THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 THE 
 NOVELS 
 
 OF 
 
 MARIA EDGEWORTH 
 
 IN TWELVE VOLUMES 
 VOL. X. 
 
 ORMOND
 
 Only Tivo Hundred and Fifty Copies of this Edition 
 have been printed for sale in England and j^merica. 
 
 This is No..J...Q..^
 
 "At a little distance below him he saw old Sheelali 
 ^itti^>i under a tree, rocking herself backwards and 
 forwards ; while Dora stood motionless opposite to 
 her, with her hand covering her eyes, and her head 
 drooping."
 
 (3-75" 
 /?9 3
 
 '.■ v-": t 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 ORMOND was commenced immediately on the 
 completion of Harrington. Miss Edgeworth 
 read the first chapter of it to her father on 
 a day in February 1817, as they were driving out to 
 pay the last visit he ever made. On his birthday, the 
 31st of May, in the same year, an advance copy of the 
 three volumes, in which were contained Harrington and 
 Ormond, formed the birthday present from daughter to 
 father. The preface which Mr Edgeworth wrote for 
 the two stories on that occasion will be found in 
 Harrington, the ninth volume of this series. 
 
 The following list mentions the principal editions 
 through which Ormond has passed : — 
 
 Harrington, a tale, and Ormond, a tale, 3 vols., 
 London, 181 7. 
 
 second edition, 3 vols., London, 1817. 
 
 Ormond, a tale (forming Vols. XII L, with Harrington, 
 
 and XI V. of Tales and Miscellaneous Pieces by 
 Maria Edgeworth), London, 1825. 
 
 another edition (forming Vol. XVIII. of 
 
 Novels and Tales of Maria Edgeworth), Lon- 
 don, 1832-33. 
 
 Many reprints from the stereotype plates of this edition 
 have been issued in various forms, and with vary- 
 ing arrangement of the stories. 
 
 F. J. S. 
 
 iii
 
 O R M O N D. 
 
 -«^ssa- 
 
 "W^ 
 
 ' HAT ! no music, no dancing at Castle 
 Hermitage to-night ; and all the ladies 
 sitting in a formal circle, petrifying into 
 perfect statues ? " cried Sir Ulick O'Shane as he 
 entered the drawing-room, between ten and eleven 
 o'clock at night, accompanied by what he called his 
 rearguard, 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 show themselves able to 
 stand after swallowing, a certain number of bottles of 
 claret per day or night. 
 
 "Now, then," continued Sir Ulick, "of all the 
 figures in natui'e or art, the formal circle is universally 
 the most obnoxious to conversation, and, to me, the 
 most formidable ; all my faculties are spell-bound — 
 here I am like a bird in a circle of chalk, that dare 
 not move so much as its head or its eyes, and can't, for 
 the life of it, take to its legs." 
 
 A titter ran round that part of the circle where the 
 young ladies sat — Sir Ulick was a favourite, and they 
 rejoiced when he came among them ; because, as they
 
 2 ORMOND. 
 
 observed, " he always said something pleasant, or set 
 something pleasant a-going." 
 
 " Lady O' Shane, for mercy's sake let us have no 
 more of these permanent circle sittings at Castle 
 Hermitage, my dear ! " 
 
 " Sir Ulick, I am sure I should be very glad if it 
 were possible," replied Lady O'Shane, "to have no 
 more permanent sittings at Castle Hermitage ; but when 
 gentlemen are at their bottle, I really don't know what 
 the ladies can do but sit in a circle." 
 
 " Can't they dance in a circle, or any way ? or have 
 not they an elegant resource in their music ? There's 
 many here who, to my knowledge, can caper as well 
 as they modulate," said Sir Ulick, " to say nothing of 
 cards for those that like them." 
 
 " Lady Annaly does not like cards," said Lady 
 O'Shane, "and I could not ask any of these young 
 ladies to waste their breath and their execution, singing 
 and playing before the gentlemen came out." 
 
 " These young ladies 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 long hour 
 ago — so why you have not been dancing is a mystery 
 beyond my comprehension." 
 
 "Tea or coffee. Sir Ulick O'Shane, for the third 
 time of asking ? " cried a sharp female voice from the 
 remote tea-table. 
 
 " Wouldn't you swear to that being the voice of a 
 Presbyterian ? " whispered Sir Ulick, over his shoulder 
 to the curate : then aloud he replied to the lady, " Miss 
 Black, you are three times too obliging. Neither tea nor 
 coffee I'll take from you to-night, I thank you kindly." 
 
 " Fortunate for yourself, sir — for both are as cold 
 as stones — and no wonder ! " said Miss Black. 
 
 "No wonder! " echoed Lady O'Shane, looking at 
 her watch, and sending forth an ostentatious sigh.
 
 ORMOND. 3 
 
 " What o'clock is it by your ladyship ? " asked Miss 
 Black. " I have a notion it's tremendously late." 
 
 " No matter — we are not pinned to hours in this 
 house, Miss Black," said Sir Ulick, walking up to the 
 tea-table, and giving her a look, which said as plainly 
 as look could say, " You had better be quiet." 
 
 Lady O'Shane followed her husband, and putting 
 her arm within his, began to say something in a fond- 
 ling tone ; and in a most conciliatory manner she went 
 on talking to him for some moments. He looked 
 absent, and replied coldly. 
 
 ♦* I'll take a cup of coffee from you now, Miss 
 Black," said he, drawing away his arm from his wife, 
 who looked much mortified. 
 
 "We are too long, Lady O'Shane," added he, 
 "standing here like lovers, talking to no one but 
 ourselves — awkward in company." 
 
 " Like lovers ! " The sound pleased poor Lady 
 O'Shane's ear, and she smiled for the first time this 
 night — Lady O'Shane was perhaps the last woman in 
 the room whom a stranger would have guessed to be 
 Sir Ulick's wife. 
 
 He was a fine gallant ^hand-looMmg Irishman, 
 with something of dash in his tone and air, which at 
 first view might lead a common observer to pronounce 
 him to be vulgar ; but at five minutes after sight, a 
 good judge of men and manners would have discovered 
 in him the power of assuming whatever manner he 
 chose, from the audacity of the callous profligate to the 
 deference of the accomplished courtier — the capability 
 of adapting his conversation to his company and his 
 views, whether his object were " to set the senseless 
 table in a roar," or to insinuate himself into the delicate 
 female heart. Of this latter power, his age had 
 diminished but not destroyed the influence. The fame 
 of former conquests still operated in his favour, though
 
 4 ORMOND. 
 
 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 farther than his legitimate loves, he had 
 successively won three wives, who had each, in her 
 turn, been desperately enamoured : the first he loved, 
 and married, imprudently, for love, at seventeen ; the 
 second he admired, and married, prudently, for ambi- 
 tion, at thirty ; the third he hated, but married, from 
 necessity, for money, at five-and-forty. The first 
 wife, Miss Annaly, after ten years' martyrdom of the 
 heart, sank, childless — a victim, it was said, to love 
 and jealousy. The second wife, Lady Theodosia, 
 struggled stoutly for power, backed by strong and high 
 connexions ; having, moreover, the advantage of being 
 a mother, and mother of an only son and heir, the 
 representative of a father in whom ambition had, by 
 this time, become the ruling passion : the Lady Theo- 
 dosia stood her ground, wrangling and wrestling through 
 a fourteen years' wedlock, till at last, to Sir Ulick's 
 great relief, not to say joy, her ladyship was carried 
 off by a bad fever, or a worse apothecary. His present 
 lady, formerly Mrs Scraggs, a London widow of very 
 large fortune, happened to see Sir Ulick when he went 
 to present some address, or settle some point between 
 the English and Irish Government : — he was in deep 
 mourning at the time, and the widow pitied him very 
 much. But she was not the sort of woman he would 
 ever have suspected could like him — she was a strict 
 pattern lady, severe on the times, and not unfrequently 
 lecturing young men gratis. Now Sir Ulick O'Shane 
 was a sinner ; how then could he please a saint ? He 
 did, however — but the saint did not please him — though 
 she set to work for the good of his soul, and in her 
 own person relaxed, to please his taste, even to the
 
 ORMOND. 5 
 
 wearing of rouge and pearl-powder, and false hair, and 
 false eyebrows, and all the falsifications which the 
 setUrs-up could furnish. But after she had purchased 
 all of youth which age can purchase for money, it 
 would not do. The widow Scraggs might, with her 
 " lack lustre " eyes, have speculated for ever in vain 
 upon Sir Ulick, but that, fortunately for her passion, at 
 one and the same time the Irish ministry were turned 
 out and an Irish canal burst. Sir Ulick, losing his 
 place by the change of ministry, and one-half of his 
 fortune by the canal in which it had been sunk, and 
 having spent in unsubstantial schemes and splendid 
 living more than the other half, now, in desperate 
 misery, laid hold of the widow Scraggs. After a nine 
 days' courtship she became a bride, and she and her 
 plum in the stocks — but not her messuage, house, 
 and lands, in Kent — became the property of Sir Ulick 
 O'Shane. "Love was then lord of all" with her, 
 and she was now to accompany Sir Ulick to Ireland. 
 Late in life she was carried to a new country, and set 
 down among a people whom she had all her previous 
 days been taught to hold in contempt or aversion : she 
 dreaded Irish disturbances much, and Irish dirt more ; 
 she was persuaded that nothing could be right, good, 
 or genteel, that was not English. Her habits and 
 tastes were immutably fixed. Her experience had been 
 confined to a London life, and in proportion as her 
 sphere of observation had been contracted, her disposi- 
 tion was intolerant. She made no allowance for the 
 difference of opinion, customs, and situation, much less 
 for the faults or foibles of people who were to her 
 strangers and foreigners — her ladyship was therefore 
 little likely to please or be pleased in her new situation. 
 Her husband was the only individual, the only thing, 
 animate or inanimate, that she liked in Ireland — and 
 while she was desperately in love with an Irishman,
 
 O ORMOND. 
 
 she disliked Ireland and the Irish : even the Irish 
 talents and virtues, their wit, humour, generosity of 
 character, and freedom of manner, were lost upon her 
 — her country neighbours were repelled by her air of 
 taciturn self-sufficiency — and she, for her part, declared 
 she would have been satisfied to have lived alone at 
 Castle Hermitage with Sir Ulick. But Sir Ulick had 
 no notion of living alone with her, or for anybody. 
 His habits were all social and convivial — he loved show 
 and company : he had been all his life in the habit of 
 entertaining all ranks of people at Castle Hermitage, 
 from his excellency the lord-lieutenant and the com- 
 mander-in-chief for the time being, to Tim the gauger, 
 and honest Tom Kelly, the stalko. 
 
 He talked of the necessity of keeping up a neigh- 
 bourhood, 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 festi- 
 vity; but, under this good fellowship and apparent 
 thoughtlessness and profusion, there was 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 economic tastes 
 of his new lady — a bride ten years older than himself ! 
 Lady O'Shane was, soon after her arrival in Ireland, 
 compelled to see her house as full of company as it could 
 possibly hold ; and her ladyship was condemned eternally 
 to do the honours to successive troops oi friends, of 
 whom she knew nothing, and of whom she disliked 
 all she saw or heard. Her dear Sir Ulick was, or 
 seemed, so engrossed by the business of pleasure, so 
 taken up with his guests, that but a few minutes in 
 the day could she ever obtain of his company. She 
 saw herself surrounded by the young, the fair, and
 
 ORMOND. 7 
 
 the gay, to whom Sir Ulick devoted his assiduous 
 and gallant attentions ; and though his age, and his 
 being a married man, seemed to preclude, in the 
 opinion of the cool or indifferent spectator, all idea 
 of any real cause for jealousy, yet it was not so with 
 poor Lady O'Shane's magnifying imagination. The 
 demon of jealousy tortured her ; and to enhance her 
 sufferings she was obliged to conceal them, lest they 
 should become subjects of private mockery or public 
 derision. It is the peculiar misfortune or punishment 
 of misplaced, and yet more of unseasonable, passions, 
 that in their distresses they obtain no sympathy ; and 
 while the passion is in all its consequences tragic to 
 the sufferer, in all its exhibitions it is ludicrous to 
 the spectator. Lady O' Shane could not be young, 
 and would not be old : so without the charms of 
 youth, or the dignity of age, she could neither in- 
 spire love nor command respect ; nor could she find 
 fit occupation or amusement, or solace or refuge, in 
 any combination of company or class of society. 
 Unluckily, as her judgment, never discriminating, 
 was now blinded by jealousy, the two persons of all 
 his family connexions upon whom she pitched as the 
 peculiar objects of her fear and hatred were precisely 
 those who were most disposed to pity and befriend 
 her — to serve her in private with Sir Ulick, and to 
 treat her with deference in public ! these two persons 
 were Lady Annaly and her daughter. Lady Annaly 
 was a distant relation of Sir Ulick's first wife, during 
 whose life some circumstances had occurred which 
 had excited her ladyship's indignation against him. 
 For many years all commerce between them had 
 ceased. Lady Annaly was a woman of generous 
 indignation, strong principles, and warm affections. 
 Her rank, her high connexions, her high character, 
 her having, from the time she was left a young and
 
