advert to her in the
least, and seemed scarcely to know she
was present. This quite disconcerted
the young lady's whole plan of proceed-
ings — no opportunity was afforded her
of shewing disdain. She withdrew her
arm from her aunt's, though Mademoi-
'294 ORM0NJ>.
selle held it as fast as she could, but
Dora withdrew it resolutely, and falling
back a step or two took Harry Ormond's
arm, and walked with him, talking with
as much unconcern, and as loudly as she
could, to mark her indifference. But
whether she talked or was silent, walked
on with Harry Orniond, or stayed be-
hind, whispered, or laughed aloud, it
seemed to make no impression, no
alteration whatever in Monsieur de Con-
nal j he went on conversing with Made-
moiselle, and with her father, alternately
in French and English. In English
he spoke with a native Irish accent,
which seemed to have been preserved
from childhood j but though the brogue
was strong, yet there were no vulgar ex-
pressions j he spoke good English, but
generally with somewhat of French
idiom. Whether this was from habit or
affectation it was not easy to decide. It
seemed as if the person who was speak-
ing thought in French, and translated it
ORMOND. 295
into English as he went on. The pecu-
liarity of manner and accent, for there
was French mixed with the Irish, fixed
attention ; and besides, Dora was really
curious to hear what he was saying", for
he was very entertaining — Mademoiselle
was in raptures while he talked of Paris
and Versailles, and various people of
consequence and fashion at the court.
The Dauphiness ! — she was then but just
married — M. de Connal had seen all the
fetes and the fireworks — but the beauti-
ful Dauphiness ! — In answering 1 a ques-
tion of Mademoiselle's ahout the colour
of her hair, he for the first time shewed
that he had taken notice of Dora —
" Nearly the colour, 1 think, of that
young lady's hair, as well as one can
judge j but powder prevents the possi-
bility of judging accurately."
Dora was vexed to see, that she was
considered merely as a young lady — she
exerted herself to take a part in the con-
versation, hut Mr. Connal never joined
296 ORMOND.
in conversation with her, — with the most
scrupulous deference he stopped short in
the middle of his sentence, if she began
to speak. He stood aside, shrinking into
himself with the utmost care, if she was
to pass; he held the boughs of the
shrubs out of her way, but continued his
conversation with Mademoiselle all the
while. When they came in from their
walk, the same sort of thing went on
— " It really is very extraordinary,"
thought she, " he seems as if he was
spell-bound — obliged by his notions of
politeness to let me pass incognita."
Mademoiselle was so fully engaged
chattering away, that she did not per-
ceive Dora's mortification. The less
notice Connal took of her, the more
Dora wished to attract his attention- —
not that she desired to please him — no —
she only longed to have the pleasure of
refusing him. For this purpose the oiFer
must be made — and it was not at all
clear, that any offer would be made.
ORMOND. 297
When the ladies went to dress before
dinner, Mademoiselle, while she was
presiding- at Dora's toilette, expressed
how much she was delighted with M. de
Connal, and asked what her niece
thought of him ? Dora replied, that
indeed she did not trouble herself to
think of him at all — that she thought
him a monstrous coxcomb — that she
wondered what could bring so prodi-
giously fine a gentleman to the Black
Islands.
" Ask your own sense what brought
him here! or ask your own looking-glass
what shall keep him here !" said Made-
moiselle O'Faley — " I can tell you he
thinks you very handsome already ; and
when he sees you dress !" —
" Really ! he does me honour ; he did
not seem as if he had even seen me,
more than any of the trees in the wood,
or the chairs in the room."
" Chairs ! — Oh, now you are fish for
complimens, — but I shall not tell you how
o3
298 ORMOND.
like he thinks you, if you were mise a la
Franchise, to la belle Comtesse de
Barnac."
" But, is not it very extraordinary, he
absolutely never spoke to me ?" said
Dora ; " a very strange manner of pay-
ing- his court!"
Mademoiselle assured Dora, tc that this
was owing to M. de Connal's French
habits — the young ladies in Paris passing
for nothing — scarcely ever appearing in
society till they are married, — the gen-
tlemen have no intercourse with them,
and it would be considered as a breach
of respect due to a young lady or her
mother to address much conversation to
her. And you know, my dear Dore, their
marriages are all make up by the father,
the mother, the friends — the young peo-
ple themselves never speak, never know
nothing at all about each one another,
till the contract is sign — In fact, the
young lady is the little round what you
call cipher, but has no value in societe
ORMOND. 290
at all, till the figure of tie husband come
to o-ive it the value."
" I have no notion of being a cipher,"
said Dora, " I am not a French young-
lady, Monsieur de Connal."
" Ah, but my dear Dore, consider
what is de French wife ? Ah, then come
her great glory; then she reign over all
hearts, and is in full liberte to dress, to
go, to come, to do what she like, with
her own carriage, her own box at de
play, de opera, and — You listen well,
and I shall draw all that out for you,
from M. de Connal."
Dora languidly, sullenly begg-ed her
aunt would not give herself the trouble,
she had no curiosity. But nevertheless
she asked several questions about la
Comtesse de Barnac, and all the time
saying she did not in the least care what
he thought or snid of her, she drew from
her aunt every syllable M. de Oonnal
had uttered, and was secretly mortified
and surprized to find he had said so
300 ORMQND.
little. She could not dress herself to
her mind to-day, and protesting s v he did
not care how she looked, she resigned
herself into her aunt's hands. — Whatever
he might think, she should take care to
shew him at dinner, that young ladies in
this country were not ciphers.
At dinner, however, as before, all
Dora's preconcerted airs of disdain, and
determination to shew that she was
somebody, gave way, she did not know
how, before M. de Connal's easy assu-
rance, polite and gallant indifference.
His knowledge of the world, and talents
for conversation, with the" variety of sub-
jects he had flowing in from all parts of
the world, gave him advantages, with
which there was no possibility of con-
tending.
He talked, and carved — all life, and
gaiety, and fashion ; he spoke of battles,
of princes, plays, operas, wine, women,
cardinals, religion, politics, poetry, and
turkies stuffed with truffles — and Paris
ORMOND. 301
for ever! — Dash on ! at every thing! —
hit or miss-— sure of the applause of
Mademoiselle — and, as he thought, se-
cure of the admiration of the whole
company of natives, from le beau-pere,
at the foot of the table, to the boy who
waited, or who did not wait, opposite to
him, but who stood entranced with won-
der at all that M. de Connal said, and
all that he did — even to the fashion in
which he stowed trusses of sallad into
his mouth with his fork, and talked —
through it all.
And Dora, what did she think ? — she
thought she was very much mortified,
that there was room for her to say so
little. The question now was not what
she thought of M. de Connal, but what
he thought of her. After beginning
with many various little mock defences,
avertings of the head, and twists of the
neck, of the shoulders and hips, com-
pound motions resolvable into mauvaise-
honte and pride, as dinner proceeded,
302 ORMOND.
and Monsieur de Connal's success was
undoubted, she silently gave up her reso-
lution " not to admire."
Before the first course was over, Con-
nal perceived, that he had her eye —
" Before the second is over," thought
he, " I shall have her ear — and by the
time we come to the desert, I shall be in
a fair way for the heart."
Though he seemed to have talked
without any design, except to amuse
himself and the company in general, yet
in all he had said there had been a
prospective view to his object. He
chose his means well, and in Mademoi-
selle he found at once a happy dupe and
a confederate. Without previous con-
cert, they raised visions of Parisian
glory, which were to prepare the young
lady's imagination for a French lover or
a French husband — M. de Connal was
well aware, that no matter who touched
her heart, if he could pique her vanity.
After dinner, when the ladies retired,
ORMOND. 303
old Mr. Connal began to enter upon the
question of the intended union between
the families — Ormond left the room — and
Corny suppressed a deep sigh. M. de
Connal took an early opportunity of de-
claring, that there was no truth in the
report of his going to be married in
England — he confessed, that such a
thing had been in question — he must
speak with delicacy — but the family and
connexions did not suit him — he had a
strong prejudice, he owned, in favour of
antient family — Irish family — he had
always wished to marry an Irish woman
— for that reason he had avoided oppor-
tunities that might have occurred of
connecting himself, perhaps advantage-
ously, in France — he was really ambi-
tious of the honour of an alliance with
the O'Shanes — Nothing could be more
fortunate for him than the friendship,
which had subsisted between his father
and Mr. O'Shane — And the promise ? —
Relinquish it ! — Oh, that, he assured Mr.
304 ORMOND.
O' Shane was quite impossible, provided
the young" lady herself should not make
a decided objection — he should abide by
her decision — he could not possibly think
of pressing his suit, if there should ap-
pear any repugnance, — in that case he
should be infinitely mortified — he should
be absolutely in despair — but he should
know how to submit — cost him what it
would — he should think, as a man of
honour, it was his part to sacrifice his
wishes to what the young lady might
conceive to be for her happiness.
He added a profusion of compliments
on the young lady's charms, with a
declaration of the effect they had already
produced on his heart.
This was all said with a sort of non-
chalance, which Corny did not at all
like. But Mademoiselle, who was sum-
moned to Corny's private council, gave
it as her opinion, that M. de Connal
was already quite in love — quite as much
as a French husband ever was. She was
ORMOND. 303
glad that her brother-in-law was bound
by his promise to a gentleman, who
would really be a proper husband for her
niece. Mademoiselle, in short, saw every
thing couleur de rose — and she urged,
that, since M. de Connal had come to
Ireland for the express purpose of for-
warding his present suit, he ought to be
invited to stay at Corny Castle, that he
might endeavour to make himself ac-
ceptable to Dora.
To this Corny acceded. He left Ma-
demoiselle to make the invitation, for,
he said, she understood French polite-
ness, and all that, better than he did.
The invitation was made and accepted,
with all due expressions of infinite de-
light.
" Well, my dear Harry Ormond,"
said Corny, the first moment he had an
opportunity of speaking to Harry in
private, *' what do you think of this
man?"
•< What Miss O'Shane thinks of him
306 ORMOND.
is the question," said Harry, with some
embarrassment.
" That's true 5 it was too hard to ask
you — But I'll tell you what I think —
between ourselves, Black Connal is
better than White, inasmuch as a puppy
is better than a brute — We shall see
what Dora will say or think soon — the
aunt is over head and ears already —
women are mighty apt to be taken one
way or other with a bit of a coxcomb.
Vanity, vanity ! But still I know — I
suspect, Dora has a heart — from me, I
hope, she has a right to a heart. But I
will say no more till I see which way
the heart turns and settles, after all the
little tremblings and variations. When
it points steady, I shall know how to
steer my course — I have a scheme in my
head, but I won't mention it to you,
Harry, because it might end in disap-
pointment — so go oh 1 " to bed and to
sleep, if you can ; you have had a hard
day to go through, my poor honourable
Harry."
ORMOND. -i07
And poor honourable Harry had many
hard days to go through. He had now
to see how Dora's mind was gradually
worked upon, not by a new passion, for
Mr. Connal never inspired, or endea-
voured to inspire passion ; but by her
own and her aunt's vanity. Mademoi-
selle with constant importunity assailed
her : and though Dora saw, that her
aunt's only wish was to settle in Paris,
and to live in a fine hotel ; and though
Dora was persuaded, that for this her
aunt would without scruple sacrifice her
happiness, and that of Harry Ormond ;
yet she was so dazzled by the splendid
representation of a Parisian life, as not
to see very distinctly what object she had
herself in view. — Connai's flattery too,
though it had scarcely any pretence to
the tone of truth or passion, yet con-
trasting with his previous indifference
gratified her. She was sensible that he
was not attached to her as Harry Or-
mond was, but she flattered herself that
308 ORMGND.
she should quite turn his head in time.
She tried all her power of charming for
this purpose, at first chiefly with the in-
tention of exciting- Harry's jealousy,
and forcing him to break his honourable
resolution. — Harry continued her first
object for some little time, but soon
the idea of piquing him was merely
an excuse for coquetry. She imagin-
ed that she could recede or advance
with her new admirer just as she
thought proper. But she was mistaken
— she had now to deal with a man prac-
tised in the game, he might let her ap-
pear to win, but not for nothing would
he let her win a single move; yet he
seemed to play so carelessly, as not in
the least to alarm, or put her on her
guard. — The standers by began to guess
how the game would terminate — it was
a game in which the whole happiness of
Dora's life was at stake, to say no-
thing of his own, and Ormond could
not look on without anxiety — and, not-
ORMOND. 309
withstanding' his outwardly calm ap-
pearance, with strong- conflicting emo-
tions.
" If," said he to himself, " I were
convinced that this man would make
her happy, I think I could be happy my-
self." — But the more he saw of Connal,
the less he thought him likely to make
Dora happy, unless, indeed, her vanity
could quite extinguish her sensibility.
Then Monsieur de Connal would be just
the husband to suit her.