 8 ORMOND. 
 
 beautiful widow, devoted herself to the education 
 and the interests of her children ; her having per- 
 severed in her lofty course, superior to all the 
 numerous temptations of love, vanity, or ambition, by 
 which she was assailed ; her long and able adminis- 
 tration of a large property, during the minority of 
 her son ; her subsequent graceful resignation of power ; 
 his affection, gratitude, and deference for his mother, 
 which now continued to prolong her influence, and 
 exemplify her precepts in every act of his own ; alto- 
 gether placed this lady high in public consideration — 
 high as any individual could stand in a country where 
 national enthusiastic attachment is ever excited by cer- 
 tain noble qualities congenial to the Irish nature. Sir 
 Ullck O'Shane, sensible of the disadvantage of having 
 estranged such a family connexion, and fully capable of 
 appreciating the value of her friendship, had of late years 
 taken infinite pains to redeem himself in Lady Annaly's 
 opinion. His consummate address, aided and abetted 
 and concealed as it was by his offhand manner, 
 would scarcely have succeeded, had it not been sup- 
 ported also by some substantial good qualities, espe- 
 cially by the natural candour and generosity of his 
 disposidon. In favour of the originally strong, and, 
 through all his errors, wonderfully surviving taste 
 for virtue, some of his manifold transgressions might 
 be forgiven : there was much hope and promise of 
 amendment; and, besides, to state things just as 
 they were, he had propitiated the mother, irresis- 
 tibly, by his enthusiastic admiration of the daughter 
 — so that Lady Annaly had at last consented to 
 revisit Castle Hermitage. Her ladyship and her 
 daughter were now on this reconciliation visit; Sir 
 Ulick was extremely anxious to make it agreeable. 
 Besides the credit of her friendship, he had other 
 reasons for wishing to conciliate her : his son Marcus
 
 ORMOND. 9 
 
 was just twenty — two years older than Miss Annaly 
 — in course of time, Sir Ulick thought, it might be 
 a match — his son could not possibly make a better — 
 beauty, fortune, family connexions, everything that 
 hearts of young and old desire. Besides (for in Sir 
 Ulick's calculations les'ules 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 a considerable debt due by Sir Ulick to 
 these Annalys, with accumulated interest, since the 
 time of his first marriage ; and this debt would be 
 merged in Miss Annaly's portion, should she become 
 his son's wife. All this was very well calculated ; 
 but, to say nothing of the character or affections of the 
 son, Sir Ulick had omitted to consider Lady O'Shane, 
 or he had taken it for granted that her love for him 
 would induce her at once to enter into and second his 
 views. It did not so happen. On the contrary, the 
 dislike which Lady O'Shane took at sight 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 contrast to her own frip- 
 pery appearance — increased every day, and every hour, 
 when she saw the attentions, the adoration, that Sir 
 Ulick paid to Miss Annaly, and the deference and 
 respect he showed to Lady Annaly, all for qualities 
 and accomplishments in which Lady O'Shane was 
 conscious that she was irremediably deficient. Sir 
 Ulick thought to extinguish her jealousy, by opening 
 to her his views on Miss Annaly for his son ; but the 
 jealousy, taking only a new direction, strengthened in 
 its course. Lady O'Shane did not like her son-in-
 
 lO ORMOND. 
 
 law — had indeed no great reason to like him ; Marcus 
 disHked her, and was at no pains to conceal his dis- 
 like. She dreaded the accession of domestic power 
 and influence he would gain by such a marriage. She 
 could not bear the thoughts of having a daughter-in- 
 law brought into the house — placed in eternal com- 
 parison with her. Sir Ulick O'Shane was conscious 
 that his marriage exposed him to some share of 
 ridicule ; but hitherto, except when his taste for 
 raillery, and the diversion of exciting her causeless 
 jealousy, interfered with his purpose, he had always 
 treated her ladyship as he conceived that Lady 
 O'Shane ought to be treated. Naturally good-natured, 
 and habitually attentive to the sex, he had indeed kept 
 up appearances better than could have been expected 
 from a man of his former habits to a woman of her 
 ladyship's present age; but if she now crossed his 
 favourite scheme, it would be all over with her — her 
 submission to his will had hitherto been a sufficient and 
 a convenient proof, and the only proof he desired, of 
 her love. Her ladyship's evil genius, in the shape of 
 Miss Black, her humble companion, was now busily 
 instigating her to be refractory. Miss Black had fre- 
 quently whispered, that if Lady O'Shane would show 
 more spirit, she would do better with Sir Ulick ; that 
 his late wife. Lady Theodosia, had ruled him, by 
 showing proper spirit ; that in particular, she should 
 make a stand against the encroachments of Sir Ulick's 
 son, Marcus, and of his friend and companion, young 
 Ormond. In consequence of these suggestions. Lady 
 O'Shane had most judiciously thwarted both these 
 young men in trifles, till she had become their aversion : 
 this aversion Marcus felt more than he expressed, and 
 Ormond expressed more strongly than he felt. To 
 Sir Ulick, his son and heir was his first great object 
 in life ; yet, though in all things he preferred the
 
 ORMOND. 1 1 
 
 interest of Marcus, he was not as fond of Marcus as 
 he was of young Ormond. Young Ormond was the 
 son of the friend of Sir Ulick O' Shane's youthful and 
 warm-hearted days — the son of an officer who had 
 served in the same regiment with him in his first 
 campaign. Captain Ormond afterwards made an un- 
 fortunate marriage — that is, a marriage without a for- 
 tune — his friends would not see him or his wife — he 
 was soon in debt, and in great distress. He was 
 obliged to leave his wife, and go to India. She had 
 then one child at nurse in an Irish cabin. She died 
 soon afterwards. Sir Ulick O'Shane took the child, 
 that had been left at nurse, into his own house. From 
 the time it was four years old, little Harry Ormond 
 became his darling, and grew up his favourite. Sir 
 Ulick's fondness, however, had not extended to any 
 care of his education — quite the contrary : he had 
 done all he could to spoil him by the most injudicious 
 indulgence, and by neglect of all instruction or dis- 
 cipline. Marcus had been sent to school and college ; 
 but Harry Ormond, meantime, had been let to run 
 wild at home : the gamekeeper, the huntsman, and a 
 cousin of Sir Ulick, who called himself the king of 
 the Black Islands, had had the principal share in his 
 education. Captain Ormond, his father, was not heard 
 of for many years ; and Sir Ulick always argued, that 
 there was no use in giving Harry Ormond the educa- 
 tion of an estated gentleman, when he was not likely to 
 have an estate. Moreover, he prophesied that Harry 
 would turn out the cleverest man of the two ; and in 
 the progress of the two boys towards manhood. Sir 
 Ulick had shown a strange sort of double and incon- 
 sistent vanity in his son's acquirements, and in the 
 orphan Harry's natural genius. Harry's extremely 
 warm, generous, grateful temper, delighted Sir Ulick ; 
 but he gloried in the superior polish of his own son.
 
 12 ORMOND, 
 
 Harry Ormond grew up with all the faults that were 
 incident to his natural violence of passions, and that 
 might necessarily be expected from his neglected and 
 deficient education. His devoted gratitude and attach- 
 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 he was ungovernable by most other people, 
 and rude, even to insolence, where he felt tyranny or 
 suspected meanness. Miss Black and he were always 
 at open war ; to Lady O'Shane he submitted, though 
 with an ill grace ; yet he did submit, for his guardian's 
 sake, where he himself only was concerned ; but most 
 imprudently and fiercely he contended upon every 
 occasion where Marcus, when aggrieved, had declined 
 contending with his mother-in-law. 
 
 Upon the present occasion the two youths had been 
 long engaged to dine with, and keep the birthday of, 
 Mr Cornelius O'Shane, the king of the Black Islands 
 — next to Sir Ulick the being upon earth to whom 
 Harry Ormond thought himself most obliged, and to 
 whom he felt himself most attached. This he had 
 represented to Lady O'Shane, and had earnestly re- 
 quested 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 
 ccitain hour. She knew that Sir Ulick would be much 
 vexed by their want of punctuality on this occasion, 
 where the Annalys were concerned, though, in general, 
 punctuality was a virtue for which he had no regard. 
 
 Sir Ulick had finished his cup of coffee. " Miss 
 Black, send away the tea-things — send away all these 
 things," cried he. " Young ladies, better late than 
 never, you know — let's have dancing now; clear the 
 decks for action."
 
 ORMOND. 13 
 
 The young ladies started from their seats imme- 
 diately. All was now in happy motion. The servants 
 answered promptly — the tea-things retired in haste — 
 tables rolled away — chairs swung into the background 
 — 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 pre- 
 paration. 
 
 *' But where's my son — where's Marcus ? " said Sir 
 Ulick, drawing Lady O' Shane aside. " I don't see 
 him anywhere." 
 
 " No," said Lady O'Shane ; " you know that he 
 would go to dine to-day with that strange cousin of 
 yours, and neither he nor his companion have thought 
 proper to return yet." 
 
 " I wish you had given me a hint," said Sir Ulick, 
 *' and I would have waited ; for Marcus ought to lead 
 off with Miss Annaly." 
 
 *' Ought — to be sure," said Lady O'Shane ; " but 
 that is no rule for-young gentlemen's conduct. I told 
 both the young gentlemen that we were to have a 
 dance to-night. I mentioned the hour and begged 
 them to be punctual." 
 
 " Young men are never punctual," said Sir Ulick ; 
 " but Marcus is inexcusable to-night on account of 
 the Annalys." 
 
 Sir Ulick pondered for a moment with an air of 
 vexation, then turning to the musicians, who were 
 behind him, "You four-and-twenty fiddlers all in a 
 row, you gentlemen musicians, scrape and tune on a 
 little longer, if you please. Remember you are not 
 ready till I draw on my gloves. Break a string or 
 two if necessary." 
 
 " We will — we shall — plase your honour."
 
 14 ORMOND. 
 
 " 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 
 fi'om your walk and way, that you were not in a con- 
 dition 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 diinking ? But when I have these county 
 electioneering friends, the worthy red noses, to enter- 
 tain, I suit myself to the company, by acting spirits 
 instead of swallowing them, for I should scorn to 
 appear to flinch ! " 
 
 This was true. Sir Ulick could, and often did, to 
 the utmost perfection, counterfeit every degree of in- 
 toxication. He could act the rise, decline, and fall of 
 the drunken man, marking the whole progress, from 
 the first incipient hesitation of reason to the glorious 
 confusion of ideas in the highest state of elevation, 
 thence through all the declining cases of stultified 
 paralytic ineptitude, down to the hgrizontal condition 
 of preterpluperfect ebriety. 
 
 " Really, Sir Ulick, you are so good an actor that 
 I don't pretend to judge — I can seldom find out the 
 truth from you." 
 
 " So much the better for you, my dear, if you knew 
 but all," said Sir Ulick, laughing. 
 
 " If I knew but all ! " repeated her ladyship, with 
 an alarmed look. 
 
 " But that's not the matter in hand at present, my 
 dear." 
 
 Sir Ulick protracted the interval before the opening 
 of the ball as long as he possibly could — but in vain — 
 the young gentlemen did not appear. Sir Ulick drew 
 on his gloves. The broken strings of the violins were
 
 ORMOND. 15 
 
 immediately found to be mended. Sir Ulick opened 
 the ball himself with Miss Annaly, after making as 
 handsome an apology for his son as the case would 
 admit — an apology which was received by the young 
 lady with the most graceful good-nature. She declined 
 dancing more than one dance, and Sir Ulick sat down 
 between her and Lady Annaly, exerting all his powers 
 of humour to divert them, at the expence of his cousin, 
 the king of the Black Islands, whose tedious ferry, or 
 whose claret, or more likely whose whiskey-punch, he 
 was sure, had been the cause of Marcus's misdemeanour. 
 It was now near twelve o'clock. Lady O'Shane, 
 who had made many aggravating reflections upon the 
 disrespectful conduct of the young gentlemen, grew 
 restless on another count. The gates were left open 
 for them — the gates ought to be locked ! There 
 were disturbances in the country. " Pshaw 1 " Sir 
 Ulick said. Opposite directions were given at oppo- 
 site doors to two servants. 
 
 " Dempsey, tell them they need not lock the gates 
 till the young gentlemen come home, or at least till 
 one o'clock," said Sir Ulick. 
 
 "Stone," said Lady O'Shane to her own man in a 
 very low voice, " go down directly, and see that the 
 gates are locked, and bring me the keys." 
 
 Dempsey, an Irishman, who was half drunk, forgot 
 to see or say anything about it. Stone, an English- 
 man, went directly to obey his lady's commands, and 
 the gates were locked, and the keys brought to her lady- 
 ship, 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 ballroom, she was 
 startled by a peremptory tap on the glass behind her ; 
 she turned, and saw young Orraond, pale as death, and 
 stained with blood.
 
 1 6 ORMOND. 
 
 " The keys of the gate instantly," cried he, " for 
 mercy's sake ! " 
 
 CMpter a. 
 
 LADY O'Shane, extremely terrified, had scarcely 
 ^ power to rise. She opened the drawer of the 
 table, and thrust her trembling hand down to 
 the bottom of the silk bag, into which the keys had 
 fallen. Impatient of delay, Ormond pushed open the 
 door, snatched the keys, and disappeared. The whole 
 passed in a few seconds. The music drowned the 
 noise of the opening door, and of the two chairs which 
 Ormond had thrown down : those who sat near thought 
 a servant had pushed in and gone out ; but however 
 rapid the movement, the full view of the figure had 
 been seen by Miss Annaly, who was sitting on the 
 opposite side of the room ; Sir Ulick was sitting 
 beside her, talking earnestly. Lady Annaly had just 
 retired. " For Heaven's sake, what's the matter ? " 
 cried he, stopping in the middle of a sentence, on 
 seeing Miss Annaly grow suddenly pale as death. 
 Her eyes were fixed on the door of the greenhouse ; 
 his followed that direction. " Yes," said he, " we 
 can get out into the air that way — lean on me." 
 She did so — he pushed his way through the crowd 
 at the bottom of the country dance ; and, as he passed, 
 was met by Lady O'Shane and Miss Black, both with 
 faces of horror. 
 
 "Sir Ulick, did you see," pointing to the door, 
 " did you see Mr Ormond ? — There's blood ! " 
 
 "There's mischief, certainly," said Miss Black. 
 " A quarrel — Mr Marcus, perhaps." 
 