Connal was exactly what he appeared
to be — a gay young officer, who had made
his own way up in the world — a petit mai-
tre — who had really lived in good com-
pany at Paris, had made himself agreeable
to women of rank and fonune — might,
perhaps, as he said, with his figure, and
fashion, and connexions, have made his
fortune in Paris by marriage, had he
had time to look about him ; but a sudden
run of ill- fortune at play had obliged
him to quit Paris for a season. — It was
310 ORMONI>.
necessary to make his fortune by mar-
riage in England or Ireland, and as ex-
peditiously as possible — In this situation,
Dora, with her own and her aunt's pro-
perty, was, as he considered it, an offer
not to be rashly slighted, nor yet was
he very eager about the matter — if he
failed here, he should succeed elsewhere.
This real indifference gave him advan-
tages with Dora, which a man of feel-
ing would perhaps never have obtained,
or never have kept. Her father, though
he believed in the mutable nature of
woman, yet could scarcely think, that
his daughter Dora was of this nature.
- — He could scarcely conceive, that her
passion for Harry Ormond, that passion
which had but a short time before cer-
tainly affected her spirits, and put him
in fear for her health, could have been
conquered by a coxcomb, who cared
very little whether he conquered or not.
How was this possible ? good Corny
invented many solutions of the problem
ORMOND. 311
— he fancied one hour that his daughter
was sacrificing herself from duty to him
— or complaisance to her aunt — the next
hour he settled, and with more proba-
bility, that she was piqued by Harry
Ormond's not showing more passion. —
King Corny was resolved to know dis-
tinctly how the matter really was. He
therefore summoned his daughter and
the aunt into his presence, and the per-
son he sent to summon them was Harry
Ormond.
" Come back with them yourself,
Harry, I shall want you also."
Harry returned with both the la-
dies. By the countenance of Cornelius
O' Shane they all three augured, that he
had something of importance to say,
and they stood in anxious expectation.
— He went to the point immediately.
" Dora, I know it is the custom on
some occasions for ladies never to tell the
truth — therefore I shall not ask any
question, that I think will put your truth
312 ORMOND.
to the test. I shall tell you my mind
and leave you to judge for yourself.
Take as long or as short a time to know
your own mind as you please — only know
it clearly, and send me your answer by
your aunt. — All I beg is, that when the
answer shall be delivered to me, this
young man may be by. — Don't interrupt
me, Dora — I have a high opinion of
him," — said he, keeping his eye upon
Dora's face. n I have a great esteem,
affection, love for him," — he pronounced
the words deliberately, that he might see
the effect on Dora, but her countenance
was as undecided as her mind ; no judg-
ment could be formed from its changes.
61 I wish Harry Ormond," continued
he, ts to know all my conduct — he knows
I made a foolish promise long ag-o, that
I would give my daughter to a man 1
knew nothing about."
Mademoiselle was going to interrupt,
but Cornelius 0' Shane silenced her.
" Mademoiselle — sister O'Faley, I
ORMOND. SIS
will do the best I can to repair that folly
— and to leave you at liberty, Dora, to
follow the choice of your heart."
He paused, and again studied her
countenance — which was agitated.
" Her choice is your choice — her fa-
ther's choice, is always the choice of
the good daughter," said Mademoiselle.
" I believe she is a good daughter,
and that is the particular reason I am
determined to be as good a father as I
can to her."
Dora wept in silence — and Mademoi-
selle, a good deal alarmed, wanted to
remove Harry Ormond out of the young
lady's sight — she requested him to go to
her apartment for her smelling bottle for
her niece.
" No, no," said king Corny, " go
yourself, sister O'Faley, if you like it,
but I'll not let Harry Ormond stir — he is
my witness present. — Dora is not faint-
ing — if you would only let her alone, she
would do well. — Dora listen to me— if
VOL. 11. p
314 ORMOND.
you don't really prefer this Black Coti-
nal for a husband to all other men, as
you are to swear at the altar you do, if
you marry him — "
Dora was strongly affected by the so-
lemn manner of her father's appeal to her.
" If," continued her father, " you are
not quite clear, my dear child, that you
prefer him to all men, do not marry him.
I have a notion I can bring- you off with-
out breaking my word — listen — I would
willingly give half my fortune to secure
your happiness, my darling. — If I do not
mistake him, Mr. Connal would, for a
less sum, give me back my promise, and
give you up altogether, my dear Dora."
Dora's tears stopped. —Mademoiselle's
exclamations poured forth, and they both
declared they were certain, that Mr. Con-
nal would not for any thing upon earth,
that could be offered to him, give up the
match. —
Corny said he was willing to make
the trial, if they pleased. — Mademoi-
ORMOND. 315
selle seemed to hesitate; but Dora ea-
gerly accepted the proposal, thanked
her father for his kindness, and declared
that she should be happy to have, and
to abide by this test of Mr. Connal's
love. — If he were so base as to prefer
half her fortune to herself, she should,
she said, think herself happy in having
escaped from such a traitor.
Dora's pride was wakened, and she
now spoke in a high tone : she always,
even in the midst of all her weaknesses,
had an ambition to shew spirit.
•' I will put the test to him myself,
within this hour," said Corny, " and be-
fore you go to bed this night, when the
clock strikes twelve, all three of you be
on this spot, and I will give you his an-
swer. But stay, Harry Ormond, we
have not had your opinion — would you
advise me to make this trial."
" Certainly, Sir."
" But if I should lose half of Dora's
fortune?"
P2
1&6 ORMOND,
" You would think it well bestowed,
I am sure, Sir, in securing her from an
unhappy marriage."
" But then she might not, perhaps,
so easily find another lover with half a
fortune — that might make a difference,
hey, Harry."
u Impossible, I should think, Sir,
that it could make any difference in the
affection of any one, who really — who
was really worthy of Miss O'Shane."
The agitation into which Harry Or-
mond was thrown, flattered and touched
Dora for the moment j — her aunt hurried
her out of the room.
Cornelius O'Shane rang, and inquired
where Mr. Connal was — in his own
apartment writing letters, his servant
believed. — O'Shane sent to beg to see
Mr. Connal, as soon as he was at lei-
sure.
At twelve o'clock Dora, Mademoiselle,
and Ormond, were all in the study,
punctually as the clock was striking.
ORMOND. 317
" Well ! what is M. de Connal's an-
swer?" cried Mademoiselle, " if he
hesitate, my dear Dore, give him up dat
minute."
" Undoubtedly," said Dora, " I have
too much spirit. — What's his answer, fa-
ther ?"
" His answer, my dear child, has
proved that you know him better than I
did — he scorns the offer of half your for-
tune — for your whole fortune he would
not give you up."
" I thought so," cried Dora, trium-
phantly.
" I thought so," echoed Mademoi-
selle.
" I did him injustice," cried Ormond.
" 1 am glad that M. de Connal has
proved himself worthy of you, Dora,
since you really approve him — you have
not a friend in the world, next to your fa-
ther, wishes your happiness more than
I do."
He hurried out of the room.
318 ORMOND.
" There's a heart for you!" said
Corny.
" Not for me," said Mademoiselle,
" he has no passion in him."
" I give you joy, Dora," said her fa-
ther. " I own 1 misjudged the man — on
account of his being a bit of a coxcomb.
— But if you can put up with that, so
will I— when I have done a man injus-
tice, 1 will make it up to him every
way I can. — Now let him, he has my
consent, be as great a coxcomb as ever
wore red heels. — I'll put up with it
all, since he really loves my child. I
did not think he would have stood the
test."
Nor would he, had not he been pro-
perly prepared by Mademoiselle — «he
had before M. de Connal went to Corny
sent him a little billet, which told him the
test that would be proposed, and thus
prevented all possibility of her dear
niece's being disappointed in her lover
or her husband.
ORMOND. 319
CHAP. XV.
VAIN of shewing that he was not in
the slightest degree jealous, Connal
talked to Ormond in the most free man-
ner imaginable, touching with indiffe-
rence even on the very subject which
Ormond, from feelings of delicacy and
honour, had anxiously avoided. Connal
seemed to be perfectly aware how matters
had stood before his arrival between Dora
and our young hero. " It was all very
well,'* he said — " quite natural — in the
common course of things — impossible
even it should have been otherwise — A
young woman, who saw no one else, must
inevitably fall in love with the first agree-
able young man who made love to her — ■
320 ORMOND.
or who did not make love to her. It was
quite equal to him which. He had heard
wonders from his father-in-law elect on
that last topic, and he was willing to
oblige him, or any other gentleman or
lady, by believing miracles. As a good
Catholic, he was always ready to * be-
lieve, because it was impossible.' "
Ormond, extremely embarrassed by
the want of delicacy and feeling with
which this polished coxcomb spoke* had,
however, sufficient presence of mind to
avoid, either by word or look, making
any particular application of what was
said.
" You have really prodigous presence
of mind, and discretion, and tact, for a
young man who has, I presume, had so
little practice in these affairs," said Con-
nal ; " but don't constrain yourself
longer. I speak frankly to take off all
embarrassment on your part, you see
there exists none on mine — never for a
moment — no; how can it possibly sig-
ORMOND. 321
nify," continued he, " to any man of
common sense, who, or what, a woman
liked before she saw him. You don't
think a man, who has seen any thing of
the world, would trouble himself to in-
quire whether he was, or was not, the
first love of the woman he is going to
marry. To marry — observe the emphasis
— distinguish — distinguish, and seriously
let us calculate."
Ormond gave no interruption to his
calculations, and the petil-maitre, in a
tone of philosophic fatuity, asked " of the
numbers of your English or Irish wives
— all excellent — how many, I pray you,
do you calculate are now married to the
man they first fell in love with, as they
call it. My good Sir, not five per cent,
depend on it. The thing is morally im-
possible, unless girls are married out of a
convent, as with us in France, and very
difficult even then ; and after all, what
are the French husbands the better for
it ? 1 understand English husbands think
p3
522 ORMOND.
themselves best off. I don't pretend to
judge; hut they seem to prefer what
they call domestic happiness to the French
esprit de socitti. Still, this may be pre-
judice of education — of country. Each
nation has its taste — Every thing is for
the best in this world for people who
know how to make the best of it — You
would not think, to look at me, I was so
philosophic — but even in the midst of
my military career 1 have thought —
thought profoundly — Every body in
France thinks now," said M. de Connal,
taking a pinch of snuff with a very pen-
sive air.
" Every body in France thinks now !"
repeated Ormond.
" Every man of a certain rank, that
is to say."
" That is to say of your rank ?" said
Ormond.
« Nay, I don't give myself as an ex-
ample; but! — you may judge — I own I
am surprised to find myself philosophising
ORMOND. 323
here in the Black Islands — but one phi-
losophises every where."
" And you would have more time for
it here, I should suppose, than at Paris."
" Time, my dear Sir — no such thing !
Time is merely in idea; but Tais toi
Jean Jacques! Tais toi Condillac ! To
resume the chain of our reasoning 1 — love
and marriage — I say it all comes to much
the same thing- in France and in these
countries — alter all. There is more gal-
lantry perhaps before marriage in Eng-
land, more after marriage in France —
which has the better bargain ? 1 don't
pretend to decide. Philosophic doubt for
me, especially in cases where 'tis not
worth while to determine; but I see I
astonish you, Mr. Ormoud."
" You do indeed," said Orniond, inge-
nuously.
" I give you joy — I envy you," said
M. de Connal, sighing. " After a cer-
tain age, if one lives in the work! one can't
be astonished — that's a lost pleasure."
" To me who have lived out of the
1
324 ORMOND.
world it is a pleasure, or rather a sensa-
tion — I am not sure whether I should call
it a pleasure — that is not likely to be
goon exhausted," said Ormond.
" A seusation ! and you are not sure
whether you should call it a pleasure.
Do you know you've a genius for meta-
physics ?"
" I !" exclaimed Ormond.
" Ah ! now I have astonished you
again. Good! whether pleasurable or
not, trust me, nothing is so improving to
a young man as to be well astonished.
Astonishment I conceive to be a sort of
mental electric shock — electric fire; it
opens at once and enlightens the under-
standing : and really you have an under-
standing so well worth enlightening — I
do assure you, that your natural acute-
ness will, whenever and wherever you
appear, make you un homme marquant"
11 Oh! spare me, Mr. Connal," said
Ormond. " I am not used to French
compliment."
" No, upon my honour, without com-
ORMONB. 325
pliment, in all English bonJwmmie" (lay-
ing his hand upon his heart ) — " upon the
honour of a gentleman, your remarks
have sometimes perfectly astonished me."
" Really !" said Ormond ; " but I
thought you had lived so much in the
world, you could not be astonished. "
" I thought so, I own," said Connal ;
" but it was reserved for M. Ormond to
convince me of my mistake, to revive an
old pleasure — more difficult still than to
invent a new one! In recompense, I
hope I give you some new ideas — just
throw out opinions for you — Accept —
reject — reject now — accept an hour, a
year hence perhaps — just as it strikes —
merely materials for thinking I give you."
" Thank you," said Ormond; "and
be assured they are not lost upon me.
You have given me a great deal to think
of seriously."
" Seriously! — no; that's your fault,
your national fault — Permit me — What
you want chiefly in conversation —in
326 ORMOND.
every thing, is a certain degree of — of —
you have no English word — lightness."
" L^gerete, perhaps you mean," said
Ormond.
<c Precisely. — I forgot you understood
French so well. — Legerele — untranslatea-
ble! — You seize my idea."
He left Ormond, as he fancied, in ad-
miration of the man who, in his own
opinion, possessed the whole theory and
practice of the art of pleasing 1 , and the
science of happiness.
M. de Connai's conversation and ex-
ample might have produced a great effect
on the mind of a youth of Ormond's
strong passions, lively imagination, and
total ignorance of the world, if he had
met this brilliant officer in indifferent
society. — Had he seen Connal only as a
man shining in company, or considered
him merely as a companion, he must
have been dazzled by his fashion, charm-
ed by his gaiety, and imposed upon by his
decisive tone.
ORMOND. 327
Had such a vision lighted on the
Black Islands, and appeared to our hero
suddenly, in any other circumstances but
those in which it did appear, it might
have struck and overawed him ; and
without inquiring " whether from heaven
or hell," he might have followed where-
ever it led or pointed the way. But in
the form of a triumphant rival — without
delicacy, without feeling, neither deserv-
ing or loving the woman he had won,
— not likely to make Dora happy, — al-
most certain to make her father misera-
ble, — there was no danger that Black
Connal could ever obtain any ascendancy
over Ormond ; on the contrary, Connal
was useful in forming our hero's charac-
ter. The electric shock of astonishment
did operate in a salutary manner in open-
ing Harry's understanding : the mate-
rials for thinking were not thrown away :
— he did think — even in the Black
Islands, — and in judging of Connal's
character, he made continual progress in
32S ORMOND.
forming his own :— he had motive for
exercising his judgment, he was anxious
to study the man's character on Dora's
account.
Seeing his unpolished friend, old
Corny, and this finished young man of the
world, in daily contrast, Ormond had
occasion to compare the real and the fac-
titious, both in matter and manner : — he
distinguished, and felt often acutely, the
difference between that politeness of the
heart, which respects and sympathises
with the feelings of others, and that con-
ventional politeness, which is shewn
merely to gratify the vanity of him by
whom it is displayed. In the same way,
he soon discriminated in conversation be-
tween Corny 's power of original thinking,
and M. de Connal's knack of throwing
old thoughts into new words ; between
the power of answering an argument,
and the art of evading it by a repartee.
But it was chiefly in comparing different
ideas of happiness and modes of life, that
ORMOND. 329
our young hero's mind was enlarged by
Connal's conversation — whilst the com-
parison he secretly made between this
polished gentleman's principles and his
own was always more satisfactory to his
pride of virtue than Connal's vanity
could have conceived to be possible.
One day some conversation passed
between Connal and his father-in-law
elect, as he now always called him, upon
his future plans of life.
Good Corny said he did not know
how to hope, that, during the few
years he had to live, Connal would not
think of taking his daughter from him to
the continent of France — to Paris, as
from some words that had dropped from
Mademoiselle, he had reason to fear.
" No," Connal said, " he had formed
no such cruel intention : — the Irish half of
Mademoiselle must have blundered on
this occasion. He would do his utmost,
if he could with honour, to retire from
the service; unless the service imj?e-
330 ORMOND.
riously called him away, he should settle
in Ireland : — he should make it a point
even, independently of his duty to his own
father, not to take Miss O'Shane from
her country and her friends."
The father, open-hearted and generous
himself, was fond to believe what he
wished, and confiding in these promises,
the old man forgave all that he did not
otherwise approve in his future son-in-
law, and thanked him almost with tears
in his eyes ; still repeating, as his natural
penetration remonstrated against his cre-
dulity,
" But I could hardly have believed this
from such a young man as you, Captain
Connal. Indeed, how you could ever
bring yourself to think of settling in
retirement, is wonderful to me ; but love
does mighty things, brings about great
changes."
French common-places of sentiment
upon love, and compliments on Dora's
charms and his own sensibility, were
©RMOND. 33 1
poured out by Connal, and the father left
the room satisfied.
Connal then, throwing himself back in
his chair, burst out a laughing, and turn-
ing to Ormond, the only person in the
room, said — —
" Could you have conceived this ?"
" Conceived what, Sir?" said Or-
mond.
" Conceived this king Corny's capa-
city for belief? What! — believe that I
will settle in his Black Islands — I! — as
well believe me to be half marble, half
man, like the unfortunate in the Black
Islands of the Arabian Tales,
the Black Islands ! — No : — could you
conceive a man on earth could be found
so simple as to credit such a thing."
" Here is another man on earth, who
was simple enough to believe it," said
Ormond, iC and to give you credit for it."
"You!"— cried Connal, « That's too
much ! — Impossible — "
" But when you said it — when I heard
you promise it to Mr. O'Shane — "
332 ORMOND.
" Oh, mercy! — Don't kill me with
laughing," said he, laughing affectedly,
" Oh! that face of yours, there is no
standing it. You heard me promise, —
and the accent on promise. Why, even
women, now-a-days, don't lay such an
emphasis on apromise."
" That, I suppose, depends on who
gives it," said Ormond.
" Rather on who receives it," said
Connal, '* but look here, you who un-
derstand the doctrine of promises, tell
me what a poor conscientious man must
do, who has two pulling him different
ways."
" A conscientious man cannot have
given two diametrically opposite pro-
mises."
" Diametrimlly ! — Thank you for that
word— it just saves my lost conscience.
Commend me always to an epithet in the
last resource for giving one latitude
of conscience in these nice oases — I have
not given two diametrically opposite-
No : I have only given four that cross
ORMOND. 333
one another. One to your king Corny ;
another to my angel, Dora j another to
the dear aunt} and a fourth, to my
dearer self. First, promise to king
Corny to settle in the Black Islands; a
gratuitous promise, signifying nothing,
— read Burlamaqui : second promise to
Mademoiselle, to go and live with her
at Paris ; with her, — on the face of it ab-
surd ! a promise, extorted too, under fear
of my life, of immediate peril of being
talked to death, see Vatel on extorted
promises — void : third promise to my
angel Dora, to live wherever she pleases ;
but that's a lover's promise made to be
broken, see Love's Calendar, or, if you
prefer the bookmen's authority, I don't
doubt that, under the head of promises
made when a man is not in his right
senses, some of those learned fellows
in wigs, would here bring me off sain et
sauf: but now for my fourth promise, I
am a man of honour — when 1 make a pro-
mise intending to keep it, no man so
S
334 ORMOND.
scrupulous ; all promises made to myself
come under this head ; and I have pro-
mised myself to live, and make my wife
live, wherever I please, or not to live
with her at all. This promise I shall
hold sacred. — Oblige me with a smile,
Mr. Ormond — a smile of approbation."
" Excuse me, Mr. Connal, that is im-
possible, I am sincere."
" So am I, and sincerely you are too
romantic. See things as they are, as a
man of the world, I beseech you."
" I am not a man of the world, and I
thank God for it," cried Ormond.
" Thank your God for what you
please," said Connal, ** but in disdaining
to be a man of the world, you will not, I
hope, refuse to let me think you a man of
common sense."
" Think what you please of me," said
Ormond, rather haughtily, " what I think
of myself is the chief point with me."
" You will lose this little brusquerie
of manner," said Connal, " when you
ORMOND. 335
have mixed more with mankind. We
are all made providentially dependant
on one another's good opinion. Even
I, you see, cannot live without yours."
Whether from vanity, from the habit
of wishing to charm every body in every
house he entered, especially any one
who made resistance ; or whether he was
piqued and amused with Ormond's frank
and natural character, and determined
to see how far he could urge him,
Connal went on, though our young hero
gave him no encouragement to hope that
he should win his good opinion.
" Candidly," said he, " put yourself
in my place for a moment — I was in
England, following my own projects — I
was not in love with the girl as you —
Well, — pardon — as anybody might have
been — But I was at a distance, that makes
all the difference — I am sent for over
by two fathers, one of whom did not,
till lately, find out that I was his eldest
s>on, and I am told that in consequence
336 ORMOND.
of my droit d'aine (right as eldest son,)
and of some inconceivable promise be-
tween two Irish fathers over a punch-bowl,
1 am to have the refusal, I should rather
say the acceptance, of a very pretty girl
with a very pretty fortune. — Now, except
just at the moment when the overture
reached me, it could not have been listened
to for a moment by such a man as I am."
" Insufferable coxcomb," said Ormond
to himself.
" But to answer a question, which I
omitted to answer just now to my fa-
ther-in-law — What could induce me to
come over and think of settling in the
Black Islands ? I answer — for I am
determined to win your confidence by
my candour, I answer in one word, un
billiard — a billiard table. To tell you
all, I confess — "
il Confess nothing, I beg, Mr. Connal,
to me, that you do not wish to be
known to Mr. O' Shane, I am his friend
— he is my benefactor."
ORMOND. 337
*' You would not repeat — you are a
gentleman, and a man of honour."
" 1 am : and as such I desire, on
this occasion, not to hear what I ought
neither to repeat nor to keep secret —
It is my duty not to leave my benefactor
in the dark as to any point."
" Oh, come — come," interrupted Con-
nal, c * we had better not take it on this
serious tone, lest, if we begin to talk
of duty, we should presently conceive it
to be our duty to run one another through
the body, which would be no pleasure."
" No pleasure," said Ormond, iC but
if it became a duty, I hope, on all occa-
sions, T should be able to do or to bear
whatever I thought a duty. — Therefore
to avoid any misunderstanding, Mr.
Connal, let me beg that you will not
honour me further with your confidence.
I cannot undertake to be the confidant
of any, one of whom I have never pro-
fessed myself to be the friend."
« Ca suffit," said Connal, lightly. " We
voi^. 11. a
338 ORMOND.
understand one another now perfectly — ■
you shall in future play the part of prince,
and not of confidant. — Pardon me, 1
forgot your highness's pretensions;" so
saying, he gaily turned on his heel, and
left the room.
From this time forward, little con-
versation passed between Mr. Connal
and Ormond,- little indeed between
Ormond and Dora. With Mademoi-
selle Ormond had long ceased to be a
favourite, and even her loquacity now
seldom addressed itself to him. He
was in a painful situation ; — he spent as
much of his time as he could at the farm
his friend had given him. As soon as
O' Shane found, that there was no truth
in the report of Black Connal's intended
marriage in England, that he claimed in
earnest his promise of his daughter, and
that Dora herself inclined to the new
love, his kind heart felt for poor Harry.
Though he did not know all that had
passed, yet he saw the awkwardness and
ORMOND. 3:\9
difficulty of Ormond's present situation,
and, whatever it might cost him to part
with his young- friend, with his adopted
son, Corny determined not to detain him
longer.
" Harry Ormond, my boy," said he to
him one day, " time for you to see some-
thing of the world, also for the world to
see something of you ; I've kept you here
for my own pleasure too long, — as long
as I had any hope of settling you as I
wished, 'twas a sufficient excuse to my-
self; but now I have none left — I must
part with you : and so, by the blessing,
God helping me to conquer my selfish-
ness, and the yearnings of my heart to-
wards you, I will — T mean," continued
lie, " to send you far from me, to banish
you for your good from the Black Is-
lands entirely. Nay, don't you interrupt
me, nor say a word, for if you do, I shall
be too soft to have the heart to do you
justice. You know you said yourself,
and I felt it for you, that it was best you
a 2
340 ORMOND.
should leave this. Well, I have been
thinking of you ever since, and licking
different projects into shape for you — lis-
tening too to every thing Connal threw
out ; but all he says that way is in the
air — no substance, when you try to have
and to hold — too full of himself, that
youngster, to be a friend to another."
" There is no reason why he should
be my friend, Sir," said Ormond, "I do
not pretend to be his, — and I rejoice not
to be under any obligations to him."
" Rijfht! — and high! — Just as I feel
for you. x\fter all, I approve of your
own wish to go into the British service
in preference to any foreign service, and
you could not be of the Irish Brigade —
Harry."
" Indeed, Sir, I infinitely prefer,"
said Ormond, "the service of my own
country — the service in which my father
— I know nothing of my father, but I
have always heard him spoken of as a
ood officer, I hope I shall not disgrace
ORMOND. 341
his name. — The English service for me,
Sir, if you please."
" Why then I'm glad you see thing's
as 1 do, and are not run away with by
uniform, and all that. — I have lodged the
needful in the Bank, to purchase a com-
mission for you, my son. Now! no
more go to thank me, if you love me,
Harry — than you would your own father.
I've, written to a friend to chuse a regi-
ment in which there'd be as little danger
as possible for you."
" As little danger as possible," repeat-
ed Harry, surprised.
" Phoo ! you don't think I mean as
little danger of fighting. — I would not
wrong you so. — No : — but as little danger
of gambling. — Not that you're inclined
to it, or any thing else that's bad — but
there is no knowing what company
might lead the best into ; and it is my
duty and inclination to look as close
to all these things, as if for my own
son."
•342 ORMOND.
" My kind father — no father could be
kinder," cried Harry, quite overpowered.
" So then you go as soon as the com-
mission comes. — That's settled — and I
hope I shall be able to bear it, Harry,
old as I am. There may perhaps be a
delay of a little time longer than you
could wish."
" Oh, Sir, as long as you wish me to
stay with you — "
" Not a minute beyond what's neces-
sary. — I mention the cause of delay,
that you may not think I'm dallying
for my own sake. You remember Ge-
neral Albemarle, who came here one day
last year — election time, canvassing — the
eneral that had lost the arm."