 " Nonsense 1 No such thing, you'll find," said Sir 
 Ulick, pushing on, and purposely jostling the arm of
 
 ORMOND. 1 7 
 
 a servant who was holding a salver of ices, overUuning 
 them all ; and whilst the surrounding company were 
 fully occupied about their clothes, and their fears and 
 apologies, he made his way onwards to the green- 
 house — Lady O'Shane clinging to one arm — Miss 
 Annaly supported by the other — Miss Black follow- 
 ing, repeating, " Mischief ! mischief! you'll see, sir." 
 
 " Miss Black, open the door, and not another 
 word." 
 
 He edged Miss Annaly on the moment the door 
 opened, dragged Lady O'Shane after him, pushed 
 Miss Black back as she attempted to follow : but 
 recollecting that she might spread the report of 
 mischief if he left her behind, drew her into the 
 greenhouse, locked the door, and led Miss Annaly 
 out into the air. 
 
 " Bring salts ! water ! something. Miss Black — 
 follow me. Lady O'Shane." 
 
 " When I am hardly able — your wife 1 Sir Ulick, 
 you might," said Lady O'Shane, as she tottered on, 
 " you might, I should have thought " 
 
 " No time for such thoughts, my dear," interrupted 
 he. " Sit down on the steps — there, she is better 
 now — now what is all this ? " 
 
 " I am not to speak," said Miss Black. 
 
 Lady O'Shane began to say how Mr Ormond had 
 burst in, covered with blood, and seized the keys of 
 the gates. 
 
 "The keys!" But he had no time for that 
 thought. " Which way did he go ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; I gave him the keys of both gates." 
 
 The two entrances were a mile asunder. Sir Ulick 
 looked for footsteps on the grass. It was a fine moon- 
 light night. He saw footsteps on the path leading to 
 the gardener's house. « Stay here, ladies, and I will 
 bring you intelligence as soon as possible." 
 
 B
 
 1 8 ORMOND. 
 
 "This way, Sir Ulick — they are coming," said 
 Miss Annaly, who had now recovered her presence of 
 mind. 
 
 Several persons appeared from a turn in the shrub- 
 bery, carrying some one on a hand-barrow — a gentle- 
 man on horseback, with a servant and many persons 
 walking. Sir Ulick hastened towards them ; the 
 gentleman on horseback spurred his horse and met him. 
 
 " Marcus ! — is it you ? — thank God ! But Ormond 
 — where is he, and what has happened ? " 
 
 The first sound of Marcus's voice, when he at- 
 tempted to answer, showed that he was not in a 
 condition to give a rational account of anything. His 
 servant followed, also much intoxicated. While Sir 
 Ulick had been stopped by their ineffectual attempts 
 to explain, the people who were carrying the man 
 on the hand-barrow came up. Ormond appeared from 
 the midst of them. " Carry him on to the gardener's 
 house," cried he, pointing the way, and coming for- 
 ward to Sir Ulick. " If he dies, I am a murderer ! " 
 cried he. 
 
 " Who is he ? " said Sir Ulick. 
 
 " Moriarty Carroll, please your honour," answered 
 several voices at once. 
 
 " And how happened it ? " said Sir Ulick. 
 
 " The long and the short of it, sir," said Marcus, 
 as well as he could articulate, " the fellow was insolent, 
 and we cut him down — and if it was to do again, I'd 
 do it again with pleasure." 
 
 " No, no ! you won't say so, Marcus, when you 
 are yourself," said Ormond. " Oh ! how dreadful 
 to come to one's senses all at once, as I did — the 
 moment after I had fired that fatal shot — the moment 
 I saw the poor fellow stagger and fall " 
 
 " It was you, then, that fired at him," interrupted 
 Sir Ulick.
 
 ORMOND. 1 9 
 
 " Yes, oh ! yes ! " said he, striking his forehead : 
 " I did it in the fury of passion." 
 
 Then Ormond, taking all the blame upon himself, 
 and stating what had passed in the strongest light 
 against himself, gave this account of the matter. 
 After having drank too much at Mr Cornelius 
 O'Shane's, they were returning from the Black 
 Islands, and afraid of being late, they were galloping 
 hard, when at a narrow part of the road they were 
 stopped by some cars. Impatient of the delay, they 
 abused the men who were driving them, insisting 
 upon their getting out of the way faster than they 
 could. Moriarty Carroll made some answer, which 
 Marcus said was insolent ; and inquiring the man's 
 name, and hearing it was Carroll, said all the Car- 
 rolls were bad people — rebels. Moriarty defied him 
 to prove that — and added some expressions about 
 tyranny, which enraged Ormond. This part of the 
 provocation Ormond did not state, but merely said 
 he was thrown into a passion by some observation 
 of Moriarty' s ; and first he lifted his whip to give 
 the fellow a horsewhipping. Moriarty seized hold o. 
 the whip, and struggled to wrest it from his hand ; 
 Ormond then snatched a pistol from his holster, 
 telling Moriarty he would shoot him, if he did not 
 let the whip go. Moriarty, who was in a passion 
 himself, struggled, still holding the whip. Ormond 
 cocked the pistol, and before he was aware he had 
 done so, the pistol accidentally went off — the ball 
 entered Moriarty's breast. This happened within a 
 quarter of a mile of Castle Hermitage. The poor 
 fellow bled profusely ; and, in assisting to lift him 
 upon the hand-barrow, Ormond was covered with 
 blood, as has been already described. 
 
 "Have you sent for a surgeon?" said Sir Ulick 
 coolly.
 
 20 ORMOND. 
 
 " Certainly — sent off a fellow on my own horse 
 directly. Sir, will you come on to the gardener's 
 house ; I want you to see him, to know what you'll 
 think. If he die, I am a murderer," repeated 
 Ormond. 
 
 This horrible idea so possessed his imagination, 
 that he could not answer or hear any of the farther 
 questions that were asked by Lady O'Shane and Miss 
 Black ; but after gazing upon them with unmeaning 
 eyes for a moment in silence, walked rapidly on : as 
 he was passing by the steps of the greenhouse, he 
 stopped short at the sight of Miss Annaly, who was 
 still sitting there. "What's the matter?" said he, 
 in a tone of great compassion, going close up to her. 
 Then, recollecting himself, he hurried forward again. 
 
 " As I can be of no use — unless I can be of any 
 use," said Miss Annaly, " I will, now that I am well 
 enough, return — my mother will wonder what has 
 become of me." 
 
 " Sir Ulick, give me the key of the conservatory, 
 to let Miss Annaly into the ballroom." 
 
 " Miss Annaly does not wish to dance any more 
 to-night, I believe," said Sir Ulick. 
 
 " Dance — oh ! no." 
 
 " Then, without exciting observation, you can all 
 get in better at the back door of the house, and Miss 
 Annaly can go up the back stairs to Lady Annaly's 
 room, without meeting any one ; and you, Lady 
 O'Shane," added he, in a low voice, " order up 
 supper, and say nothing of what has passed. Miss 
 Black, you hear what I desire — no gossiping." 
 
 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 ? "
 
 ORMOND. 2 1 
 
 "'Tis I Stop the way, Sir Ulick," said Lady 
 O' Shane, "to speak a word to the surgeon. If you 
 find the man in any dangerous way, for pity's sake 
 don't let him die at our gardener's — indeed, the 
 bringing him here at all I think a very strange step 
 and encroachment of Mr Ormond's. It will make 
 the whole thing so public — and the people hereabouts 
 are so revengeful — if anything should happen to him, 
 it will be revenged on our whole family — on Sir Ulick 
 in particular." 
 
 " No danger — nonsense, my dear." 
 
 But now this idea had seized Lady O' Shane, it 
 appeared to her a sufficient reason for desiring to 
 remove the man even this night. She asked why he 
 could not be taken to his own home and his own 
 people; she repeated that it was very strange of Mr 
 Ormond to take such liberties, as if everything 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 miles 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 reappeared. Naturally 
 of sudden violent temper, and being now in the 
 highest state of suspense and irritation, he broke out, 
 forgetful of all proper respect. Miss Black, who was 
 saying something in corroboration of Lady O' Shane's 
 opinion, he first attacked, pronouncing her to be an 
 unfeeling, canting hypocrite: then, turning to Lady 
 O'Shane, he said that she might send the dying man 
 away, if she pleased ; but that if she did, he would 
 go too, and that never while he existed would he 
 enter her ladyship's doors again. 
 
 Ormond made this threat with the air of a superior 
 to an inferior, totally forgetting his own dependent
 
 2 2 ORMOND. 
 
 situation, and the dreadful circumstances in which he 
 now stood. 
 
 " You are drunk, young man ! My dear Ormond, 
 you don't know what you are saying," interposed Sir 
 Ulick. 
 
 At his voice and the kindness of his tone, Ormond 
 recollected himself. " Forgive me," said he, in a very 
 
 gentle tone. " My head certainly is not Oh ! may 
 
 you never feel what I have felt this last hour. If this 
 man dies Oh ! consider." 
 
 " He will not die — he will not die, I hope — at any 
 rate, don't talk so loud within hearing of these people. 
 My dear Lady O'Shane, this foolish boy — this Harry 
 Ormond is, I grant, a sad scapegrace, but you must 
 bear with him for my sake. Let this poor wounded 
 fellow remain here — I won't have him stirred to-night 
 — we shall see what ought to be done in the morning. 
 Ormond, you forgot yourself strangely towards Lady 
 O'Shane — as to this fellow, don't make such a rout 
 about the business ; I dare say he will do very well : 
 we shall hear what the surgeon says. At first I was 
 horribly frightened — I thought you and Marcus had 
 been quarrelling. Miss Annaly, are not you afraid of 
 staying out ? Lady O'Shane, why do you keep Miss 
 Annaly ? Let supper go up directly." 
 
 " Supper ! ay, everything goes on as usual," said 
 Ormond, " and I " 
 
 " I must follow them in, and see how things are 
 going on, and prevent gossiping, for your sake, my 
 boy," resumed Sir Ulick, after a moment's pause. 
 " You have got into an ugly scrape. I pity you from 
 my soul — I'm rash myself. Send the surgeon to me 
 when he has seen the fellow. Depend upon me ; if 
 the worst come to the worst, there's nothing in the 
 world I would not do to serve you," said Sir Ulick : 
 " so keep up your spirits, my boy — we'll contrive to
 
 ORMOND. 23 
 
 bring you through — at the worst, it will only be man- 
 slaughter." 
 
 Ormond wrung Sir Ulick's hand — thanked him for 
 his kindness ; but repeated, " It will be murder — ^it will 
 be murder — my own conscience tells me so ! If he 
 dies, give me up to justice." 
 
 " You'll think better of it before morning," said Sir 
 Ulick, as he left Ormond. 
 
 The surgeon gave Ormond little comfort. After 
 extracting the bullet, and examining the wound, he 
 shook his head — he had but a bad opinion of the case ; 
 and when Ormond took him aside, and questioned him 
 more closely, he confessed that he thought the man 
 would not live — he should not be surprised if he died 
 before morning. The surgeon was obliged to leave 
 him to attend another patient ; and Ormond, turning 
 all the other people out of the room, declared he would 
 sit up with Moriarty himself. A terrible night it was 
 to him. To his alarmed and inexperienced eyes the 
 danger seemed even greater than it really was, and 
 several times he thought his patient expiring, when he 
 was faint from loss of blood. The moments in which 
 Ormond was occupied in assisting him were the least 
 painful. It was when he had nothing left to do, when 
 he had leisure to think, that he was most miserable ; 
 then the agony of suspense, and the horror of remorse, 
 were felt, till feeling was exhausted ; and he would sit 
 motionless and stupified, till he was wakened again from 
 this suspension of thought and feeling by some moan of 
 the poor man, or some delirious startings. Toward 
 morning the wounded man lay easier ; and as Ormond 
 was stooping over his bed to see whether he was asleep, 
 Moriarty opened his eyes, and fixing them on Ormond, 
 said, in broken sentences, but so as very distinctly to 
 be understood, " Don't be in such trouble about the 
 likes of me — I'll do very well, you'll see — and even
 
 24 ORMOND. 
 
 suppose I wouldn't — not a friend I have shall ever 
 prosecute — I'll charge 'em not — so be asy — for you're 
 a good heart — and the pistol went off unknownst to 
 you — I'm sure there was no malice — let that be your 
 comfort. It might happen to any man, let alone 
 gentleman — don't take on so. Only think, of young 
 Mr Harry sitting up the might with me ! — Oh ! if 
 you'd go now and settle yourself yonder on t'other 
 bed, sir — I'd be a great dale asier, and I don't doubt 
 but I'd get a taste of sleep myself — while now, wid 
 you standing over or forenent me, I can't close an eye 
 for thinking of you, Mr Harry." 
 
 Ormond immediately threw himself upon the other 
 bed, that he might relieve Moriarty's feelings. The 
 good-nature and generosity of this poor fellow increased 
 Ormond's keen sense of remorse. As to sleeping^, for 
 him it was impossible ; whenever his ideas began to 
 fall into that sort of confusion v/hich precedes sleep, 
 suddenly he felt as if his heart was struck or twinged, 
 and he started with the recollection that some dreadful 
 thing had happened, and wakened to the sense of guilt 
 and all its horrors. Moriarty now lying perfectly 
 quiet and motionless, and Ormond not hearing him 
 breathe, he was struck with the dread that he had 
 breathed his last. A cold tremor came over Ormond 
 — he rose in his bed, listening in acute agony, when to 
 his relief he at last distinctly heard Moriarty breathing 
 strongly, and soon afterwards (no music was ever so 
 delightful to Ormond's car) heard him begin to breathe 
 loudly, as if asleep. The morning light dawned soon 
 afterwards, and the crowing of a cock was heard, 
 which Ormond feared might waken him ; but the poor 
 man slept soundly through all these usual noises : the 
 heaving of the bedclothes over his breast went on 
 with uninterrupted regularity. The gardener and his 
 wife softly opened the door of the room, to inquire
 
 ORMOND. 25 
 
 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 everything 
 they could think of upon this occasion to comfort 
 him, and reiterated about a hundred times their 
 prophecies, that Moriarty would be as sound and good 
 a man as ever in a fortnight's time. " Sure, when 
 he'd take the soft sleep he couldn't 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 stand- 
 ing in the porch. It was a fine morning — the birds 
 were singing, and the smell of the honeysuckle, with 
 which the porch was covered, wafted by the fresh 
 morning air, struck Ormond's senses, but struck him 
 with melancholy. 
 
 " Everything in nature is cheerful except myself ! 
 Everything in this world going on just the same as it 
 was yesterday, but all changed for me ! — within a few 
 short hours — by my own folly, my own madness ! 
 Every animal," thought he, as his attention was caught 
 by the house dog, who was licking his hand, and as his 
 eye fell upon the hen and chickens, who were feeding 
 before the door, "every animal is happy — and inno- 
 cent ! But if this man die — / shall be a murderer." 
 
 This thought, perpetually recurring, so oppressed him,
 
 26 ORMOND. 
 
 that he stood motionless, till he was roused by the voice 
 of Sir Uliclc O'Shane. 
 
 " Well, Harry Ormond, how is it with you, my 
 boy ? — The fellow's alive, I hope ? " 
 
 " Alive — Thank Heaven ! — yes ; and asleep." 
 
 " Give ye joy — it would have been an ugly thing — 
 not but what we could have brought you through ! I'd 
 go through thick and thin, you know, for you, as if it 
 was for my own son. But Lady O'Shane," said Sir 
 Ulick, changing his tone, and with a face of great con- 
 cern, " I must talk to you about her — I may as well 
 speak now, since it must be said." 
 
 " I am afraid," said Ormond, " that I spoke too 
 hastily last night : I beg your pardon." 
 
 " Nay, nay, put me out of the question : you may do 
 what you please with me — always could, from the time 
 you were four years old ; but, you know, the more I 
 love anybody, the more Lady O'Shane hates them. 
 The fact is," continued Sir Ulick, rubbing his eyes, 
 "that I have had a weary night of it — Lady O'Shane 
 has been crying and whining in my ears. She says I 
 encourage jou in being insolent, and so forth : in short, 
 she cannot endure you in the house any longer. I 
 suspect that sour one " (Sir Ulick, among his intimates, 
 always designated Miss Black in this manner) '■*' puts her 
 up to it. But I will not give up my own boy — I will 
 take it with a high hand. Separations arc foolish things, 
 as foolish as marriages ; but I'd sooner part with Lady 
 O'Shane at once than let Harry Ormond think I'd 
 forsake him, especially in awkward circumstances." 
 
 *' That, Sir Ulick, is what Harry Ormond can never 
 think of you. He would be the basest, the most sus- 
 picious, the most ungrateful — But I must not speak so 
 loud," continued he, lowering his voice, " lest it should 
 waken Moriarty." 
 
 Sir Ulick drew him away from the door, for Ormond
 
 ORMOND. 2 7 
 
 was cool enough at this moment to have common 
 sense. 
 
 *' My dear guardian-father, allow me still to call you 
 by that name," continued Ormond, " believe me, your 
 kindness is too fully — innumerable instances of your 
 affection now press upon me, so that — I can't express 
 myself; but depend upon it, suspicion of your friendship 
 is the last that could enter my mind : I trust, therefore, 
 you will do me the same sort of justice, and never suppose 
 me capable of ingratitude — though the time is come 
 when we must part" 
 
 Ormond could hardly pronounce the word, 
 
 " Part !" repeated Sir tjlick : " no, by all the saints, 
 and all the devils in female form ! " 
 
 " I am resolved," said Ormond, " firmly resolved on 
 one point — never to be the cause of unhappincss to one 
 who has been the source of so much happiness to me : I 
 will no more be an object of contention between you and 
 Lady O' Shane. Give her up rather than me — Heaven 
 forbid ! I the cause of separation ! — never — never ! I 
 am determined, let what will become of me, I will no 
 more be an inmate at Castle Hermitage." 
 
 Tears started into Orraond's eyes ; Sir Ulick ap- 
 peared much affected, and in a state of great embar- 
 rassment and indecision. 
 
 He could not bear to think of it — he swore it must 
 not be : then he gradually sunk to hoping it was not 
 necessary, and proposing palliatives and half measures. 
 Moriarty must be moved to-day — sent to his own friends. 
 That point he had, for peace sake, conceded to her lady- 
 ship, he said ; but 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 allow them. 
 
 In short he managed so, that whilst he confirmed 
 the young man in his resolution to quit Castle Hermitage,
 
 28 ORMOND. 
 
 he threw all the blame on Lady O' Shane ; Ormond 
 never doubting the steadiness of Sir Ulick's affection, 
 nor suspecting that he had any secret motive for wishing 
 to get rid of him. 
 
 " But where can you go, my dear boy ? — What will 
 you do with yourself? — What will become of you ? " 
 
 " Never mind — never mind what becomes of me, 
 my dear sir : I'll find means — I have the use of head 
 and hands." 
 
 " My cousin, Cornelius O'Shane, he is as fond of 
 you almost as I am, and he is not cursed with a wife, 
 and is blest with a daughter," said Sir Ulick, with a 
 sly smile. 
 
 " Oh ! yes," continued he, " I see it all now : you 
 have ways and means — I no longer object — I'll write 
 — no, you'd write better yourself to King Corny, for 
 you are a greater favourite with his majesty than I am. 
 Fare ye well — Heaven bless you ! my boy," said Sir 
 Ulick, with warm emphasis. " Remember, whenever 
 you want supplies. Castle Hermitage is your bank — you 
 know I have a bank at my back (Sir Ulick was joined 
 in a banking-house) — Castle Hermitage is your bank, 
 and here's your quarter's allowance to begin with." 
 
 Sir Ulick put a purse into Ormond's hand, and 
 left him. 
 
 CMpter iti. 
 
 BUT is it natural, is it possible, that this Sir Ulick 
 O'Shane could so easily part with Harry 
 Ormond, and thus " whistle him down the 
 wind to prey at fortune ? " For Harry Ormond, 
 surely, if for any creature living, Sir Ulick O'Shane's 
 affection had shown itself disinterested and steady. 
 When left a helpless infant, its mother dead, its father
 
 ORMOND. 29 
 
 in India, he had taken the child from the nurse, who 
 was too poor even to feed or clothe it as her own ; 
 and he had brought little Harry up at his castle with 
 his own son — as his own son. He had been his 
 darling — literally his spoiled child ; nor had this fond- 
 ness passed away with the prattling, playful graces of 
 the child's first years — it had grown with its growth. 
 Harry became Sir Ulick's favourite companion — 
 hunting, shooting, carousing, as he had been his play- 
 thing during infancy. On no one occasion had Harry, 
 violent and difficult to manage as he was to others, 
 ever crossed Sir Ulick's will, or in any way incurred 
 his displeasure. And now, suddenly, without any 
 cause, except the aversion of a wife, whose aversions 
 seldom troubled him in any great degree, is it natural 
 that he should give up Harry Ormond, and 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 pos- 
 sible 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 sacrificed them to his scheming imaginations. 
 Necessity — the necessity of his affairs, the consequences 
 of his extravagance — had brought him to this : the first 
 sacrifices had not been made without painful struggles ; 
 but by degrees his mind had hardened, and his warmth 
 of heart had cooled. When he said or sivore in the 
 most cordial manner that he " would do anything in 
 the world to serve a friend," there was always a mental 
 reservation of " anything 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
 
 30 ORMOND. 
 
 this SO suddenly? Miss Annaly's turning pale was 
 the first cause of Sir Ulick's change of sentiments 
 towards his young favourite. Afterwards, during the 
 whole that passed, Sir Ulick had watched the impression 
 made upon her — he had observed that it was not for 
 Marcus O'Shane's safety that she was anxious ; and 
 he thought she had betrayed a secret attachment, the 
 commencement of an attachment he thought it, of 
 which she was perhaps herself unconscious. Were 
 such an attachment to be confirmed, it would disappoint 
 Sir Ulick's schemes : therefore, with the cool decision 
 of a practised schemer, he determined directly to get 
 rid of Ormond. He had no intention of parting with 
 him for ever, but merely while the Annalys were at 
 Castle Hermitage : till his scheme was brought to 
 bear, he would leave Harry at the Black Islands, and 
 he could, he thought, recall him from banishment, and 
 force a reconciliation with Lady O' Shane, and reinstate 
 him in favour, at pleasure. 
 
 But is it possible that Miss Annaly, such an amiable 
 and elegant young lady as she is described to be, should 
 feel any attachment, any predilection for such a young 
 man as Ormond ; ill-educated, unpolished, with a 
 violent temper, which had brought him early in life 
 into the dreadful situation in which he now stands? 
 And at the moment when, covered with the blood of 
 an innocent man, he stood before her, an object of 
 disgust and horror, could any sentiment like love exist 
 or arise in a well-principled mind ? 
 
 Certainly not. Sir Ulick's acquaintance with un- 
 principled women misled him completely in this instance, 
 and deprived him of his usual power of discriminating 
 character. Harry Ormond was uncommonly hand- 
 some ; and though so young, had a finely-formed, 
 m;inly, graceful figure ; and his manner, whenever he 
 s])oke to women, was peculiarly prepossessing. These
 
 ORMOND. 31 
 
 personal accomplishments, Sir Ulick thought, were 
 quite sufficient to win any lady's heart — but Florence 
 Annaly was not to be won by such means : no feeling 
 of love for Mr Ormond had ever touched her heart, 
 nor even crossed her imagination ; none under such 
 circumstances could have arisen in her innocent and 
 well-regulated mind. Sudden terror, and confused 
 apprehension of evil, made her grow very pale at the 
 sight of his bloody apparition at the window of the 
 ballroom. Bodily weakness, for she was not at this 
 time in strong health, must be her apology, if she need 
 any, for the faintness and loss of presence of mind, 
 which Sir Ulick construed into proofs of tender anxiety 
 for the personal fate of this young man. In the scene 
 that followed, horror of his crime, pity for the agony 
 of his remorse, was what she felt — what she strongly 
 expressed to her mother, the moment she reached her 
 apartment that night : nor did her mother, who knew 
 her thoroughly, ever for an instant suspect that in her 
 emotion there was a mixture of any sentiments but 
 those which she expressed. Both mother and daughter 
 were extremely shocked. They were also struck with 
 regret at the idea that a young man, in whom they had 
 seen many instances of a generous, good disposition, of 
 natural qualities and talents, which might have made 
 him a useful, amiable, and admirable member of society, 
 should be, thus early, a victim to his own undisciplined 
 passion. During the preceding winter they had 
 occasionally seen something of Ormond in Dublin. 
 In the midst of the dissipated life which he led, upon 
 one or two occasions, of which we cannot now stop to 
 give an account, he had shown that he was capable of 
 being a very different character from that which he 
 had been made by bad education, bad example, and 
 profligate indulgence, or shameful neglect on the part 
 of his guardian.
 
 32 ORMOND. 
 
 Immediately after Sir Ulick had left Ormond, the 
 surgeon appeared, and a new train of emotions arose. 
 He had no time to reflect on Sir Ulick's conduct. 
 He felt hurried on rapidly, like one in a terrible dream. 
 He returned with the surgeon to the wounded man. 
 
 Moriarty had wakened, much refreshed from his 
 sleep, and the surgeon confessed that his patient was 
 infinitely better than he had expected to find him. 
 Moriaity 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 
 showed his implicit faith in the oracle, and feeling that 
 his own fate depended upon the next words that should 
 be uttered. Let no one scoff at his easy faith: at this 
 time Ormond was very young, not yet nineteen, and 
 had no experience either of the probability or of the 
 fallacy of medical predictions. After looking very 
 grave and very wise, and questioning and cross-question- 
 ing a proper time, the surgeon said it was impossible for 
 him to pronounce anything decidedly till the patient 
 should have passed another night ; but that if the next 
 night proved favourable, he might then venture to declare 
 him out of immediate danger, and might then begin to 
 hope that with time and care he would do well. With 
 this opinion, guarded and dubious as it was, Ormond was 
 delighted — his heart felt relieved of part of the heavy 
 load by which it had been oppressed, and the surgeon 
 was well fee'd from the purse which Sir Ulick had put 
 into Ormond's hands. Ormond's next business was to 
 send a gossoon with a letter to his friend the king of the 
 Black Islands, to tell him all that had passed, and to 
 request an asylum in his dominions. By the time he 
 had finished and dispatched his letter, it was eight 
 o'clock in the morning ; and he was afraid that before 
 he could receive an answer, it might be too late in the 
 day to carry a wounded man as far as the Black Islands :
 