Perfectly, Sir, I remember your
answer — ' I will give my interest to this
empty sleeve? "
" Thank you — never a word lost upon
you. Well, now I have hopes that this
man — this general, will take you by the
hand, for he has a hand left yet, and a pow-
ORMOND. 343
erful one to serve a friend: and I've request-
ed him to keep bis eye upon you, and 1 have
asked his advice — so we can't stir till we
get it, and that will be eight days, or ten
say. My boy you must bear on as you
are — we have the comfort of the work-
shop to ourselves, and some rational re-
creation ; good shooting- we will have
soon too for the first time this season."
Among the various circumstances
which endeared Harry to our singular mo-
narch, his skill and keenness as a sports-
man were not inconsiderable : — he was
an excellent horseman, and an excellent
shot ; and he knew where all the game in
the island was to be found, so that, when
his good old patron was permitted by the
gout to take the field, Harry's assistance
saved him a vast deal of unnecessary toil,
and gratified him in his favourite amuse-
ment, whilst he, at the same time, sympa-
thised in the sport. Corny, beside being
a good shot, was an excellent mechanic;
he beguiled the hours, when there was
344 ORMOND.
neither hunting- or shooting, in a work-
shop which was furnished with the best
tools. Among" the other occupations at
Ihe work-bench, he was particularly skil-
ful in making and adjusting the locks of
guns, and in boring and polishing the in-
side of their barrels to the utmost perfec-
tion ; he had contrived and executed a
tool for the enlarging the barrel of a gun
in any particular pari, so as to increase its
effect in adding to the force of the dis-
charge, and in preventing the shot from
scattering too widely.
The hope of the success of his contri-
vance, and the prospect of going out
with Harry on the approaching first of
September, solaced king Corny, and
seemed to keep up his spirits, through all
the vexation he felt concerning Connal
and this marriage, which evidently was
not to his taste. It was to Dora's, how-
ever, and was becoming more evidently
so every hour — and soon M. Connal
pressed, and Mademoiselle urged, and
OUMOND. 345
Dora named the happy day — and Made-
moiselle, in transports, prepared to go to
Dublin, with her niece, to chuse th
wedding-clothes, and Connal to bespeak
the equipages. Mademoiselle was quick
in her operations when dress was in
question — the preparations for the de-
lightful journey were soon made — the
morning for their departure came — the
carriage and horses were sent over the
water early — and 0' Shane and Harry
afterwards accompanied the party in the
boat to the other side of the lake, where
the carriage waited with the door open.
Connal, after handing in Mademoiselle,
turned to look for his destined bride
— who was taking leave of her father —
Harry Ormond standing by. The mo-
ment she quitted her father's embrace,
father Jos poured with both his hands ou
her iiead the benedictions of all the saints,
and specially recommended her to the pro-
tection of the angel Gabriel. Released
from father Jos, Capt. Connal hurried
Q3
346 ORMOND.
her on, Harry held out his hand to
her as she passed — ^ Good by, Dora,
probably I shall never see you again."
" Oh, Harry !" said she, one touch of
natural feeling- stopping" her short.
" Oh, Harry ! — Why ?" bursting into
tears, she drew her hand from Connal
and gave it to Harry ; Harry received
the hand openly and cordially, shook it
heartily, but took no advantage, and no
notice of the feelings by which he saw
her at that moment agitated.
" Forgive /" she began.
<c Good by, dear Dora.— God bless
you — may you be as happy — half as
happy as I wish you to be."
" To be sure she will — happy as the
day is long," said Mademoiselle, leaning
out of the carriage, " why will you
make her cry, Mr. Ormond, spoiling her
eyes at parting. Come in to me, Dora,
M. de Connal is waiting to hand you,
mon enfant."
" Is her dressing-box in, and all right,"
ORMOND. 347
asked Captain Connal, as he handed
Dora into the carriage, who was still
weeping'.
" Bad compliment to M. de Connal,
mon amie. Vrai scandale !" said Made-
moiselle, pulling- up the glass, while Dora
sunk back in the carriage, sobbing with-
out restraint.
" Good morning," said Connal, who
had now mounted his horse, " au re voir,
mon beau-pere," and bowing gracefully
to Mr. Ormond, " Adieu, Mr. Ormond,
command me too, in any way you please.
— Drive on !"
348 ORMONJD,
CHAP. XVI.
T. HE evening after the departure of the
happy trio, who were gone to Dublin to
buy wedding dresses, the party remaining
at Castle Corny consisted only of king-
Corny, Ormond, and father Jos. When
the candles were lighted, his majesty
gave a long and loud yawn, Harry get
the back gammon table for him, and
father Jos, as usual, settled himself in the
chimney corner; "and now mademoi-
selle's gone," said he, *' I shall take leave
to indulge myself in my pipe."
" You were on the continent this
morning, father Jos,'* said Cornelius,
" Did ye learn any news for us ? Size
ace ! that secures two points. "
ORMOND. 349
" News! I did," said father Jos.
" Why not tell it us then ?"
" I was not asked. You both seemed
so wrapped up, 1 waited my time and
opportunity. There's a new parson come
to Castle Hermitage."
*? What new person?" said King
Corny. " Doublets, aces, Harry."
'* A new parson I'm talking of," said
father Jos, " that has just got the living
there ; and they say Sir Ulick's mad
about it, in Dublin, where he is still."
" Mad! — Three men up — and you
can't enter, Harry. Well, what is he
mad about?"
" Because of the presentation to the
living," replied the priest, ({ which go-
vernment wouldn't make him a compli-
ment of, as he expected."
" He is always expecting compliments
from government," said Corny, " and
always getting disappointments — Such
throws as you have, Harry — Sixes ! again
— Well, what luck! — all over with me —
350 ORMOND.
It is only a hit at any rate ! But what
kind of man," continued he, " is this
new clergyman ?"
" Oh! them parsons is all one kind,"
said father Jos.
" All one kind ! No, no more than our
own priests," said Corny. " There's
good and bad, and all the difference in
life."
" I don't know any thing- at all about
it," said father Jos, sullenly ; " but this
I know, that no doubt he'll soon be over
here, or his proctor, looking" for the
tithes."
" I hope we will have no quarrels,"
said Corny.
" They ought to be abolished," said
father Jos, " the tithes, that is, I mean."
" And the quarrels too, I hope," said
Ormond.
" Oh! It's not our fault if there's
quarrels," said father Jos.
" Faults on both sides generally in all
quarrels," said Corny.
ORMOND. 351
" In lay quarrels like enough," said
father Jos. " In church quarrels it don't
become a good Catholic to say that."
" What?" said Corny.
" That," said the. priest.
« Which," said Corny.
" That which you said, that there's
faults on both sides ; sure there's but
one side, and that's our own side, can be
in the right — there can't be two right
sides, can there ? and consequently there
won't be two wrong sides, will there? —
Ergo, there cannot, by a parity of rason-
ing, be two sides in the wrong."
" Well, Harry, I'll take the black
men now, and gammon you," said Corny.
" Play away, man — what are you think-
ing of — is it of what father Jos said — 'tis
beyond the limits of the human under-
standing."
Father Jos puffed away at his pipe for
some time.
" I was tired and ashamed of all the
wrangling for two-pence with the last
man," said king Corny, " and I believe
85t ORMOND.
I was sometimes too hard and too hot
myself; but if this man's a gentleman, I
think we shall agree," said Cornelius.
*' Did you hear his name, or any thing
at all about him, father?'*
" He is one of them refugee families,
the Huguenots, banished France by the
adictof Nantz — they say — and his name's
Cam bray."
" Cambray !" exclaimed Ormond.
" A very good name," said O'Shane ;
" but what do you know of it, Harry ?"
" Only, Sir, I happened to meet with
a Dr. Cambray the winter I was in
Dublin, whom I thought a very agreeable,
respectable, amiable man — and T wonder
whether this is the same person."
" There is something more now, Harry
Ormond, I know by your face," said
Corny: " there's some story, of or be-
ing to Dr. Cambray — what is it?"
" No story, only a slight circumstance
— which, if you please, I'd rather not
tell you, Sir," said Ormond.
" That is something very extraordi-
ORMOND. 053
nary, and looks mysterious," said father
Jos.
" Nothing mysterious, I assure you,"
said Ormond — " a mere trifle, which, if
it concerned only myself, 1 would tell
directly."
" Let him alone, father," said king
Corny, " I am sure he has a good reason
— and I'm not curious — only let me
whisper this in your ear to shew you my
own penetration, Harry — I'd lay my life"
(said he, stretching over and whispering)
— " I'd lay my life Miss Annaly has
something to do with it."
" Miss Annaly ! — nothing in the world
— only — yes, I recollect she was present."
" There now — would not any body
think I'm a conjurer — a physiognomist is
cousin (and not twice removed) from a
conjurer."
" But I assure you, though you hap-
pened to guess right partly as to her being
present, you are totally mistaken, Sir, as
to the rest."
354 ORMOND.
" My dear Harry, totally means wholly
— if I'm right in a part, I can't be mis-
taken in the whole— -I am glad to make
you smile any way — and I wish I was
right altogether, and that you was as rich
as Croesus into the bargain \ but stay a
bit — if you come home a hero from the
wars — that may do — ladies are mighty
fond of heroes."
It was in vain that Ormond assured
his good old imaginative friend that he
was upon a wrong scent. Cornelius
stopped to humour him : but was con-
vinced that he was right; then turned
to the still smoking father Jos, and went
on asking questions about Dr. Cambray.
" I know nothing at all about him,"
said father Jos, " but this, that father
M'Cormuck has dined with him, if I'm
not misinformed, oftener than I think
becoming in these times — making too
free ! And in the chapel last Sunday, I
hear he made a very extraordinary ad-
dress to his flock — there was one took
ORMOND. 355
down the words and handed them to me
— after remarking- on the great distress
of the season — first and foremost about
the keeping- of fast days the year — he
allowed the poor of his flock, which is
almost all, to eat meat whenever offered
to them, because, said he, many would
starve — now mark the obnoxious words —
6 if it was not for their benevolent Pro-
testant neighbours, who make soup and
broth for them.' "
" What is there obnoxious in that?"
said Cornelius.
" Wait till you hear the end — * and
feed and clothe the distressed.' ''
" That is not obnoxious either, I hope,"
said Ormond, laughing'.
" Young gentleman, you belong to the
establishment, and no judge in this case,
permit me to remark," said father Jos,
" and I could wish Mr. O' Shane would
hear to the end, before he joins in a Pro-
testant laugh."
" I've heard of ' a protestant wind'
356 ORMOND.
before," said Harry — " but not of a pro-
testa nt laugh."
" Well, I'm serious, father Jos," said
Corny, " let me hear to the end what
makes your face so long."
' And, I am sorry to say, shew more
charity to them than their own people,
the rich catholics, sometimes do.'
" If that is not downright slander, I
don't know whxt is," said father Jos.
" Are you sure it is not truth, father ?"
said Corny.
" And if it was, even, so much the
worse, to be telling it in the chapel and
to his flock — very improper in a priest
— very extraordinary conduct!"
Father Jos worked himself up to a high
pitch of indignation, and railed and
smoked for some time, while O'Shane
and Ormond joined in defending M'Cor-
muck, and his address to his flock —
and even his dining with the new clergy-
man of the parish. Father Jos gave up,
and had his punch. — The result of the
ORMOND. 857
whole was, that Ormond proposed to pay
Tiis respects the next morning 1 to Dr. Cam-
bray.
" Very proper," said O'Shane — " do
so — fit you should — you are of his people,
and you are acquainted with the gentle-
man — and I'd have you go and shew
yourself safe to him, that we've made no
tampering with you."
Father Jos could not say so much,
therefore he said nothing.
" A very exact church goer at the little
church there you've always been, at the
other side of the lake — I never hindered
— make what compliment you will proper
for me — say I'm too old and clumsy for
morning visitings, and never go out of my
islands. But still I can love my neigh-
bour in or out of them, and hope, in the
name of peace, to be on good terms.
Sha'n't be my fault if them tithes come
across. Then I wish that bone of conten-
tion was from between the two churches.
Mean time, I'm not snarling, if others is
5
'358 ORMOND.
not craving" ; and I'd wish for the look of
it, for your sake, Harry, that it should
be all smooth ; so say any thing you will
for me to this Dr. Cambray, — though we
are of a different faith, I should do any
thing- in reason."
<f Reason ! what's that about reason?"
said father Jos, " I hope faith conies be-
fore reason."
" And after it, too, I hope, father,"
said Corny.
Father Jos finished his punch, and
went to sleep upon it.
Ormond next morning paid his visit —
Dr. Cambray was not at home ; but Harry
was charmed with the neatness of his
house, and with the amiable and happy
appearance of his family. He had never
before seen Mrs. Cambray or her daugh-
ters, though he had met the doctor in Dub-
lin. The circumstance which Harry had
declined mentioning, when Corny ques-
tioned him about his acquaintance with
Dr. Cambray, was very slight, though
OIIMOND. 359
father Jos had imagined it to be of mys-
terious importance. It had happened,
that among' the dissipated set of young'
men with whom Marcus 0' Shane and
Harry had passed that winter in Dublin,
a party had one Sunday gone to hear the
singing at the Asylum, and had behaved
in a very unbecoming- manner during- the
service — and during the sermon. Dr.