 ORMOND. 33 
 
 he therefore accepted the hospitable offer of the village 
 schoolmistress, to give him and his patient a lodging 
 for that night. There was indeed no one in the place 
 who would not have done as much for master Harry. 
 All were in astonishment and sorrow when they heard 
 that he was going to leave the castle ; and their hatred 
 to Lady O'Shane would have known no bounds, had 
 they learned that she was the cause of his banishment : 
 but this he generously concealed, and forbade those of 
 his followers or partisans, who had known anything of 
 what had passed, to repeat what they had heard. It was 
 late in the day before Marcus rose ; for he had to sleep 
 off the effects of his last night's intemperance. He was 
 in great astonishment when he learned that Ormond was 
 really going away ; and " could scarcely believe," as 
 he said repeatedly, *' that Harry was so mad, or such 
 a fool. As to Moriarty, a few guineas would have 
 settled the business, if no rout had been made about it. 
 Sitting up all night with such a fellow, and being in such 
 agonies about him — how absurd ! What more could 
 he have done, if he had shot a gentleman, or his best 
 friend ? But Harry Ormond was always in extremes." 
 Marcus, though he had not a very clear recollection 
 of the events of the preceding night, was conscious, 
 however, that he had been much more to blame than 
 Ormond had stated ; he had a remembrance of having 
 been very violent, and of having urged Ormond to 
 chastise Moriarty. It was not the first time that 
 Ormond had screened him from blame, by taking the 
 whole upon himself. For this Marcus was grateful 
 to a certain degree : he thought he was fond of Harry 
 Ormond ; but he had not for him the solid friendship 
 that would stand the test of adversity, still less would 
 it be capable of standing against any difference of 
 party opinion. Marcus, though he appeared a mild, 
 indolent youth, was violent where his prejudices were 
 
 c
 
 34 ORMOND. 
 
 concerned. Instead of being governed by justice in 
 his conduct towards his inferiors, he took strong dis- 
 likes, either upon false informations, or without suffi- 
 cient examination of the facts : cringing and flattery 
 easily won his favour ; and, on the other hand, he 
 resented any spirit of independence, or even the least 
 contradiction, from an inferior. These defects in his 
 temper appeared more and more in him every year. 
 As he ceased to be a boy and was called upon to act 
 as a man, the consequences of his actions became of 
 greater importance ; but in acquiring more power, he 
 did not acquire more reason, or greater command 
 over himself. He was now provoked with Ormond 
 for being so anxious about Moriarty Carroll, because 
 he disliked the Carrolls, and especially Moriarty, for 
 some slight cause not worth recording. He went to 
 Ormond, and argued the matter with him, but in vain. 
 Marcus resented this sturdiness, and they parted, 
 displeased with each other. Though Marcus expressed 
 in words much regret at his companion's adhering to 
 the resolution of quitting his father's house, yet it 
 might be doubted whether at the end of the conference 
 these professions were entirely sincere, whatever they 
 might have been at the beginning : he had not a large 
 mind, and perhaps he was not sorry to get rid of a 
 companion who had often rivalled him in his father's 
 favour, and who might rival him where it was still 
 more his ambition to please. The coldness of Marcus's 
 manner at parting, and the little difficulty which he felt 
 in the separation, gave exquisite pain to poor Ormond, 
 who, though he was resolved to go, did wish to be 
 regretted, especially by the companion, the friend of 
 his childhood. The warmth of his guardian's manner 
 had 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
 
 ORMOND. 35 
 
 succession of the painful, violently painful, feelings of 
 the last four-and-twenty hours. 
 
 The gossoon who had been sent with the dispatch 
 to the king of the Black Islands did not return this 
 day — disappointment upon disappointment. Moriarty, 
 who had exerted himself too much, that he might 
 appear better than he really was, suffered proportionably 
 this night ; and so did Ormond, who, never before 
 having been with any person delirious from fever, was 
 excessively alarmed. What he endured cannot be 
 described : it was, however, happy for him that he 
 was forced to bear it all — nothing less could have 
 made a sufficient impression on his mind — nothing less 
 could have been a sufficient warning to set a guard 
 upon the violence of his temper. 
 
 In the morning the fever abated : about eight 
 o'clock the patient sunk into a sound sleep ; and 
 Ormond, kneeling by his bedside, ardent in devotion 
 as in all his sentiments, gave thanks to Heaven, prayed 
 for Moriarty's perfect recovery, and vowed with the 
 strongest adjurations that if he might be spared for this 
 offence, if he might be saved from the horror of being 
 a murderer, no passion, no provocation should ever, 
 during the whole future course of his life, tempt him 
 to lift his hand against a 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 intermpt Ormond's devotion by any 
 exclamation at her entrance. 
 
 " Be not disturbed — let me not feel tliat I embarrass 
 you, Mr Ormond," said she : " I came here not to 
 intrude upon your privacy. Be not ashamed, young 
 gentleman," continued she, "that I should have wit- 
 nessed feelings that do you honour, and that interest me 
 in your future fate."
 
 36 ORMOND. 
 
 *♦ Interests Lady Annaly in my future fate ! — Is it 
 possible ! " exclaimed Ormond : " is it possible that 
 one of whom I stood so much in awe — one whom I 
 thought so much too good, ever to bestow a thought 
 on — such a one as I am — as I was, even before this 
 fatal " (his voice failed). 
 
 " Not fatal, I hope — I trust," said Lady Annaly : 
 " this poor man's looks at this moment assure me 
 that he is likely to do well." 
 
 " True for ye, my lady," said Moriarty, " I'll do 
 my best, surely : I'd live through all, if possible, for 
 his sake, let alone my mudther's, or shister's, or my 
 own — 'twould be too bad, after all the trouble he got 
 these two nights, to be dying at last, and hantitig him, 
 may be, whether I would or no — for as to prosecuting, 
 that would never be any way, if I died twenty times 
 over. I sint off that word to my mudther and shister, 
 with my curse if they'd do other — and only that they 
 were at the fair, and did not get the word, or the news 
 of my little accident, they'd have been here long ago ; 
 and the minute they come, I'll swear 'em not to 
 prosecute, or harbour a thought of revenge again' him, 
 who had no malice again' me, no more than a child. 
 And at another's bidding, more than his own, he drew 
 the trigger, and the pistol went off unknownst, in a 
 passion : so there's the case for you, my lady." 
 
 Lady Annaly, who was pleased with the poor fel- 
 low's simplicity and generosity in this tragi-comic 
 statement of the case, inquired if she could in any way 
 afford him assistance. 
 
 " I thank your ladyship, but Mr Harry lets me 
 want for nothing." 
 
 " Nor ever will, while I have a farthing I can call 
 my own," cried Ormond. 
 
 " But I hope, Mr Ormond," said Lady Annaly, 
 smiling, " that when Moriarty — is not that his name ? 
 
 I
 
 ORMOND. 37 
 
 — regains his strength, to which he seems well inclined, 
 you do not mean to make him miserable and good for 
 nothing by supporting him in idleness?" 
 
 " No, he sha'n't, my lady — I would not let him be 
 wasting his little substance on me. And did ye hear, 
 my lady, how he is going to lave Castle Hermitage ? 
 Well of all the surprises ever I got ! It come upon 
 me like a shot — my shot was nothing to it ! " 
 
 It was necessary to insist upon Moriarty's submitting 
 to be silent and quiet ; for not having the fear of the 
 surgeon before his eyes, and having got over his first 
 awe of the lady, he was becoming too full of oratory 
 and action. 
 
 Lady Annaly took Ormond out with her, that she 
 might speak to him of his own affairs. 
 
 " You will not, I hope, Mr Ormond, ascribe it to 
 idle curiosity, but to a wish to be of service, if I inquire 
 what your future plans in life may be ? " 
 
 Ormond had never formed any distinctly. " He 
 was not fit for any profession, except, perhaps, the army 
 — he was too old for the navy — he was at present going, 
 he believed, to the house of an old friend, a relation of 
 Sir Ulick, Mr Cornelius O'Shane." 
 
 " My son, Sir Herbert Annaly, has an estate in this 
 neighbourhood, at which he has never yet resided, but 
 we are going there when we leave Castle Hermitage. 
 I shall hope to see you at Annaly, when you have 
 determined on your plans ; perhaps you may show us 
 how we can assist in forwarding them." 
 
 " Is it possible," repeated Ormond, in unfeigned 
 astonishment, "that your ladyship can be so very good, 
 so condescending, to one who so little deserves it ? But 
 I lu'ill deserve it in future. If I get over this — interested 
 in my future fate — Lady Annaly ! " 
 
 " I knew your father many years ago," said Lady 
 Annaly ; " and as his son, I might feel some interest
 
 38 ORMOND. 
 
 for you ; but I will tell you sincerely, that, on some 
 occasions, when we met in Dublin, I perceived traits of 
 goodness in you, which, on your own account, Mr 
 Ormond, have interested me in your fate. But fate 
 is an unmeaning commonplace — worse than common- 
 j)lacc — word : it is a word that leads us to imagine 
 that we ^xe fated or doomed to certain fortunes or mis- 
 fortunes in life. I have had a great deal of experience, 
 and from all I have observed, it appears to me that far 
 the greatest part of our happiness or misery in life 
 depends upon ourselves." 
 
 Ormond stopped short, and listened with the eager- 
 ness of one of quick feeling and quick capacity, who 
 seizes an idea that is new to him, and the truth and 
 value of which he at once appreciates. For the first 
 time in his life he heard good sense from the voice of 
 benevolence — he anxiously desired that she should go 
 on speaking, and stood in such an attitude of attentive 
 deference as fully marked that wish. 
 
 But at this moment Lady O'Shane's footman came 
 up with a message from his lady ; her ladyship sent to 
 let Lady Annaly know that breakfast was ready. Re- 
 peating her good wishes to Ormond, she bade him adieu, 
 while he was too much overpowered with his sense of 
 gratitude to return her thanks. 
 
 " Since there exists a being, and such a being, inte- 
 rested 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 everything that is 
 good ? I don't want to be great." 
 
 Though this resolution was not steadily adhered to, 
 though it was for a time counteracted by circumstances, 
 it was never afterwards entirely forgotten. From this 
 ])criod, in consequence of the great and painful impres- 
 sion which had been suddenly made on his mind, and
 
 ORMOND. 39 
 
 from a few words of sense and kindness spoken to him 
 at a time when his heart was happily prepared to receive 
 them, we may date the commencement of our hero's 
 reformation and improvement — hero, we say ; but 
 certainly never man had more faults than Ormond had. 
 to correct, or to be corrected, before he could come up 
 to the received idea of any description of hero. Most 
 heroes are born perfect — so at least their biographers, 
 or rather their panegyrists, would have us believe. Our 
 hero is far from this happy lot ; the readers of his story 
 are in no danger of being wearied, at first setting out, 
 with the list of his merits and accomplishments ; nor 
 will they be awed or discouraged by the exhibition of 
 virtue above the common standard of humanity — beyond 
 the hope of imitation. On the contrary, most people 
 will comfort and bless themselves with the reflection, 
 that they never were quite so foolish, nor quite so bad, 
 as Harry Ormond. 
 
 For the advantage of those who may wish to institute 
 the comparison, his biographer, in writing the life of 
 Ormond, deems it a point of honour to extenuate 
 nothing ; but to trace, with an impartial hand, not only 
 every improvement and advance, but every deviation 
 or retrograde movement. 
 
 Chapter ti). 
 
 FULL of sudden zeal for his own improvement, 
 Ormond sat down at the foot of a tree, deter- 
 mined to make a list of all his faults, and of all 
 his good resolutions for the future. He took out his 
 pencil, and began on the back of a letter the following 
 resolutions, in a sad scrawling hand and incorrect 
 style : —
 
 40 ORMOND. 
 
 Harry Ormond's Good Resolutions. 
 
 Resolved 1st. — ^Tliat I will never drink more than 
 {blank number of^ glasses. 
 
 Resolved 2ndiy. — That I will cure myself of being 
 passionate- 
 Resolved 3rdly. — That I will never keep low com- 
 pany. 
 
 Resolved. — That I am too fond of flattery — women's, 
 especially, I like most. To cure myself of that. 
 
 Here he was interrupted by the sight of a little gos- 
 soon, with a short stick tucked under his arm, who came 
 pattering on barefoot in a kind of pace indescribable to 
 those who have never seen it — it was something as like 
 walking or running as chanting is to speaking or singing. 
 
 "The answer I am from the Black Islands, master 
 Harry ; and would have been back wid you afore 
 nightfall yesterday, only he — King Corny — was at the 
 fair of Frisky — could not write till this morning any 
 way — but has his service to ye, master Harry, will be 
 in it for ye by half after two with a bed and blanket for 
 Moriarty, he bid me say on account he forgot to put it 
 in the note. In the Sally Cove the boat will be there 
 aboiv in the big lough, forcnent the spot where the fir 
 dale was cut last seraph by them rogues." 
 
 The dispatch 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 Her- 
 mitage ? But since he conformed, he was never the 
 same man, especially since his last mis -marriage. 
 But no use moralizing — he was always too much of a 
 courtier for me. Come you to me, my dear boy, who
 
 ORMOND. 41 
 
 is no courtier, and you'll be received and embraced 
 with open arms — was I Briareus the same way — 
 Bring Moriarty Carroll (if that's his name), the boy 
 you shot, which has given you so much concern — for 
 which I like you the better — and honour that boy, 
 who, living or dying, forbade to prosecute. Don't be 
 surprised to see the roof the way it is : — since Tuesday 
 I wedged it up bodily without stirring a stick : — you'll 
 see it from the boat, standing three foot high above the 
 walls, waiting while I'm building up to it — to get 
 attics — which I shall for next to nothing — by my own 
 contrivance. Meantime, good dry lodging, as usual, 
 for all friends at the palace. He shall be well tended 
 for you by Sheelah Dunshaughlin, 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 everything else. But don't let any other 
 doctor, surgeon, or apothecary, be coming after him 
 for your life — for none ever gets a permit to land, to 
 my knowledge, on the Black Islands — to which I 
 attribute, under Providence, to say nothing of my own 
 skill in practice, the wonderful preservation of my 
 people in health — that, and wood-sorrel, and another 
 secret or two not to be committed to paper in a hurry 
 — all which I would not have written to you, but am 
 in the gout since four this morning, held by the foot 
 fast — else I'd not be writing, but would have gone 
 every inch of the way for you myself in style, in lieu 
 of sending, which is all I can now do, my six-oared 
 boat, streamers flying, and piper playing like mad — for 
 I would not have you be coming like a banished man, 
 but in all glory, to Cornelius O'Shane, commonly 
 called King Corny — but no h'lng to you, only your 
 hearty old friend." 
 
 "Heaven bless Cornelius O'Shane!" said Harry
 
 42 ORMOND. 
 
 Ormond to himself, as he finished this letter. " King 
 or no king, the most warm-hearted man on earth, let 
 the other be who he will." 
 