Cambray preached — He spoke to the
young' gentlemen afterwards with mild
but becoming dignity. Harry Ormond
instantly, sensible of his error, made pro-
per apologies, and erred no further. But
Marcus O'Shane in particular, who was
wilful, and not accustomed to endure any
thing, much less any person, that crossed
his humour, spoke of Dr. Cambray af-
terwards with vindictive bitterness, and
with all his talents of mimickry endea-
voured to make him ridiculous. Harry
defended him with a warmth of ingenuous
eloquence, which did him much honour ;
and with truth, courage, and candour,
360 ORMOND.
that did him still more, corrected some of
Marcus's misstatements, declaring that
they had all been much to blame. Lady
Annaly and her daughter were present,
and this was one of the circumstances to
which her ladyship had alluded, when she
said that some things had occurred, that
had prepossessed her with a favourable
opinion of Ormond's character. Dr.
Cambray knew nothing of the attack or
the defence till some time afterwards;
and it was now so long ago, and Harry
was so much altered since that time, that
it was scarcely to be expected the doctor
should recollect even his person. How-
ever, when Dr. Cambray came to the
Black Islands to return his visit, he did
immediately recognize Ormond, and
seemed so much pleased with meeting
him again, and so much interested about
him, that Corny's warm heart was imme-
diately won. Independently of this, the
doctor's persuasive benevolent politeness
could not have failed to operate, as it
ORMOND. 801
usually did, even on a first acquaintance,
in pleasing 1 and conciliating* even those
who were of opposite opinions,
" There, now," said Corny, when the
doctor was gone — " There, now, is a
sincere minister of the Gospel for you,
and. a polite gentleman into the bargain.
Now that's politeness, that does not trou-
ble me — that's not for show — that's for
us, not himself, mark ! — and conversation !
Why that man has conversation for the
prince and the peasant — the courtier and
the anchorite. Did not he find plenty
for me, and got more out of me than I
thought was in me — and the same if I'd
been a monk of La Trappe, he would
have made me talk like a pie. Now
there's a man of the high world that the
low world can like, very different from — "
Poor Corny paused, checked himself,
and then resumed —
" Principles, religion, and all no hin-
drance ! — liberal and sincere too! Well!
I only wish — father Jos, no offence —
I only wish for Dr. Cambray's sake,
VOL. II. R
362 ORMOND. *
and "the Catholic church's sake, 1 was,
for one day, Archbishop of Canterbu-
ry, or Primate of all Ireland, or what-
ever else makes the bishops in your
church, and I'd skip over dean and arch-
deacon, and all, and make that man
clean a bishop before night."
Harry smiled, and wished he had the
power as well as the good will.
Father Jos said, c * a man ought to be
ashamed not to think of his own first."
" Now, Harry, don't think I'd make a
bishop lightly," continued king Corny, —
1 1 would not — I've been a king too long
for that ; and though only a king of my
own fashion, I know what's fit for go-
verning a country, observe me ! — Cousin
Ulick would make a job of a bishop, but
I would not — nor I would'nt to please
my fancy. Now don't think I'd make
that man a bishop just because he noticed
and praised my gimcracs, and inventions,
and substitutes"
Father Jos smiled, and demurely a-
based his eye.
3
ORMOND. 36S
" Oh ! then you don't know me as well
as you think you do, father," said 0' Shane.
— " Nor what's more, Harry, — not his
noting* down the two regiments to make
inquiry for friends for you, Harry,
shouldn't have bribed me to partiality —
though I could have kissed his shoe-ties
for it."
" Mercy on you!" said father Jos—
" This doctor has bewitched you."
" But did you mind, then," persisted
Corny, " the way he spoke of that cousin
of mine, Sir Ulick, who he saw I did
not like, and who has been, as you tell us,
bitter against him, and even against his
fretting* the living". Well, the way this
Doctor Cam bray spoke then, pleased
me — good morals without preaching —
there's do good to your enemies — The true
Christian doctrine — and the hardest point.
Oh! let father Jos say what he will,
there's the man will be in Heaven before
many — heretic or no heretic, Harry!"
Father Jos shrugged up his shoulders
r2
•3(54 ORMON D.
and then fixing the glass in his spectacles,
replied —
" We shall see better when we come
to the tithes."
" That's true," said Corny.
He walked off to his workshop, and
took down his fowling* piece to put the
finishing stroke to his work for the next
day, which was to be the first day of par-
tridge shooting — he looked forward with
delight — anticipating the innocent grati-
fication he should have in going out shoot-
ing with Harry, and trying his new fowl-
ing piece. — " But I won't go out to-mor-
row till the post has come in, for my
mind couldn't enjoy the sport till I was
satisfied whether the answer could come
about your commission, Harry ; — my
mind misgives me — that is, my calcula-
tion tells me, that it will come to-mor-
row.
Good Corny 's presentiments or calcu-
lations were just — the next morning the
little post boy brought answers to various
ORMOND. 3Go
letters which he had written about Or-
mond — one to Ormond from Sir Uiick
O'Shane. repeating his approbation of
his ward's going" into the army ; approv-
ing of all the steps Cornelius had taken,
especially of his intention of paying for
the commission.
" All well," Cornelius said — The next
letter was from Cornelius's banker, say-
ing, that the five hundred pound was
lodged, ready. — " All well." — The army
agent wrote, " that he had commissions in
two different regiments, waiting Mr.
O' Shane's choice and orders per return
of post, to purchase in conformity" —
" That's all well." General Albemarle's
answer to Mr. 0' Shane's letter was mos
satisfactory — in terms that were not
merely officially polite, but kind; " he as
sured Mr. O'Shane that he should, as fa-
as it was in his power, pay attention to
the young gentleman, whom Mr. O'Shane
had so strongly recommended to his care
and by whose appearance and manner the
366 ORMOND.
general said he had been prepossessed,
when he saw him some months ago at
Corny Castle. There was a commission
vacant in his son's regiment, which he
recommended to Mr. Ormond."
<c The very thing I could have wished
for yon, my. dear boy ; — you shall go off
the day after to-morrow — not a moment's
delay — I'll answer the letters this mi-
nute."
But Harry reminded him, that the post
did not go out till the next day, and
urged him not to lose this fine day — this
first day of the season for partridge
shooting.
'* Time enough for my business after
we come home — the post does not go
out till morning."
" That's true — come off, then — let's
enjoy the fine day sent us, and my gun
too — I forgot ; — for I do believe, Harry,
I love you better even than my gun,"
said the warm-hearted Corny. " Call Mori-
arty ! let us have him with us, he'll enjoy
OKMOND. 367
it beyond all — one of the last day's
shooting- with his own prince Harry ! —
but, poor fellow, we'll not tell him that."
Moriartv and the dog's were summon-
ed, and the fineness of the day, and the
promise of good sport, put Moriarty in
remarkably good spirits. By degrees
king Corny 's own spirits rose, and he
forgot that it was the last day with prince
Harry, and he enjoyed the sport. After
various trials of his new fowling-piece,
both the king and the prince agreed, that
it succeeded to admiration. But even
in the midst of his pride in his success,
and his joy in the sport, his superior
fondness for Harry prevailed, and shewed
itself in little, almost delicate instances
of kindness, which could hardly have
been expected from his unpolished mind.
As they crossed a bog", he stooped every
now and then, and plucked different
kinds of bog-plants and heaths.
" Here, Harry," said he, " mind these
for Dr. Cam bray. — Remember yesterday
868 ORMOND.
bis mentioning a daughter of his was
making the botanical collection, and
there's Sheelah can tell you all the Irish
names and uses. — Some I can note for
you myself; — and here, this minute, by
great luck ! the very thing he wanted !
the andromeda, I'll swear to it : — throw
away all and keep this — carry it to her
to-morrow — for I will have you make a
friend of that Dr. Cambray ; — and no
way so sure or fair to the father's heart,
as by proper attention to the daughter —
1 know that by myself. — Hush, now ! till
I have that partridge! — Whirr! — Shot
Sm clean — my dear gun I — Was not that
good, Harry ?*'
Thus they continued their sport till
late; and returning, loaded with game,
had nearly reached the palace, when
Corny, who had marked a covey, quitted
Harry, and sent his dog to spring it, at
a distance much greater than the usual
reach of a common fowling-piece. Har-
ry heard a shot, and a moment afterwards
ORMOXD. 369
a violent shout of despair ; — he knew
the voice to be that of Moriarty, and
running- to the spot from whence it came,
he found his friend, his benefactor, wel-
tering in his blood. The fowling-piece
overloaded, had burst, and a large splin-
ter of the barrel had fractured the skull,
and had sunk into the brain. As Mo-
riarty was trying to raise his head,
O'Shane uttered some words, of which
all that was intelligible was the name of
Harry Ormond. His eyes fixed on Har-
ry, but the meaning of the eye was gone.
He squeezed Harry's hand, and an in-
stant afterwards O'Shane's hand was
powerless. The dearest, the only real
friend Harry Ormond had upon earth,
was gone for ever !
r3
570
ORMONI>.
CHAP. XVII.
A BOY passing by saw what had hap-
pened, and ran to the house, calling as
he went to some workmen, who hastened
to the place, where they heard the howl-
ing of the dogs. Ormond neither heard
nor saw — till Moriarty said — " He must
be carried home;" and some one ap-
proaching to lift the body, Ormond
started up, pushed the man back, with-
out uttering a syllable — made a sign to
Moriarty, and between them they carried
the body home. — Sheelah and the women
came out to meet them, wringing their
hands, and uttering loud lamentations,
and the dogs ran to and fro yelling. Or-
mond, bearing his burden, as if insensible
OBMOND. 37 J
of what, he bore, walked onward, looking
at no one, answering* none, but forcing
his way straight into the house, and on —
on — till they came to O' Shane's bed-
chamber, which was upon the ground
floor — there laid him on his bed. — The
women had followed, and all those who
had gathered on the way rushed in to
see and to bewail. Ormond looked up,
and saw the people about the bed, and
made a sign to Moriarty to keep them
away, which he did, as well as he conld.
— But they would not be kept back —
Sheelah, especially, pressed forward, cry-
ing loudlv, till Moriarty, with whom
she was struggling, pointed to Harry. —
Struck with his fixed look, she submitted
at once — " Best leave him .'" said she. —
She put every body out of the room be-
fore her, and turning to Ormond, said,
they would leave him " a little space of
time till the priest should ccme, who was
at a clergy dinner, but was sent for."
When Ormond was left alone he lock"
372 ORMOND.
ed the door, and kneeling beside the
dead, offered up prayers for the friend
he had lost, and there remained some
time in stillness and silence, till Sheelah
knocked at the door, to let him know
that the priest was come. — Then re-
tiring", he went to the other end of the
house, to be out of the way. The room
to which he went was that in which
they had been reading the letters just
before they went out that morning-. — -
There was the pen which Harry had
taken from his hand, and the answer just
begun.
'* Dear General, I hope my young
friend Harry Ormond — "
That hand could write no more! —
That warm heart was cold ! — The cer-
tainty was so astonishing, so stupifying,
that Ormond, having never yet shed a tear,
stood with his eyes fixed on the paper,
he knew not how long, till he felt some
one touch his hand. — It was the child,
little Tommy, of whom O'Shane was
ORMOND. 373
so fond, and who was so fond of him. The
child, with his whistle in his hand, stood
looking- up at Harry, without speaking 1 .
— Ormond gazed on him for a few in-
stants, then snatched him in his arms, and
burst into an agony of tears. — Sheelah,
who had let the child in, now came and
carried him away. — " God be thanked for
them tears," said she, " they will bring-
relief — and so they did — The necessity
for manly exertion — the sense of duty —
pressed upon Ormond 's recovered reason.
— He began directly, and wrote all the
letters that were necessary to his guar-
dian, and to Miss O'Faley, to commu-
nicate the dreadful intelligence to Dora.
The letters were not finished till late
in the evening. Sheelah came for them,
and leaving the door, and the outer door
to the hall open, as she came in, Ormond
saw the candles lighted, and smelt the
smell of tobacco and whiskey, and heard
the sound of many voices.
" The wake, dear, which is begin-
ning," said she, hastening back to shut
374 ORMOND.
the doors, as she saw him shudder —
M Bear with it, Master Harry," said
she — " hard for yon ! — but bear with us,
dear, 'tis the custom of the country —
and what else can we do but what the
forefathers did — how else for us to shew
respect, only as it would be expected,
and has always been ? — and great com-
fort to think we done our best, for him
that is gone — and comfort to know his
wake will be talked of long" hereafter,
over the fires at night — of all the peo-
ple that is there without — and that's
all we have for it now — so bear with it>
dear."
This night, and for two succeeding
nights, the doors of Corny Castle re-
mained open for all who chose to come.
Crowds, as many, and more than the
Castle could hold, docked to king- Corny's
wake, for he was greatly beloved.
There was, as Sheelah said, " plenty
of cake, and wine, and tea, and tobacco,
and snuff — every thing handsome as pos-
sible, and honourable to the deceaseds
ORMOND. 375
who was always open-handed and open-
hearted, and with open house too."