 Then pressing this letter to his heart, he put it up 
 carefully, and rising in haste, he dropped the list of his 
 faults. That train of associations was completely 
 broken, and for the present completely forgotten ; nor 
 was it likely to be soon renewed at the Black Islands, 
 especially in the palace, where he was now going to 
 take up his residence. Moriarty was laid on a bed ; 
 and was transported, with Ormond, in the six-oared 
 boat, streamers flying, and piper playing, across the 
 lake to the islands. Moriarty's head ached terribly, 
 but he nevertheless enjoyed the playing of the pipes 
 in his ear, because of the air of triumph it gave master 
 Harry, to go away in this grandeur, in the face of the 
 country. King Corny ordered the discharge of twelve 
 guns on his landing, which popped one after another 
 gloriously — the hospitable echoes^ as Moriarty called 
 them, repeating the sound. A horse, decked with 
 ribands, waited on the shore, with King Corny's com- 
 pliments for Prince Harry, as the boy, who held the 
 stirrup for Ormond to mount, said he was instmcted 
 to call him, and to proclaim him " Prince Harry " 
 throughout the island, which he did by sound of horn, 
 the whole way they proceeded to the palace — very 
 much to the annoyance of the horse, but all for the 
 greater glory of the prince, who managed his steed to 
 the admiration of the shouting ragged multitude, and 
 of his majesty, who sat in state in his gouty chair at 
 the palace door. He had had himself rolled out to 
 welcome the coming guest. 
 
 " By all that's princely," cried he, " then that 
 young Harry Ormond was intended for a prince, he 
 sits a horse so like myself; and that horse requires a 
 master hand to manage him."
 
 ORMOND, 43 
 
 Oimond alighted. 
 
 The gracious, cordial, fatherly welcome, with which 
 he was received, delighted his heart. 
 
 "Welcome, prince, my adopted son, welcome to 
 Corny Castle — Palace, I would have said, only for 
 the constituted authorities of the post - office, that 
 might take exceptions, and not be sending me my 
 letters right. As I am neither bishop nor arch, I 
 have, in their blind eyes or conceptions, no right — 
 Lord help them! — to a temporal palace. Be that 
 as it may, come you in with me, here into the big 
 room — and see ! there's the bed in the corner for 
 your first object, my boy — your wounded chap ; and 
 I'll visit his wound, and fix it and him the first thing 
 for ye, the minute he comes up." 
 
 His majesty pointed to a bed in the corner of a 
 large apartment, whose beautiful painted ceiling and 
 cornice, and fine chimney - piece with caryatides of 
 white marble, ill accorded with the heaps of oats and 
 corn, the thrashing cloth and flail, which lay on the 
 floor. 
 
 " It is intended for a drawing-room, understand," 
 said King Corny ; " but till it is finished, I use it for 
 a granary or a barn, when it would not be a barrack- 
 room or hospital, which last is most useful at present." 
 
 To this hospital Moriarty was carefully conveyed. 
 Here, notwithstanding his gout, which affected only 
 his feet. King Corny dressed Moriarty's wound with 
 exquisite tenderness and skill ; for he had actually 
 acquired knowledge and address in many arts, with 
 which none could have suspected him to have been 
 in the least acquainted. 
 
 Dinner was soon announced, which was served up 
 with such a strange mixture of profusion and care- 
 lessness, as showed that the attendants, who were 
 numerous and ill-caparisoned, were not much used
 
 44 ORMOND, 
 
 to gala-days. The crowd, who had accompanied 
 Moiiarty into the house, were admitted into the 
 dining-room, where they stood round the king, prince, 
 and Father Jos the priest, as the courtiers, during 
 the king's supper at Versailles, surrounded the King 
 of France. But these poor people were treated with 
 more hospitality than were the courtiers of the French 
 king ; for as soon as the dishes were removed, their 
 contents were generously distributed among the atten- 
 dant multitude. The people blest both king and 
 prince, *' wishing them health and happiness long to 
 reign over them ; " and bowing suitably to his majesty 
 the king, and to his reverence the priest, without 
 standing upon the order of their going, departed. 
 
 <* And now. Father Jos," said the king to the 
 priest, *' say grace, and draw close, and let me see 
 you do justice to my claret, or the whiskey punch if 
 you prefer ; and you, Prince Harry, we will set to it 
 regally as long as you please." 
 
 " Till tea-time," thought young Harry. " Till 
 supper-time," thought Father Jos. "Till bedtime," 
 thought King Corny. 
 
 At tea-time young Harry, in pursuance of his re- 
 solution thejirst, rose, but he was seized instantly, and 
 held down to his chair. The royal command was 
 laid upon him "to sit still and be a good fellow." 
 Moreover the door was locked — so that there was no 
 escape or retreat. 
 
 The next morning, when he wakened with an aching 
 head, he recollected with disgust the figure of Father Jos, 
 and all the noisy mirth of the preceding night. Not 
 without some self-contempt, he asked himself what had 
 become of his resolution. 
 
 " The wounded boy was axing for you, master 
 Harry," said the girl, who came in to open the 
 shutters.
 
 ORMOND. 45 
 
 " 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 youi' honour afore he'd settle — I tell him 'tis 
 the change of beds, which always hinders a body to 
 sleep the first night." 
 
 The sense of having totally forgotten the poor fellow 
 — the contrast between this forgetfulness and the anxiety 
 and contrition of the two preceding nights, actually 
 surprised Ormond : he could hardly believe that he 
 was one and the same person. Then came excuses to 
 himself: " Gratitude — common civility — the peremp- 
 toriness 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 
 was he to become, from complaisance, what his soul 
 and body abhorred — an habitual drunkard ? And what 
 would become of Lady Annaly's interest in his fate or 
 his improvement ? " 
 
 The two questions were not of equal importance, 
 but our hero was at this time far from having any 
 just proportion in his reasoning : it was well he 
 reasoned at all. The argument as to the obligation 
 of gratitude — the view he had taken of the never-ending 
 nature of the evil, which must be the consequence 
 of beginning with weak complaisance — above all, the 
 feeling that he had so lost his reason as not only to 
 forget Moriarty, but to have been again incapable of 
 commanding his passions, if anything had occurred 
 * But soberly — not very well, or in good spirits.
 
 46 ORMOND. 
 
 to cross his temper, determined Ormond to make a 
 firm resistance on the next occasion that should occur : 
 it did occur 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 styled him — a bumper 
 toast. Soon afterwards he detected daylight in Harry's 
 glass, and cursing it properly, he insisted on flowing 
 bowls and full glasses. " What ! are you prince 
 presumptuous ? " cried he, with a half-angry and 
 astonished look. "Would you resist and contradict 
 your father and king at his own table after dinner ? 
 Down with the glass ! " 
 
 Farther and steady resistance changed the jesting 
 tone and half-angry look of King Corny into sullen 
 silence, and a black portentous brow of serious dis- 
 pleasure. After a decent time of sitting, the bottle 
 passing him without farther importunity, Ormond rose 
 — it was a hard struggle ; for in the face of his 
 benefactor he saw reproach and rage bursting from 
 every feature : still he moved on towards the door. 
 He heard the words "sneaking off sober! — let him 
 sneak ! " 
 
 Ormond had his hand on the lock of the door — it 
 was a bad lock, and opened with difficulty. 
 
 "There's gratitude for you! No heart, after all — 
 I mistook him." 
 
 Ormond turned back, and firmly standing and firmly 
 speaking, he said, " You did not mistake me formerly, 
 sir ; but you mistake me now ! — Sneaking ! — Is there 
 any man here, sober or drunk," continued he, im- 
 petuously approaching the table, and looking round full 
 in every face — " is there any man here dares to say so 
 but yourself? — You, you, my benefactor, my friend; 
 you have said it — think it you did not — you could not.
 
 ORMOND. 47 
 
 but say it you may — Tou may say what you will to 
 Harry Ormond, bound to you as he is — bound hand 
 and foot and heart! — Trample on him as you will — 
 you may. No heart ! Oblige me, gentlemen, some of 
 you," cried he, his anger rising and his eyes kindling 
 as he spoke, " some of you gentlemen, if any of you 
 think so, oblige me by saying so. No gratitude, sir ! " 
 turning from them, and addressing himself to the old 
 man, who held an untasted glass of claret as he listened 
 — " No gratitude ! Have not I ? — Try me, try me to 
 the death — you have tried me to the quick of the heart, 
 and I have borne it." 
 
 He could bear it no longer : he threw himself into 
 the vacant chair, flung out his arms on the table, and 
 laying his face down upon them, wept aloud. Cor- 
 nelius O'Shane pushed the wine away. " I've wronged 
 the boy grievously," said he ; and forgetting the gout, 
 he rose from his chair, hobbled to him, and leaning 
 over him, " Harry, 'tis I — look up, my own boy, and 
 say you forgive me, or I'll never forgive myself. 
 That's well," continued he, as Harry looked up and 
 gave him his hand; "that's well! — you've taken the 
 twinge out of my heart worse than the gout : not a 
 di-op 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 choose to 
 drink more than's becoming ? — ^Well, you'se right, 
 and I'm wrong. 'Twould be a burning shame of 
 me to make of you what I have made of myself. 
 We must do only as well as we can. But I will 
 ensure you against the future ; and before we take 
 another glass — there's the priest — and you, Tom 
 Ferrally there, step you for my swearing book. Harry 
 Ormond, you shall take an oath against drinking more
 
 48 ORMOND. 
 
 glasses than you please evermore, and then you're safe 
 from me. But stay — you are a heretic. Phoo ! what 
 am I saying ? 'twas seeing the priest put that word 
 heretic in my head — you're not a Catholic, I mean. 
 But an oath's an oath, taken before priest or parson — 
 an oath, taken how you will, will operate. But stay, 
 to make all easy, 'tis I'll take it." 
 
 " Against drinking, you ! King Corny ! " said 
 Father Jos, stopping his hand, " and in case of the gout 
 in your stomach ? " 
 
 " Against drinking ! do you think I'd perjure 
 myself? No! But against pressing him to it — I'll 
 take my oath I'll never ask him to drink another glass 
 more than he likes." 
 
 The oath was taken, and King Corny concluded the 
 ceremony by observing that, after all, there was no 
 character he despised more than that of a sot- But 
 every gentleman knew that there was a wide and 
 material difference betwixt a gentleman who was fond 
 of his bottle, and that unfortunate being, an habitual 
 drunkard. For his own part, it was his established 
 rule never to go to bed without a proper quantity of 
 liquor under his belt ; but he defied the universe to say 
 he was ever known to be drunk. 
 
 At a court where such ingenious casuistry prevailed, 
 it was happy for our hero that an unqualifying oath 
 now protected his resolution. 
 
 C()apter to. 
 
 IN the middle of the night our hero was wakened by 
 a loud bellowing. It was only King Corny in a 
 paroxysm of the gout. His majesty was naturally 
 of a very impatient temper, and his maxims of philo-
 
 ORMOND. 49 
 
 sophy encouraged him to the most unrestrained expres- 
 sion of his feelings — the maxims of his philosophy — 
 for he had read, though in a most desultory manner, 
 and he had thought often deeply, and not seldom 
 justly. The turns of his mind, and the questions he 
 asked, were sometimes utterly unexpected. " Pray, 
 now," said he to Harry, who stood beside his bed, 
 " now that I've a moment's ease — did you ever hear 
 of the Stoics that the bookmen talk of? and can you 
 tell me what good any one of them ever got by making 
 it a point to make no noise, when they'd be punished 
 and racked with pains of body or mind ? Why, I 
 will tell you all they got — all they got was no pity : 
 who would give them pity that did not require it ? I 
 could bleed to death in a bath, as well as the best of 
 them, if I chose it; or chew a bullet if I set my 
 teeth to it, with any man in the 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 everybody in the palace ; but they did not 
 sleep, they could not, while the roaring continued : so 
 all had reason to rejoice, and Moriarty in particular, 
 when his majesty's paroxysm was past. Harry was in 
 a sound sleep at twelve o'clock, the next day, when he 
 was summoned into the royal presence. He found 
 King Corny sitting at ease in his bed, and that bed 
 strewed over with a variety of roots and leaves, weeds 
 and plants. An old woman was hovering over the 
 fire, stirring something in a black kettle. " Simples 
 these — of wonderful unknown power," said King 
 Corny to Harry, as he approached the bed ; " and I'll 
 engage you don't know the name even of the half of 
 them." 
 
 Harry confessed his ignorance. 
 
 " No shame for you — was you as wise as King 
 
 u
 
 50 ORMOND. 
 
 Solomon himself, you might not know them, for he 
 did not, nor couldn't, he that had never set his foot a 
 grousing on an Irish bog. Sheelah, come you over, 
 and say what's this ? " 
 
 The old woman now came to assist at this bed of 
 botany, and with spectacles slipping off, and pushed on 
 her nose continually, peered over each green thing, 
 and named in Irish " every herb that sips the dew." 
 
 Sheelah was deeper in Irish lore than King Corny 
 could pretend to be : but then he humbled her with 
 the " black hellebore of the ancients," and he had, in 
 an unaccountable manner, affected her imagination by 
 talking of "that famous bowl of narcotic poisons, 
 which that great man Socrates drank off." Sheelah 
 would interrupt herself in the middle ot a sentence, 
 and curtsy if she heard him pronounce the name of 
 Socrates — and at the mention of the bowl, she would 
 regularly sigh, and exclaim, " Lord save us ! — But 
 that was a wicked bowl." 
 
 Then after a cast of her eyes up to heaven, and 
 crossing herself on the forehead, she would take up her 
 discourse at the word where she had left off. 
 
 King Corny set to work compounding plasters and 
 embrocations, preparing all sorts of decoctions of roots 
 and leaves famous through the country. And while he 
 directed and gesticulated from his bed, the old woman 
 worked over the lii'e in obedience to his commands ; 
 sometimes, however, not with that " prompt and mute 
 obedience " which the great require. 
 