His praises from time to time were
heard, and then the common business of
the country was talked of — and jesting
and laughter went on — and all night
there were tea-drinkings for the women,
and punch for the men. Sheelah, who
grieved most, inwardly, for the dead,
went about incessantly through the
crowd, serving all, seeing that none, es-
pecially them who came from a distance,
should be neglected — that none should
have after to complain — or to say that
any thing at all was wanting or niggard-
ly. Mrs. Betty, Sheelah's daughter, sat
presiding- at the tea-table, giving' the
keys to her mother when wanted, but
never forgetting to ask for them again.
Little Tommy took his cake, and hid
himself under the table, close by his
mother, Mrs. Betty, and could not be
tempted out but by Sheelah, whom he fol-
lowed, watching when she would go in
to Mr. Harry ; and when the door opened^
376 ORMOND.
he held by her gown, and squeezed in
under her arm — she not hindering" him.
When she brought Mr Harry his meals,
she would set the child up at the table
with him for company — and to tempt
him to take something. — The child slept
with him, for Tommy could not sleep
with any body else.
Ormond had once promised his de-
ceased friend, that if he was in the
country when he died, he would put
him into his coffin. — He kept his pro-
mise. — The child hearing a noise, and
knowing that Mr. Harry had gone into
the room, could not be kept out ; — the
crowd had left that room, and the child
looked at the bed with the curtains looped
up with black — and at the table at the
foot of the bed, with the white cloth
spread over it, and the seven candlesticks
placed upon it. — But the coffin fixed his
attention, and he threw himself upon it,
clinging to it, and crying bitterly upon
king Corny, his dear king Corny, to
come back to him.
ORMOND. 377
It was all Sheelah could do to drag
him away ; — Ormond, who had always
liked this boy, felt now more fond of him
than ever, and resolved that he would
see that he was taken care of hereafter.
" You are in the mind to attend the
funeral, Sir, I think you told me," said
Sheelah.
•' Certainly," replied Ormond.
'• Excuse me then," said Sheelah, '« if
I mention — for you can't know what to
do without. — There will be high mass,
may be you know, in the chapel. — And
as it's a great funeral, thirteen priests
will be there, attending. — -And when the
mass will be finished, it will be expected
of you, as first of kin considered, to walk
up first with your offering — whatsoever
you think fit, for the priests — and to lay
it down on the altar ; — and then each and
all will follow, laying down their offer-
ings, according as they can. — I hope I'm
not too bold or troublesome, Sir."
Ormond thanked her for her kind-
378 ORMOND.
ness, — and felt it was real kindness. —
He, consequently, did all that was ex-
pected from him handsomely. After the
masses were over, the priests who could
not eat any thing- before they said mass,
had breakfast and dinner joined. — Sheelah
took care " the clergy was well served."
— Then the priests — though it was not
essential that all should go, did all, to
Sheelah's satisfaction, accompany the fu-
neral the whole way, three long miles,
to the burying-place of the O'Shanes;
a remote old abbey ground, marked only
by some scattered trees, and a few sloping
grave stones. King Corny 's funeral was
followed by an immense concourse of
people, on horseback and on foot ; men
women, and children ; — when they passed
by the doors of cabins, a set of the wo-
men raised the funeral cry — not a sa-
vage howl, as is the custom in some
parts of Ireland, but chaunting a kind
of funeral cry, not without harmony,
simple and pathetic. Ormond was con-
ORMOND. 379
vinced, that in spite of all the festivity at
the wake, which had so disgusted him, the
poor people mourned sincerely for the
friend they had lost.
We forgot to mention, that Dr. Cam-
bray came to the Black Islands the day
after Q'Shane's death, and had done all
he could to prevail upon Ormond to
come to his house while the wake was
going' on, and till the funeral should be
over. But Ormond thought it right to stay
where he was, as none of the family were
there, and there was no way in which
he could so stronglv mark, as Sheelah
said, his respect for the dead. Now that
it was all over, he had at least the conso-
lation of thinking, that he had not shrunk
from any thing that was, or that he con-
ceived to be his duty. Doctor Cambray
was pleased with his conduct, and at
every moment he could spare came to
see him, doing all he could to console
him, by strengthening in Ormond's mind
the feelings of religious submission to
3$0 ORMOND.
the will of Heaven, and of pious hope and
confidence. Ormond had no time left
him for the indulgence of sorrow — busi-
ness pressed upon him.
Cornelius O'Shane's will, which Sir
Ulick blamed Harry for not mentioning
in the first letter, was found to be at his
bankers in Dublin. All his property was
left to his daughter, except the farm,
which he had given to Ormond ; this
was specially excepted, with legal care:
also a legacy of five hundred pounds
was left to Harry ; a provision for little
Tommy; a trifling bequest to Sir
Ulick, being hrs cousin ; and legacies to
servants. Miss O'Faiey was appointed
sole executrix — this gave great umbrage
to Sir Ulick O'Shane, and appeared
extraordinary to many people ; but the
will was in dus form, and nothing could
be done against it, however much might
be said.
Miss O'Faiey, withewt taking notice
of any thing Ormond said of the money
ORMOND. 38 L
■which had been lodged in bank to pay
for his commission, wrote as executor
to bear him to do various business for
her, all which he did, and fresh letters
came with new requests, inventories to
be taken, things to be sent to Dublin,
money to be received and paid, stewards'
and agents' accounts to be settled, busi-
ness of all kinds, in short, came pouring
in upon him ; a young man unused to it,
and with a mind peculiarly averse from
it at this moment. But when he found
that he could be of service to any one
belonging to his benefactor, he felt
bound in gratitude, to exert himself to
the utmost. These circumstances, how-
ever disagreeably,, had an excellent effect
upon his character, giving him habits of
business, whieh were ever afterwards of
use to him. It was remarkable that the
only point in his letters, which had
concerned his business, still continued
unanswered. Another circumstance hurt
his feelings — instead of Miss O'Faley's
writing to make her own requests, Mr,
382 ORMOND.
Connal was soon deputed by mademoi-
selle to write for her. He spoke of the
shock the ladies had felt, and the dis-
tressing circumstances in which they
were ; all in common place phrases,
which Ormond could not well endure,
and from which he could judge nothing
of Dora's real feelings.
" The marriage must, of course," Mr.
Connal said, " be put off for some time,
and as it would be painful to the ladies
to return to Corny Castle, he had advised
their staying in Dublin ; and they and he
feeling assured that, from Mr. Ormond's
regard for the family, they might take
the liberty of troubling him, they re_
quested so and so, and the executor
begged he would see this settled and
that settled" — at last, with gradually
forgotten apologies, falling very much
into the style of a person writing to
an humble friend or dependant, bound
to consider requests as commands.
Our young hero's pride was piqued
on the one side as much as his gra-
ORMOND. :J83
titude was alive on the other. Sir Ulick
O' Shane wrote word, that he was at
this time peculiarly engaged with af-
fairs of his own. — He said, that as to
the material point of the money lodged
for the commission, he would see the
executor, and do what he could to
have that settled; but as to all lesser
points, Sir Ulick said, he really had
not leisure to answer letters at present.
— He enclosed a note to Dr. Cam-
bray, whom he recommended it to his
ward to consult, and whose advice and
assistance he now requested for him in
pressing terms. In consequence of this
direct application from the young gen-
tleman's guardian, Dr. Cambray felt
himself authorised and called upon,
where, otherwise, delicacy might have
prevented him from interfering. It was
fortunate for Ormond, that he had Dr.
Cambray's counsel to guide him, else
he would, in the first moments of feel-
ing, have yielded too much to both
the impulses of gratitude and of pride.
33 i 0R31OND.
In the first impulse of generous pride,
Oruiond wanted to give up the farm
which his benefactor had left him, be-
cause he wished, that no possible suspi-
cion of interested motives having in-
fluenced his attachment to Cornelius
O'Shane should exist ; especially with
Mr. Connal, who, as the husband of
Dora, would soon be the lord of all in
the Black Islands.
On the other hand, when Mr. Connal
wrote word, that the executor, having
no written order from the deceased to
that effect, could not pay the five hun-
dred pounds, lodged in the bank, for
his commission, Ormond was on the
point of flying out with intemperate in-
dignation —
" Was not his own word sufficient —
was not the intention of his benefactor
apparent from the letters — would not
this justify any executor, any person of
common sense or honour ?"
Dr. Cam bray, his experienced and
4
ORMOND. XHo
placid counsellor, brought all these sen-
timents to due measure, by mildly shew-
ing what was law and justice ; and what
was fit and proper in each case ; putting
jealous honour, and romantic generosity,
as they must be put, out of the question
in business.
He prevented Ormond from embroil-
ing himself with Connal about the le-
gacy, and from giving up his farm. —
He persuaded him to decline having
any thing to do with the affairs of the
Black Islands.
A proper agent was appointed, who
saw Ormond's accounts settled and
signed, so that no blame or suspicion
could rest upon him. It is unnecessary
to enter into particulars, but it is es-
sential to observe, that in the course
of these affairs Dr. Cambray had an
opportunity of seeing a good deal of
Ormond's conduct and character, and
he became attached to our young hero.
" There seems no probability, Mr. Or-
VOl* II. s
386 ORMOND.
mond," said -Dr. Cambray, "of your
immediately having your commission
purchased. Your guardian, Sir Ulick
O' Shane, will be detained some time
longer, I understand, in Dublin. You
are in a desolate situation here — you
have now done all that you ought to
do — leave these Black Islands, and come
to Vicar's Vale — you will find there a
cheerful family, and means of spending
your time more agreeably, perhaps
more profitably, than you can have here.
— I am sensible that no new friends
can supply to you the place of him you
have lost; but you will find pleasure
in the perception, that you have, by
your own merit, attached to you one
friend in me, who will do all in his
power to soothe and serve you. Will
you come ? will you — " added he, smil-
ing, " trust yourself to me, you have
already found that I do not flatter?
"Will you come to us? The sooner
the better— to-morrow if you can/*
ORMONi>. 387
It scarcely need be said, that this
invitation was most cordially accepted.
Next day Ormond was to leave the
Black Islands; Sheelah was in despair
when she found he was going", the
child hung upon him so, that lie could
hardly get out of the house, till Mo-
riarty promised to come back for the
boy, and bring him over in the
boat often, to see Mr. Ormond. Mo-
riarty would not stay in the islands
himself, he said, after Harry went — he
set the cabin, and little tenement, which
O'Shane had given him, and the rent
was to be paid him by the agent. —
Ormond went, for the last time, this
morning, to Ormond's Vale, to settle
his own affairs there ; he and Moriarty,
took an unusual path across this part
of the island to the water side, that
they might avoid that which they had
followed the last time they were out,
on the day of Corny 's death. They
went, therefore, across a lone track of
s2
388 OHMOftD.
heath bog; where, for a considerable
time, they saw no living being-.
On this bog, of which Cornelius
O'Shane had given Moriarty a share,
the grateful poor fellow had, the year be-
fore, amused himself with cutting in large
letters of about a yard long, the words —
" LONG LIVE KING CORNY."
He had sowed the letters with broom
seed in the spring, and had since for-
gotten ever to look at them, — but they
were now green, and struck the eye.
u Think then of this being all the
trace that's left of him on the face of
the earth!" said Moriarty, "I'm glad
I did even that same."
After crossing this lone bog', when
they came to the water side, they
found a great crowd of people, seem-
ingly all the inhabitants of the islands
assembled there, waiting to take leave
of Master Harry, and each got a word
and a look from him before they would
let him step into the boat.
ORMOND. 389
u Aye, go to the continent" said Shee-
lali, " aye, go to fifty continents, and in
all Ireland you'll not find hearts warmer
to you, than those of the Black Islands,
that knows you best from a child,
Master Harry, dear."
390 ORMOSV,
CHAP. XVIII.
ORMOND was received with much
kindness in Dr. Cambray's family, in
which he felt himself at ease, and soon
forgot that he was a stranger ; his mind,
however, was anxious about his situation,
as he longed to get into active life.
Every morning, when the post came in,
he hoped there would be a letter for him
with his commission ; and he was every
morning regularly surprised and disap-
pointed on finding that there was none.
In the course of each ensuing day, how-
ever, he forgot his disappointment, and
said he believed he was happier where
he was, than he could be any where else.
The regular morning question of " Any
ORMOND. -391
letters for me?" was at last answered
by " Yes; one franked by Sir Ulick
O'Shane." " Ah! no commission, I feel
no enclosure — single letter, no! double.''
Double or single, it was as follows: —
" Dear Harry, — At last I have seen
the executrix and son in law, whom that
great genius deceased, my well-beloved
cousin in folly, king Corny, chose for him-
self. As to that thing, half mud, half
tinsel, half Irish, half French, Miss, or
Mademoiselle, O'Faley, that jointed doll
is — all but the eyes, which move of
themselves in a very extraordinary way
—a mere puppet, pulled by wires in the
hands of another. The master-showman;
fully as extraordinary in his own way as
his puppet, kept, while I was by, as much
as possible behind the scenes. The hand
and ruffle of the French petit-maitre and
the prompter's voice, however, were visi-
ble and audible enough for me. In plain
English, I suppose it is no news to you
to hear, that Mademoiselle O'Faley is a
392 ORMONI>.
fool, and Monsieur de Connal, captain
O'Connal, Black Connal, or by whatever
other alias he is to be called, is properly
a puppy. I am sorry, my dear boy, to
tell you, that the fool has let the rogue
get hold of the £500 lodged in bank, so no
hopes of your commission for three months,
or at the least two months, to come.