 It was fortunate for Moriarty that King Corny, not 
 having the use of his nether limbs, could not attend even 
 in his gouty chair to administer the medicines he had 
 made and to see them fairly swallowed. Sheelah, whose 
 conscience was easy on this point, contented herself with 
 giving him a strict charge to " take every bottle to the 
 last drop." All she insisted upon for her own part was,
 
 ORMOND. 5 1 
 
 that she must tie the charm round his neck and arm. 
 She would fain have removed the dressings of the 
 wound to substitute plasters of her own, over which she 
 had pronounced certain prayers or incantations; but 
 Moriarty, who had seized and held fast one good 
 principle of surgery, that the air must never be let into 
 the wound, held mainly to this maxim, and all Sheelah 
 could obtain was permission to clap on her charmed 
 plaster over the dressing. 
 
 In due time, or, as King Corny triumphantly ob- 
 served, in "a wonderful short period," Moriarty got 
 quite well, long before the king's gout was cured, even 
 with the assistance of the black hellebore of the ancients. 
 King Corny was so well pleased with his patient for 
 doing such credit to his medical skill, that he gave him 
 and his family a cabin, and spot of land, in the islands 
 — a cabin near the palace ; and at Harry's request 
 made him his wood-ranger and his gamekeeper — the 
 one a lucrative place, the other a sinecure. 
 
 Master Harry — Prince Harry — was now looked up 
 to as a person all-powerful with the master ; and petitions 
 and requests to speak for them, to speak just one word, 
 came pouring from all sides : but however enviable his 
 situation as favourite and prince presumptive might appear 
 to others, it was not in all respects comfortable to 
 himself. 
 
 Formerly, when a boy, in his visits to the Black 
 Islands, he used to have a little companion of whom he 
 was fond — Dora — King Corny's daughter. Missing 
 her much, he inquired from her father where she was 
 gone, and when she was likely to return. 
 
 " She is gone off to the continent — to the continent of 
 Ireland, that is ; but not banished for any misdemeanour. 
 You know," said King Corny, «' 'tis generally con- 
 sidered as a punishment in the Black Islands to be 
 banished to Ireland. A threat of that kind I find
 
 52 ORMOND. 
 
 sufficient to bring the most refractory and ill-disposed 
 of my subjects, if I had any of that description, to rason 
 in the last resort ; but to that ultimate law I have not 
 recourse, except in extreme cases ; I understand my 
 business of king too well to wear out either shame or 
 fear ; but you are no legislator yet, Prince Harry. So 
 what was you asking me about Dora ? She is only 
 gone a trip to the continent, to her aunt's, by the 
 mother's side. Miss O'Faley, that you never saw, to get 
 the advantage of a dancing-master, which myself don't 
 think she wants — a natural carriage, with native graces, 
 being, in my unsophisticated opinion, worth all the 
 dancing-master's positions, contortions, or drillings ; 
 but her aunt's of a contrary opinion, and the women say 
 it is essential. So let 'em put Dora in the stocks, and 
 punish her as they will, she'll be the gladder to get free, 
 and fly back from their continent to her own Black 
 Islands, and to you and me — that is, to me — I ax your 
 pardon, Harry Ormond ; for you know, or I should tell 
 you in time, she is engaged already to White Connal, of 
 Glynn — from her birth. That engagement I made 
 with the father over a bowl of punch — I promised — 
 I'm afraid it was a foolish business — I promised if ever 
 he, old Connal, should have a son, and I should have 
 a daughter, his son should marry my daughter. I 
 promised I say — T took my oath : and then Mrs Connal 
 that was, had shortly after, not one son, but two — and 
 twins they were : and I had — unluckily — ten years 
 after, the daughter, which is Dora — and then as she 
 could not marry both, the one twin was to be fixed on 
 for her, and that was him they call White Connal — so 
 there it was. 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
 
 ORMOND. 53 
 
 — when half drunk may be — but no matter — it must be 
 kept sober — drank or sober, a gentleman must keep his 
 word — a fortiori a king — a fortiori King Corny. See ! 
 was there this minute no such thing as parchment, deed, 
 stamp, signature, or seal in the wide world, when once 
 Corny has squeezed a friend's hand on a bargain, or a 
 promise, 'tis fast, was it ever so much against me — 'tis 
 as strong to me as if I had squeezed all the lawyers' 
 wax in the creation upon it." 
 
 Ormond admired the honourable sentiment ; but was 
 sorry there was any occasion for it — and he sighed ; 
 but it was a sigh of pity for Dora : not that he had 
 ever seen White Connal, or known anything of him — 
 but White Connal did not sound well ; and her father's 
 avowal that it had been a rash engagement did not seem 
 to promise happiness to Dora in this marriage. 
 
 From the time he had been a boy, Harry Ormond 
 had been in the habit of ferrying over to the Black 
 Islands whenever Sir Ulick could spare him. The 
 hunting and shooting, and the life of lawless freedom 
 he led on the islands, had been delightful. King 
 Corny, who had the command not only of boats, and 
 of guns, and of fishing-tackle, and of men, but of 
 carpenters' tools and of smiths' tools, and of a lathe, 
 and of brass and ivory, and of all the things that the 
 heart of boy could desire, had appeared to Harry, 
 when he was a boy, the richest, the greatest, the 
 happiest of men — the cleverest, too — the most in- 
 genious : for King Corny had with his own hands 
 made a violin and a rat-trap ; and had made the best 
 coat, and the best pair of shoes, and the best pair of 
 boots, and the best hat ; and had knit the best pair of 
 stockings, and had made the best dunghill in his 
 dominions ; and had made a quarter of a yard of fine 
 lace, and had painted a panorama. No wonder that 
 King Corny had been looked up to by the imagination
 
 54 ORMOND. 
 
 of childhood as " a personage high as human veneration 
 could look." 
 
 But now, although our hero was still but a boy in 
 many respects, yet in consequence of his slight com- 
 merce with the world, he had formed some compari- 
 sons, and made some reflections. He had heard, 
 accidentally, the conversation of a few people of 
 common sense, besides the sly, witty, and satirical 
 remarks of Sir Ulick, upon cousin Cornelius ; and it 
 had occurred to Harry to question the utility and real 
 grandeur of some of those things which had struck his 
 childish imagination. For example, he began to doubt 
 whether it were worthy of a king or a gentleman to be 
 his own shoemaker, hatter, and tailor ; whether it 
 were not better managed in society, where these things 
 are performed by different tradesmen : still the things 
 were wonderful, considering who made them, and 
 under what disadvantages they were made ; but Harry 
 having now seen and compared Corny's violin with 
 other violins, and having discovered that so much better 
 could be had for money, with so much less trouble, 
 his admiration had a little decreased. There were 
 other points relative to external appearance, on which 
 his eyes had been opened. In his boyish days. King 
 Corny, going out to hunt with hounds and horn, 
 followed with shouts by all who could ride, and all 
 who could run. King Corny hallooing the dogs, and 
 cheering the crowd, appeared to him the greatest, the 
 liappiest of mankind. 
 
 But he had since seen hunts in a very different style, 
 and he could no longer admire the rabble rout. 
 
 Human creatures, especially young human creatures, 
 are apt to swing suddenly from one extreme to the 
 other, and utterly to despise that which they had 
 extravagantly admired. From this propensity, Ormond 
 was in the present instiince guarded by affection and
 
 ORMOND. 55 
 
 gratitude. Through all the folly of his kingship, he 
 saw that Cornelius O' Shane was not a person to be 
 despised. He was indeed a man of great natural 
 powers, both of body and mind — of inventive genius, 
 energy, and perseverance, which might have attained 
 the greatest objects ; though from insufficient know- 
 ledge, and self-sufficient perversity, they had wasted 
 themselves on absurd or trivial purposes. 
 
 There was a strong contrast between the characters 
 of Sir Ulick and his cousin Cornelius O'Shane. They 
 disliked and despised each other : differing as far in 
 natural disposition as the subtle and the bold, their 
 whole course through life, and the habits contracted 
 during their progress, had widened the original dif- 
 ference. 
 
 The one living in the world, and mixing continually 
 with men of all ranks and character, had, by bending 
 easily, and being all things to all men, won his courtier- 
 way onwards and upwards to the possession of a seat in 
 Parliament, and the prospect of a peerage. 
 
 The other, inhabiting a remote island, secluded from 
 all men but those over whom he reigned, caring for no 
 earthly consideration, and for no human opinion but his 
 own, had for himself, and by himself, hewed out his 
 way to his own objects, and then rested, satisfied — 
 
 " Lord of himself, and all his [liitle) world his own." 
 
 Cbapt^r tot. 
 
 ONE morning, when Harry Ormond was out 
 shooting, and King Corny, who had recovered 
 tolerably from the gout, was reinstated in his 
 arm-chair in the parlour, listening to Father Jos read- 
 ing The Dublin Evening Post, a gossoon, one of the
 
 56 ORMOND. 
 
 runners of the castle, opened the door, and putting in 
 his curly red head and bare feet, announced, in all 
 haste,, that he '■'■just seen Sir Ulick O'Shane in the 
 boat, crossing the lake for the Black Islands." 
 
 " Well, breathless blockhead ! and what of that ? " 
 said King Corny — " did you never see a man in a boat 
 before ? " 
 
 " I did, plase your honour." 
 
 " Then what is there extraordinary ? " 
 
 " Nothing at all, plase your honour, only — thought 
 your honour might like to know." 
 
 " Then you thought wrong, for I neither like it, nor 
 mislike it. I don't care a rush about the matter — so 
 take yourself downstairs." 
 
 " '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 Dun- 
 shaughlin, the housekeeper, who entered the room, for 
 she was a privileged person, and had les grandes et les 
 pet'ites entrees in this palace — " Morning visit ! — are you 
 sure. Father Jos — are you clear he isn't come intending 
 to stay dinner ? " 
 
 " What, in the devil's name, Betty, does it signify ? " 
 said the king. 
 
 " About the dinner ! " 
 
 "What about it?" said Corny proudly: "whether 
 he comes, stays, or goes, I'll not have a scrap, 
 or an iota of it changed," added he, in a despotic 
 tone. 
 
 " Whcugh ! " said Betty, " one would not like to 
 have a dinner of scraps — for there's nothing else to-day 
 for him." 
 
 " Then if there is nothing else, there can be nothing 
 else," said the priest, very philosophically.
 
 ORMOND. 57 
 
 " But when strangers come to dine, one would make 
 a bit of an exertion, if one could," said Betty. 
 
 " It's his own fault 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 anything ? " 
 
 **A person may speak in this house, I suppose, 
 besides the clergy, Father Jos," said Mrs Betty, under 
 her breath. 
 
 Then, looking out of the window, she added, " He's 
 half-way over the lake, and he'll make his own 
 apologies good, I'll engage, when he comes in ; for he 
 knows how to speak for himself as well as any gentleman 
 — and I don't doubt but he'll get my Micky made an 
 exciseman, as he promised to ; and sure he has a good 
 right — Isn't he a cousin of King Corny's ? wherefore I'd 
 wish to have all things proper. So I'll step out and 
 kill a couple of chickens — won't I ? " 
 
 " Kill what you please," said King Corny ; " but 
 without my warrant, nothing killed or unkilled shall 
 come up to my table this day — and that's enough. No 
 more reasoning — quit the subject and the room, Betty." 
 
 Betty quitted the room ; but every stair, as she 
 descended to the kitchen, could bear witness that she 
 did not quit the subject ; and for an hour afterwards 
 she reasoned against the obstinacy and folly of man, 
 and the chorus in the kitchen moralized, in conformity 
 and commiseration — in vain. 
 
 Meantime Father Jos, though he regretted the 
 exertions which Mrs Betty might discreetly have made 
 in favour of a good dinner, was by no means, as he 
 declared, a friend or fauterer of Sir Ulick O' Shane — 
 how could he, when Sir Ulick had recanted ? — The 
 priest looked with horror upon the apostasy — the king 
 with contempt upon the desertion of his party. *' Was
 
 58 ORMOND. 
 
 he sincere any way I'd honour hira," said Cornelius, 
 " or forgive hira ; but, not to be ripping up old griev- 
 ances when there's no occasion, I can't forgive the 
 way he is at this present double-dealing with poor 
 Harry Ormond — cajoling the grateful heart, and shirk- 
 ing the orphan boy that he took, upon hira to patronize. 
 Why there I thought nobly of him, and forgave him 
 all his sins, for the generous protection he afforded the 
 son of his friend." 
 
 "Had Captain Ormond, the father, no fortune?" 
 asked the priest. 
 
 " Only a trifle of three hundred a year, and no 
 provision for the education or maintenance of the boy. 
 Ulick's fondness for him, more than all, showed 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 hira raost — Oh ! how could 
 he ? And all for what ? To please the wife he hates : 
 that can't be — that's only the ostensible — but what 
 the raal rason is I can't guess. No matter — he'll soon 
 tell us." 
 
 « Tell us ! Oh no," said the priest, « he'll keep 
 his own secret." 
 
 " He'll let it out, I'll engage, trying to hide it," 
 said Corny : " like all cunning people, he 'woodcocks 
 — hides his head, and forgets his body can be seen. 
 But hark! he is coming up. Tommy!" said he, 
 turning to a little boy of five years old, Sheelah's 
 grandchild, who was playing about in the room, " hand 
 me that whistle you're whistling with, till I see what's 
 the matter with it for you." 
 
 King Corny seemed lost in examination of the 
 whistle when Sir Ulick entered the room ; and after 
 receiving and seating him with proud courtesy, he again 
 returned to the charge, blowing through the whistle, 
 earnestly dividing his observation between Sir Ulick
 
 ORMOND. 59 
 
 and little Tommy, and asking questions, by turns, about 
 the whistle, and about all at Castle Hermitage. 
 
 " Where's my boy ? Where's Harry Ormond I " 
 was the first leading question Sir Ulick asked. 
 
 " Harry Ormond's out shooting, I believe, some- 
 where or somehow, taking his pleasure, as I hope he 
 will long, and always as long as he likes it, at the 
 Black Islands ; at least, as long as I live." 
 