My dear boy, your much-lamented friend
and benefactor (is not that the style ?)
king Corny, who began, I think, by be-
ing, years ago, to your admiration, his
own tailor, has ended, I fear, to your
loss, by being his own lawyer; he has
drawn his will so that any attorney could
drive a coach and six through it — so ends
c every man his own lawyer.' Forgive
me this laugh, Harry. By the bye, you,
my dear ward, will be of age in Decent*
ber, 1 think — then all my legal power of
interference ceases.
" Meantime, as I know you will be
out of spirits when you read this, I have
some comfort for you and myself, which
ORMOND. 393
I kept for a bonne-bouche — you will
never more see Lady O' Shane, nor I
neither. Articles of separation, and I
didn't trust -myself to be my own lawyer,
have been signed between us, so I shall
see her ladyship sail for England this
night — won't let any one have the plea-
sure of putting her on board but myself —
I will see her safe olf, and feel well as-
sured nothing can tempt her to return —
even to haunt me — or scold you — This
was the business which detained me in
Dublin — well worth while to give up a
summer to secure for the rest of one's
days liberty to lead a batchelor's merry
life, which I mean to do at Castle Her-
mitage or elsewhere, now and from
henceforth — Miss Black in no ways, not-
withstanding. Miss Black, it is but jus-
tice to tell you, is now convinced of my
conjugal virtues, and admires my patience
as much as she used to admire Lady
O' Shane's. She has been very useful to
me in arranging my affairs in this separa-
s3
894 ORMOND*
tion — In consequence, I have procured a
commission of the peace for a certain
Mr. M'Crule, a man whom you may re-
member to have seen or heard at the
bottom or corner of the table at Castle
Hermitage, one of the Cromwellians, a
fellow with the true draw-down of the
mouth, and who speaks, or snorts, through
his nose. I have caused him, not without
some difficulty, to ask Miss Black to be
his helpmate — (Lord help him and for-
give me !) — And Miss Black, preferring
rather to stay in Ireland and become
Mrs. M'Crule, than to return to Eng-
land and continue companion to Lady
O' Shane, hath consented (who can blame
her ?) to marry on the spur of the occa-
sion — to-morrow — I giving her away, you
may imagine with what satisfaction.
What with marriages and separations,
the business of the nation, my bank, my
canal, and my coal mines, you may guess
my hands have been full of business —
now, all for pleasure ! Next week hope
OltMOND. 395
to be down enjoying my liberty at Castle
Hermitage, where I shall be heartily glad
to have my dear Harry again — Marcus
in England still — the poor Annalys in
great distress about the son, with whom,
I fear, it is all over — no time for more —
Measure my affection by the length of
this, the longest epistle extant in my
hand-writing.
" My dear boy, your's ever,
" Ulick O'Shane."
The mixed and crossing emotions,
which this letter was calculated to ex-
cite, having crossed, and mixed, and
subsided a little, the predominating feel-
ing was expressed by our young hero
with a sigh and this reflexion —
" Two months at the least! I must
wait before I can have my commission —
two months more in idleness the fates
have decreed."
" That last is a part of the decree that
depends on yourself, not on the fates.
Two mouths you must wait, but why in.
idleness?" said Dr. Cambray.
396 ORMOND.
The kind and prudent doctor did not
press the question, he was content with
its being heard, knowing- that it would
sink into the mind and produce its effect
in due season. Accordingly, after some
time, after Ormond had exhaled impa-
tience, and exhausted invective, and sub-
mitted to necessity, he returned to reason
with the doctor. One evening-, when the
doctor and his family had come in from
walking, and as the tea-urn was just
coming bubbling and steaming, Ormond
set to work at a corner of the table, at
the doctor's elbow.
" My dear doctor, suppose I was now
to read over to you my list of books."
" Suppose you were, and suppose I
was to fall asleep," said the doctor.
«' Not the least likely, Sir, when you
are to do any thing kind for a friend —
may I say friend ?"
" You may. Come, read on, I am not
proof against flattery, even at my age —
well, read away."
Ormond began, but at that moment —
ORMOND. 397
whirl — there drove past the windows a
travelling- chariot and four.
" Sir Ulick O'Shane! as I live," cried
Osmond, starting up. " I saw him — he
nodded to me. Oh no. impossible — he
said he would not come till next week —
Where's his letter? — What's the date?
— Could it mean this week ? — No ; he
says next week quite plainly — What can
be the reason?"
A note for Mr. Ormond was brought
in, which had been left by one of Sir
Ulick O'Shane's servants as they went
by.
u My commission after all," cried
Harry — " I always knew, I always said,
that Sir Ulick was a good friend."
" Has he purchased the commission ?"
said Dr Cambray.
" He does not actually say so, but that
must be what his note means," said Or-
mond.
" Meansl but what does it say — May
I see it?"
398 ORMOND.
" It is written in such a hurry, and in
pencil, you'll not be able to make it out."
The doctor, however, read aloud —
"If Mr. Harry Ormond will inquire
at Castle Hermitage, he will hear of some-
thing to his advantage.
« U. O'Shane."
" Go off this minute," said Mrs. Gam-
bray, " and inquire at Gastle Hermitage
what Mr. Harry Ormond may hear to his
advantage, and let us learn it as soon as
possible.''
" Thank you, ma'am," said Harry;
and ere the words were well uttered a
hundred steps were lost.
With more than his usual cordiality,
Sir Ulick O'Shane received him, came
out into the hall to meet his dear Harry,
his own dear boy, to welcome him again
to Castle Hermitage.
" We did not expect vou, Sir, till next
week — this is a most agreeable surprise
— Did not you say — "
<{ No matter what I said, you see what
ORMOND. 399
I have done," interrupted Sir Ulick ;
" and now I must introduce you to a
niece of mine, whom you have never yet
seen."
" Oh ! then there was a bonnet in the
carriage."
" A bonnet — yes ; but don't be alarm-
ed — as unlike the last bonnet that pre-
sided here as possible. In two words,
that you may know your ground, this
niece of mine, Lady Norton, is a charm-
ing, well-bred, pleasant, little widow,
whose husband died, luckily for her and
me, just when they had run out all their
large fortune. She is delighted to come
to me, and is just the thing to do the
honours of Castle Hermitage — used to
the style; but observe, though she is to
rule my roast and my boiled, she is not to
rule me or my friends — that is a prelimi-
nary, and a special clause for Harry Or-
mond's being a privileged ami cle la
maison. Now, my dear fellow, you un-
derstand how the land lies, and depend
400 ORMONP.
upon it, you'll like her, and find her every
way of great advantage to you. 1 *
So, thought Harry, is this all the ad-
vantage I am to hear of.
Sir Ulick led on to the drawing-room,
presented him to a fashionable looking
lady, neither young nor old, nothing in
any respect remarkable.
" Lady Norton, Harry Ormond —
Harry Ormond, my niece, Lady Norton,
who will make this house as pleasant to
yon, and to me, and to all my friends, as
it has been unpleasant ever since — in
short, ever since you were out of it,
Harry."
Lady Norton, with gracious smile and
well-bred courtesy, received Harry in a
manner that promised the performance
of all for which Sir Ulick had engaged.
Tea and coffee came ; and the conver-
sation went on chiefly between Sir Ulick
and Lady Norton on their own affairs,
about invitations and engagements they
had made, before they left Dublin, with
ORMOND. 401
various persons who were coming down
to Castle Hermitage. Sir Ulick asked,
" When are the Bi udenells to come to
us, my dear? -Did you .settle with the
Lascelles? — and Lady Louisa, she must
be here with the vice-regal party — ar-
range that, my dear."
Lady Norton had settled every thing ;
she took out an elegant memorandum-
book, and read the arrangements to Sir
Ulick : — " Monday, the Brudenells ;
Wednesday, the Lascelles; week after-
wards, Lady Louisa L and the vice-
regal party;*' with more titled personages
and names of fashionable notoriety, than
Harry Ormond had ever before heard, or
conceived to exist. Between times, Sir
Ulick turned to him and noted the claims
of these persons to distinction, and as se-
veral ladies were named, exclaimed —
<c Charming woman ! — Delightful little
creature ! — The Darrells ; Harry, you'll
like the Darrells too ! — The Lardners, all
clever, pleasant, and odd, will entertain
you amazingly, Harry ! — But Lady Mil-
402 ORMOND,
licent is the woman — nothing at all has
been seen in this country like her — most
fascinating! — Harry, take care of your
heart."
Then, as to the men — this man was
clever — and the other was quite a hero— •
ond the next the pleasantest fellow — and
the best sportsman — and there were men
of political eminence — men who had dis-
tinguished themselves on different occa-
sions by celebrated speeches — and par-
ticularly promising rising young men,
with whom he must make Ormond in-
timately acquainted. The whole of this
conversation was calculated to impress
him with the idea, that the most cele-
brated, charming, delightful people of
both sexes in the universe had agreed to
rendezvous, in the course of the ensuing
month, at Castle Hermitage — a scene of
never-ending pleasure and festivity seem-
ed opening to his view. Now Sir Ulick
closed Lady Norton's book, and taking it
from her hand, said —
lt I am tiring you, my dear — that's
ORMONI>. 408
enough for to-night — we'll settle all the
rest to-morrow — you must be tired after
your journey— I whirled you down without
mercy — you look fatigued and sleepy."
Lady Norton said, " Indeed, she be-
lieved she was a little tired, and rather
sleepy."
Her uncle begged she would not sit up
longer from compliment; accordingly,
apologizing to Mr. Ormond, and st really
much fatigued," she retired. Sir Ulick
walked up and down the room, medi-
tating for some moments, while Harry
renewed his intimacy with an old dog>
who, at every pause in the conversation,
jumping up upon him, squeeling with
delight, had claimed his notice.
" Well, my boy," exclaimed Sir
Ulick, stopping short, " aren't you a most
extraordinary fellow ? Pray did you get
my note?"
iC Certainly, Sir, and came instantly
in consequence."
" And yet you have never inquired what
it is thatyou might hear toy our advantage."
104 ORMOND.
" I — I thought 1 had heard it, Sir."
«' Heard it, Sir !" repeated Sir Ulick
— " What can you mean ?"
" Simply, Sir, that I thought the ad-
vantage you alluded to was the introduc-
tion you did me just now the favour to
give me to Lady Norton ; — you said, her
being here would be a great advantage to
me, and that led me to conclude — "
•* Well, well ! you were always a sim-
ple good fellow — confiding in my friend-
ship — continue the same — you will, I
am confident. But had you no other
thought?"
" I had," said Harry, " when first I
read your note, I had, I own, another
thought."
" And what might it be ?"
" I thought of my commission, Sir.'*
" What of your commission ?"
" That you had procured it for me,
ir.
Xi Since you ask me, I tell you ho-
nestly — and honestly I tell you, that if it
ORMOND. 405
had been for your interest, I would have
purchased that commission long" ago ; but
there is a little secret, a political secret,
which 1 could not tell you before — those
who are behind the scenes cannot always
speak — I may tell it to you now confi-
dentially, but you must not repeat it,
especially from me — that peace is likely
to continue; so the army is out of the
question."
" Well, Sir, if that be the case — you
know best."
" I do, — it is, trust me ; and as things
have turned out, — though I could not pos-
sibly foresee what has happened, — every
thing is for the best ; I have come express
from town to tell you news, that will sur-
prise you beyond measure."
" What can you mean, Sir ?"
" Simply, Sir, that you are possessed,
or soon will be possessed ot — but come,
sit down quietly, and in good earnest
let me explain to you. — You know your
father's second wife, the Indian woman,
406 ORMONB.
the governor's mahogany coloured daugh*
ter — she had a prodigious fortune, which
my poor friend, your father, chose, when
dying, to settle upon her, and her Indian
son; leaving you nothing but what he
could not take from you— the little pater-
nal estate of £300 a year. Well, it has
pleased Heaven to take your mahogany
coloured step-mother and your Indian
brother out of this world ; both carried
off within a few days of each other by a
fever of the country — much regretted I
dare say, in the Bombay Gazette, by all
who knew them.
" But as neither you nor I had that
honour, we are not, upon this occasion,
called upon for any hypocrisy, further than
a black coat, which I have ordered for
you at my tailor's. Have also noted and
answered, in conformity t the agent's let-
ter of 26th July, received yesterday,
containing the melancholy intelligence :
— further, replied to that part of his last,
which requested to know how and where
I
ORMOND. 407
to transmit the property, or eighty thou-
sand pounds sterling, which, on the In-
dian mother and toother's demise, falls,
by the will of the late Capt. Ormond, to
his European son, Harry Ormond, Esq.
now under the guardianship of Sir Ulick
O' Shane, Castle Hermitage, Ireland."
As he spoke, Sir Ulick produced the
agent's letter, and put it into his ward's
hand, pointing to the " useful passages."
— Harry, glancing his eye over them,
understood just enough to be convinced,
that Sir Ulick was in earnest, and that
he was really heir to a very considerable
property.
" Well ! Harry Ormond, Esq." pur-
sued Sir Ulick, " was I wrong when I
told you, that if you would inquire at Cas-
tle Hermitage you would hear of some-
thing to your advantage?"
" I hope in Heaven," said Ormond,
" and pray to Heaven, that it may be to my
advantage ! — I hope neither my head nor
my heart may be turned by sudden pros-
perity."
408 OKMOND.
« Your heart — Oh! I'll answer for
your heart, my noble fellow ;" said Sir
Ulick — " but I own you surprise me by
the coolness of head you shew."
<c If you'll excuse me," said Ormond,
<c I must run this minute to tell Dr Cam-
bray and all my friends at Vicar's Vale."
* ( Certainly — quite right," said Sir
Ulick, " I won't detain you a moment,"
said he— but he still held him fast. " I let
you go to-night, but you mnst come to me
to-morrow."
" Oh! Sir, certainly."
<c And yon will bid adieu to Vicar's
Vale, and take up your quarters at Cas-
tle Hermitage, with your old guardian."
" Thank you, Sir— delightful ! But
I need not bid adieu to Vicar's Vale —
they are so near, I shall see them every
day."
" Of course," said Sir Ulick, biting
his lip — u but I was thinking of some-
thing.
" Pray," continued Sir Ulick, " do
you like a gig, a curricle, or a phaeton
ORMOND. 409
best, or what carriage will you have ;
there is Tom Darrell's in London now,
who can bring it over for you. Well,
we can settle that to-morrow."
" If you please — thank you, kind Sir
Ulick — how can you think so quickly of
every thing?"
te Horses too — let me see," said Sir
Ulick, drawing- Harry back to the fire
place — " Aye, George Beiue is a judge
of horses, he can chuse for you, unless
you like to chuse for yourself. What
colour — black or bay?"
" I declare, Sir, I don't know yet— -
my poor head is in such a state — and the
horses happen not to be uppermost."
" I protest, Harry, you perfectly as-
tonish me, by the sedateness of your mind
and manner. Y"u are certainly wonder-
fully formed and improved since I saw
von last — bit, how ! in the name of won-
der, in the Black Islands, how I cannot
conceive," said Sir Ulick.
" As to sedateness, you know, Sir,
vol. n . T
410 OllMOND.
since I saw you last, I may well be so-
bered alittle, for I have suffered— not a
little," said Harry.
" Suffered ! how ?" said Sir Ulick,
leaning his arm on the mantle-piece op-
posite to him, and listening" with an
air of sympathy — "suffered! I was not
aware — "
" You know, Sir, I have lost an ex-
cellent friend.'*
" Poor Corny — aye, my poor cousin,
as far as he could, 1 am sure he wished to
be a friend to you."
«* He wished to be, and was" said
Ormond.
" It would have been better for him
and his daughter too," resumed Sir
Ulick, " if he had chosen you for his son-
in-law, instead of the coxcomb to whom
Dora is going to be married — yet I own,
as your guardian- — I am well pleased
that Dora, though a very pretty girl, is
out of your way — you must look higher
—she was no match for you."
1
ORMOND. 411
" I am perfectly sensible, Sir, that we
should never have been happy together."
" You are a very sensible young man,
Ormond — you make me admire you, se-
riously — I always foresaw what you
would be : — Ah! if Marcus — but we'll
not talk of that now. — Terribly dissi-
pated — has spent an immensity of money
already — but still, when he speaks in
Parliament, he will make a figure. —
But good bye, good night, I see you
are in a hurry to get away from me."
" From you — Oh, no, Sir, you cannot
think me so ungrateful — I have not ex-
pressed — because I have not words; —
when I feel much, I never can say any
thing ; — yet believe me, Sir, I do feel
your kindness, and all the warm, fatherly
interest you have this night shewn that
you have for me : — but I am in a hurry
to tell my good friends the Cambrays,
who I know are impatient for my re-
turn, and I fear J am keeping them up
beyond their usual hour*"
T 2
412 ORMONJD.
'* Not at all — besides — good heavens !
can't they set up a quarter of an hour,
if they are so much interested ? — stay,
you really hurry my slow wits — one thing
more I had to say — pray may I ask, to
which of the Miss Cambrays is it that
you are so impatient to impart your good
fortune ?"
" To both, Sir," said Ormond—
" equally."
" Both! — you unconscionable dog, po-
lygamy is not permitted in these coun-
tries. — Both — no — try again for a better
answer, though that was no bad one at
the first blush."
u I have no other answer to give than the
plain truth, Sir. — I am thinking neither of
polygamy, nor even of marriage at present,
Sir. — These young ladies are both very
amiable, very handsome, and very agree-
able ; but, in short, we are not thinking
of one another — indeed I believe they
are engaged."
" Engaged! — Oh! — Then you have
ORMOND. 413
thought about these young ladies enough
to find that out. — Well, this saves your
gallantry — good night."
Sir Ulick had this evening taken a
vast deal of superfluous pains to sound
a mind, which lay open before him, clear
to the very bottom ; but because it was so
clear, he could not believe that he saw
the bottom. — He did not much like Dr.
Cambray — father Jos was right there. —
Dr. Cambray was one of those simple
characters, which puzzled Sir Ulick —
the idea of these Miss Cambrays, of the
possibility of his ward's having formed
an attachment that might interfere with
his views— disturbed Sir Ulick's rest this
night. His first operation in the morn-
ing was, to walk down unexpectedly
earlv to Vicar's Vale. He found Ormond
with Dr. Cambray, very busy, examining
a plan which the doctor had sketched
for a new cottage for Moriarty, a ma-
son was standing by, talking of sand,
lime, and stones. — " But the young
414 ORMOND.
ladies, where are they?" Sir Ulick
asked.
Orraond did not know. — Mrs. Cam-
bray, who was quietly reading-, said, she
supposed they were in their gardens ;
and not in the least suspecting Sir Ulick's
suspicions, she was glad to see him, and
gave credit to his neighbourly good-will
for the earliness of this visit, without
waiting even for the doctor to pay his
respects first, as he intended to do at
Castle Hermitage.
" Oh ! as to that," Sir Ulick said, " he
did not intend to live on terms of ceremo-
ny with Dr. Cambray — he was impatient
to take the first opportunity of thanking-
the doctor for his attentions to his ward."
Sir Ulick's quick eye saw on the ta-
ble in Harry's handwriting the list of
books to be read. He took it up, looked
it over, and with a smile asked —
" Any thoughts of the church, Har-
vy?'
" No, Sir — it would be rathe • late
ORMON». 415
for me to think of the church, I should
never prepare myself properly."
" Besides," said Sir Ulick, " I have
no living in my gift — but if," continued
he, in a tone of irony, " if, as I should
opine from the list I hold in my hand,
you look to a college living my boy, if
you are bent upon reading for a fellow-
ship, I don't doubt but with Dr. Cam-
bray's assistance, and with some grinder
and crammer, we might get you cleverly
through all the college examinations —
and doctor, if he did not, in going
through some of the college courses, die
of a logical indigestion, or a classical
fever, or a metaphysical lethargy, he
might shine in the dignity of Trin. Coll.
Dub. and, mad Mathesis inspiring,
might teach eternally how the line A B
is equal to the line C D — or why poor
X Y Z are unknown quantities. — Ah!
my dear boy, think of the pleasure, the
glory of lecturing classes of ignoramuses,
and dunces yet unborn."
416 ORMONB.
Harry, no way disconcerted, laughed
good humouredly with his guardian, and
replied. — " At present, Sir, my ambition
reaches no farther than to escape myself
fr<»m the class of dunces and ignoramuses.
I am conscious, that at present I am very
deficient,"
" In what, my dear boy ?— To make
your complaint English, you must say defi-
cient in some thing or other — 'tis an Iri-
cism to s?y in general, that you are very
deficient."
" There is one of my particular de-
ficiencies then you see, Sir — I am defi-
cient in English."
" You are not deficient in temper, I
am sure," said Sir Ulick : " come, come,
you may be tolerably well contented
with yourself."
" Ignorant as I am ! — No," said Or-
mond, " I will never sit down content in
ignorance. — Now that I have the for-
tune of a gentleman, it would be so
much the more conspicuous, more scan-
ORMOND. 417
dalous — now that I have every way the
means, I will, by the blessing- of Heaven,
and with the help of kind friends, make
myself something- more, and something
better than I am now."
" Gad ! you are a fine fellow, Harry
Ormond," cried Sir Ulick : " I remember
having once, at your age, such feelings
and notions myself I"
" Very unlike the first thoughts and
feelings many young men would have
on coming into unexpected possession of
a fortune," said Dr. Cambray.
" True," said Sir Ulick, " and we
must keep his counsel, that he may not
be dubbed a quiz — not a word of this
sort Harry for the Darrells, the Lardners,
or the Dartfords."
" I don't care whether they dub me a
quiz or not," said Harry, hastily, " what
are Darrells, Lardners, or Dartfords to
me .
" They are something towie," said Sir
Ulick.
418 ORMOND.
" Oh I beg pardon, Sir, I didn't know
that — that makes it quite another af-
fair."
" And Harry, as you are to meet these
young men, I thought it well to try how
you could bear to be laughed at — I have
tried you in this very conversation, and
found you to my infinite satisfaction ridi-
cule proof- — better than even bullet proof
— much better. — No danger that a young
man of spirit should be bullied out of his
own opinion and principles, but great
danger that he might be laughed out
of them — and I rejoice, my dear ward,
to see that you are safe from this
peril."
Benevolent pleasure shone in Dr. Cam-
bray's countenance, when he heard Sir
Ulick speak in this manner.
" You will dine with us, Dr. Cam-
bray," said Sir Ulick. " Harry, you will
not forget Castle Hermitage?"
" Forget Castle Hermitage ! as if I
could, where I spent my happy child-
ORMOND. 419
hood — that Paradise as it seemed to me
the first time — when, a poor little orphan
boy, I was brought from my smoky
cabin — I remember the day as well as
if it was this moment — when you took
me by the hand, and led me in, and I
cluno- to vou."
" Cling- to me still ! cling to me ever,"
— interrupted Sir Ulick, " and I will never
fail you — no, never" repeated he, grasp-
ing Harry's hand, and looking upon
him with an emotion of affection, strongly
felt, and therefore strongly expressed.
tc To be sure I will," said Harry.
" And I hope," added Sir Ulick, re-
covering the gaiety of his tone, "that at
Ca tie Hermitage a Paradise will open
for your youth, as it opened for your
childhood."
Mrs. Cambray put in a word of hope
and fear about Vicar's Vale. To which
Ormond answered —
" Never fear Mrs. Cambray — trust me
— I know my own interest too well."
420 ORMOND.
Sir Ulick turning again as he was
leaving the room, said with an air of
frank liberality —
" We'll settle that at once—we'll di-
vide Harry between us — or we'll divide
his day thus — the mornings I leave you
to your friends and studies for an hour
or two, Harry, in this Eden's Vale, the
rest of the day we must have you —
men and books best mixed — see Bacon,
and see every clever man, that ever
wrote or spoke — So here," added Sir
Ulick, pointing to a map of history,
which lay on the table, " you will have
The Stream of Time, and with us Le
Courant du Jour."
Sir Ulick departed. — During the whole
of this conversation, and of that of the
preceding night, while he seemed to be
talking at random of indifferent things,
unconnected and of opposite sorts, he
had carefully attended to one object.
Going round the whole circle of human
motives — love, ambition, interest, ease,
ORMOND. 421
pleasure, he had made accurate observa-
tions on his ward's mind ; and revers-
ing the order, he went round another
way, and repeated and corrected his
observations. The points he had strongly
noted for practical use were, that for re-
taining influence over his ward, he must
depend not upon interested motives of
any kind, nor upon the force of authority,
of precedent, nor yet on the power of
ridicule, but principally upon feelings
of honour, gratitude, and generosity. —
Harry now no longer crossed any of his
projects, but was become himself the
means of carrying many into execution* —
The plan of a match for Marcus with Miss
Annaly was entirely at an end. — That
young lady had given a decided refusal,
and some circumstances, which we cannot
here stop to explain, rendered Marcus
and his father easy under that disappoint-
ment.— No jealousy or competition ex-
isting, therefore, any longer between his
son and ward, Sir Ulick's affection for
422 ORMOND. #
Ormond returned in full tide — nor <!ftl
he reproach himself for having banished
Harry from Castle Hermitage, or for
having formerly neglected, and almost
forgotten him for two or three years.
— Sir Ulick took the matter up just as
easily as he had laid it down — he now
looked on Harry not as the vouth whom
he had deserted, but as the orphan boy
whom he had cherished in adversity,
and whom he had a consequent right to
produce and patronise in prosperity. —
Beyond, or beneath all this there was
another reason, why Sir Ulick took so
much pains, and felt so much anxiety to
establish his influence over his ward. —
This reason cannot yet be mentioned —
he had hardly revealed it to himself — it
was deep down in his soul — to be or not
to be — as circumstances, time, and the
hour should decide.
END OF VOL. II,
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