 Sir Ulick branched off into hopes of his cousin 
 Cornelius's living long, very long ; and in general 
 terms, tliat were intended to avoid committing him- 
 self, or pinning himself to anything, he protested that 
 he must not be robbed of his boy, that he had always, 
 with cFood reason, been jealous of Harry's affection for 
 King Corny, and that he could not consent to let his 
 term of stay at the Black Islands be either as long 
 as Harry himself should like, or during what he hoped 
 would be the life of his cousin, Cornelius O'Shane. 
 
 " There's something wrong, still, in this whistle. 
 Why, if you loved him so, did you let him go when 
 you had him ? " said Corny. 
 
 «' He thought it necessary, for domestic reasons," 
 replied Sir Ulick. 
 
 " Continmial i^olicy, that is ; what I never understood, 
 nor never shall," said Corny. " But I don't inquire 
 any farther. If you are satisfied with yourself, we 
 are all satisfied, I believe." 
 
 " Pardon me, I cannot be satisfied without seeing 
 Harry this morning, for I've a little business with him 
 — will you have the goodness to send for him ? " 
 
 Father Jos, who, from the window, saw Harry's 
 dog snuffing along the path to the wood, thought he 
 could not be far from the house, and went to make 
 inquii-ies ; and now when Sir Ulick and King Corny 
 were left alone together, a dialogue — a sort of single 
 combat, without any object but to try each other's
 
 6o ORMOND. 
 
 powers and temper — ensued between them ; in which 
 the one on the offensive came on with a tomahawk, 
 and the other stood on the defensive parrying with 
 a polished blade of Damascus ; and sometimes, when 
 the adversary was off his guard, making a sly cut at 
 an exposed part. 
 
 " What are you so busy about ? " said Sir Ulick. 
 
 " Mending the child's toy," said Cornelius. " A 
 man must be doing something in this world." 
 
 "But a man of your ingenuity ! 'tis a pity it should 
 be wasted, as I have often said, upon mere toys." 
 
 " Toys of one sort or other we are all taken up with 
 through life, from the cradle to the grave. By-the- 
 bye, I give you joy of your baronetage. I hope they 
 did not make you pay, now, too much in conscience 
 for that poor tag of nobility." 
 
 " These things are not always matters of bargain 
 and sale — mine was quite an unsolicited honour, a 
 mark of approbation and acceptance of my poor 
 services, and as such, gratifying ; — as to the rest, 
 believe me, it was not, if I must use so coarse an ex- 
 pression, paid for." 
 
 " Not paid for — what, then, it's owing for ? To be 
 paid for, still ? Well, that's too hard, after all you've 
 done for them. But some men have no manner of 
 conscience. At least, I hope you paid the fees." 
 
 " The fees, of course — but we shall never under- 
 stand 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 
 Baron Castle Hermitage, or to get a ribbon, or a 
 garter, or a thistle, or what ? — A thistle ! What asses 
 some men are ! " 
 
 What savages some men are, thought Sir Ulick : 
 he walked to the window, and looking out, hoped 
 that Harry Ormond would soon make his appearance.
 
 ORMOND. 6 T 
 
 " You are doing, or undoing, a great deal here, cousin 
 Cornelius, I see, as usual." 
 
 " Yes, but what I am doing, stand or fall, will never 
 be my undoing — I am no speculator. How do your 
 silver mines go on, Sir Ulick ? I hear all the silver 
 mines in Ireland turn out to be lead." 
 
 " I wish they did," said Sir Ulick, " for then we 
 could turn all our lead to gold. Those silver mines 
 certainly did not pay — I've a notion you found the 
 same with your reclaimed bog here, cousin Cornelius 
 — I understand that after a short time it relapses, and 
 is worse than ever, like most things pretending to be 
 reclaimed." 
 
 " Speak for yourself, there. Sir Ulick," said Cor- 
 nelius ; " you ought to know, certainly, for some thirty 
 years ago I think you pretended to be a reclaimed rake." 
 
 " I don't remember it," said Sir Ulick. 
 
 " I do, and so would poor Emmy Annaly, if she 
 was alive, which it's fortunate for her she is not 
 (broken-hearted angel, if ever there was one, by wed- 
 lock ! and the only one of the Annalys I ever liked)," 
 said Cornelius to himself, in a low leisurely voice of 
 soliloquy. Then resuming his conversation tone, and 
 continuing his speech to Sir Ulick, " I say you pre- 
 tended thirty years ago, I remember, to be a reformed 
 rake, and looked mighty smooth and plausible — and 
 promised fair that the improvement was solid, and was 
 to last for ever and a day. But six months after 
 marriage comes a relapse, and the reclaimed rake's 
 worse than ever. Well, to be sure, that's in favour of 
 your opinion against all things pretending to be re- 
 claimed. But see, my poor bog, without promising so 
 well, performs better ; for it's six years, instead of six 
 months, that I've seen no tendency to relapse. See, 
 the cattle upon it speak for themselves ; an honest calf 
 won't lie for any man."
 
 62 ORMOND. 
 
 ** I give you joy of the success of your improvements. 
 I admire, too, your ploughing team and ploughing 
 tackle," said Sir Ulick, with an ironical smile. ** You 
 don't go into any indiscreet expence for farming im- 
 plements or prize cattle." 
 
 " No," said Cornelius, " I don't prize the prize 
 cattle ; the best prize a man can get, and the only one 
 worth having, is that which he must give himself, or 
 not get, and of which he is the best judge at all 
 seasons." 
 
 " What prize, may I ask ? " 
 
 " You may ask, and I'll answer — ^the prize of 
 success i and, success to myself, I have it." 
 
 " And succeeding in all your ends by such noble 
 means must be doubly gratifying — and is doubly com- 
 mendable and surprising," said Sir Ulick. 
 
 " May I ask — for it's my turn now to play ignoramus 
 — may I ask, what noble means excites this gratuitous 
 commendation and surprise ? " 
 
 " I commend, in the first place, the economy of your 
 ploughing tackle — hay ropes, hay traces, and hay halters 
 — doubly useful and convenient for harness and food." 
 
 Corny replied, " Some people, I know, think the 
 most expensive harness and tackle, and the most ex- 
 pensive ways of doing everything, 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 extra- 
 vagant new ways of doing old things." 
 
 " 'Tis a pity you don't continue the old Irish style 
 of ploughing by the tail," said Sir Ulick. 
 
 "That is against humanity to brute bastes, which, 
 without any sickening palaver of sentiment, I practise. 
 Also, it's against an Act of Parliament, which I regard 
 sometimes — that is, when I understand them ; which,
 
 ORMOND. 63 
 
 the way you Parliament gentlemen draw them up, is not 
 always particularly intelligible to plain common sense ; 
 and I have no lawyers here, thank Heaven ! to consult : 
 I am forced to be legislator, and lawyer, and plough- 
 man, and all, you see, the best I can for myself." 
 
 He opened the window, and called to give some 
 orders to the man, or, as he called him, the boy — a boy 
 of sixty — who was ploughing. 
 
 " Your team, I see, is worthy of your tackle," 
 pursued Sir Ulick — "a mule, a bull, and two lean 
 horses. I pity the foremost poor devil of a horse, who 
 must starve in the midst of plenty, while the horse, bull, 
 and even mule, in a string behind him, are all plucking 
 and munging away at their hay ropes." 
 
 Cornelius joined in Sir Ulick's laugh, wliich shor- 
 tened its duration. 
 
 " 'Tis comical ploughing, I grant," said he, " but 
 still, to my fancy, anything's better and more pro- 
 fitable nor the tragi-comic ploughing you practise every 
 sason in Dublin." 
 
 " I ?" said Sir Ulick. 
 
 " Ay, you, and all your courtiers, ploughing the half 
 acre* continually, pacing up and down that Castle-yard, 
 while you're waiting in attendance there. Every one 
 to his taste, but — 
 
 ' If there's a man on earth I hate, 
 Attendance and dependence be his fate.' " 
 
 ** After all, I have very good prospects in life," 
 said Sir Ulick. 
 
 " Ay, you've been always living on prospects ; for 
 my part, I'd rather have a mole-hill in possession than 
 a mountain in prospect." 
 
 *' Cornelius, what are you doing here to the roof of 
 
 * Ploughing the half acre. The English reader will please 
 to inquire the meaning of this phrase from any Irish courtier.
 
 64 ORMOND. 
 
 your house ? " said Sir Ulick, striking off to another 
 subject. " What a vast deal of work you do contrive 
 to cut out for yourself." 
 
 " I'd rather cut it out for myself than have any- 
 body to cut it out for me," said Cornelius. 
 
 " Upon my word, this will require all your extra- 
 ordinary ingenuity, cousin." 
 
 " Oh, I'll engage I'll make a good job of it, in my 
 sense of the word, though not in yours ; for I know, 
 in your vocabulary, that's only a good job where you 
 pocket money and do nothing ; now my good jobs 
 never bring me in a farthing, and give me a great deal 
 to do into the bargain." 
 
 *' I don't envy you such jobs, indeed," said Sir 
 Ulick ; " and are you sure that at last you make them 
 good jobs in any acceptation of the term ? " 
 
 " Sure ! a man's never sure of anything in this 
 world, but of being abused. But one comfort, my 
 own conscience, for which I've a trifling respect, can't 
 reproach me ; since my jobs, good or bad, have cost 
 my poor country nothing." 
 
 On this point Sir Ulick was particularly sore, for 
 he had the character of being one of the greatest 
 jobbers in Ireland. With a face of much political 
 jirudery, 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 administra- 
 tions, had been so ill paid. 
 
 " Why the deuce do you work for them, then ? 
 You won't tell me it's for love — Have you got any 
 character by it? — if you haven't profit, what have 
 you? I would not let them make me a dupe, or may 
 be something worse, if I was you," said Cornelius, 
 looking him full in the face.
 
 ORMOND. 65 
 
 " Savage ! " said Sir Ulick again to himself. The 
 tomahawk was too much for him — Sir Ulick felt that 
 it was fearful odds to stand fencing according to rule 
 with one who 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 advanced to meet him with an 
 air of cordial friendship, which brought the honest 
 flush of pleasui-e 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 stroked the child's head, 
 and seemed taken up entirely with him ; Sir Ulick 
 spoke of Lady O'Shane, and of his hopes that pre- 
 possessions were wearing off. " If Miss Black were 
 out of the way, things would all go right ; but she 
 is one of the mighty good — too good ladies, who are 
 always meddling with other people's business, and 
 making mischief." 
 
 Harry, who hated her, that is, as much as he could 
 hate anybody, railed at her vehemently, saying more 
 against her than he thought, and concluded by join- 
 ing in Sir Ulick's wish for her departure from Castle 
 Hermitage, but not with any view to his own return 
 thither : on that point he was quite resolute and 
 steady. He would never, he said, be the cause of 
 mischief. Lady O'Shane did not like him — why, he 
 did not know, and had no right to inquire — and was 
 too proud to inquire, if he had a right. It was 
 enough that her ladyship had proved to him her dis- 
 like, and refused him protection at his utmost need : 
 
 E
 
 66 ORMOND. 
 
 he should never again sue for her hospitality. He 
 declared i^^at Sir Ulick should no more be disquieted 
 by his being an inmate at Castle Hermitage. 
 
 Sir Ulick became more warm and eloquent in 
 dissuading him from this resolution, the more he 
 perceived that Ormond was positively fixed in his 
 determination. 
 
 The cool looker-on all the time remarked this, and 
 Cornelius was convinced that he had from the first 
 been right in 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 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 pro- 
 nounced the words Miss Annaly, first directed aright 
 the attention of Cornelius. 
 
 " Lady Annaly and Miss Annaly ! are they ill ? 
 What's the matter, for Heaven's sake ! " exclaimed 
 Harry with great anxiety ; but pronouncing both the 
 ladies' names precisely in the same tone, and with the 
 same freedom of expression. 
 
 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 thi.i morning — set off for England to him
 
 ORMOND. 67 
 
 immediately. Lady Annaly thought of you, Harry, 
 my boy — you must be a prodigious favourite — in the 
 midst of all her affliction, and the hurry of this 
 sudden departure, this morning : she 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 intermitting glances our young hero's counte- 
 nance, and Cornelius O'Shane studied Sir Ulick's ; 
 Harry tore open the letter eagerly, and coloured a 
 good deal when he saw the inside. 
 
 " I have no business here reading that boy's secrets 
 in liis 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 ? " His crutch slipped as he stepped across the 
 hearth — Harry ran to him : " O sir, what are you 
 doing ? You are not able to walk yet without me — 
 why are you going? Secrets did you say?" (The 
 words recuired to his ear.) "I have no secrets — 
 there's no secrets in this letter — it's only — the reason 
 I looked foolish was that here's a list of ray own 
 faults, which I raade like a fool, and dropped like a 
 fool — but they could not have fallen into better or 
 kinder hands than Lady Annaly's." 
 
 He offered the letter and its enclosure 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 show 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
 
 68 ORMOND. 
 
 am sure you would not have shown It to me, Harry, 
 nor, of course, would I have looked at it. 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 indiscretion, young man, in the case. 
 You might as well scruple about your mother's letter, 
 if you had one ; or your mother's-in-law, which, to be 
 suie, you'll have, I hope, in due course of nature.'* 
 
 At the sound of the words mother-in-law, a cloud 
 passed over Sir Ulick's brow, not imnoticed by the 
 shrewd Cornelius ; 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 himself, as he took 
 leave. 
 
 " Woodcochd ! that he has — as I foresaw he would," 
 cried King Corny, the moment his guest had departed. 
 " Woodcoched ! if ever man did, by all that's cunning ! " 
 
 KING Corny sat for some minutes after Sir Ulick's 
 departure perfectly still and silent, leaning both 
 hands and his chin on his crutch. Then, look- 
 ing up at Harry, he exclaimed, " What a dupe you 
 are ! but I like you the better for it." 
 
 "I am glad you like me the better, at all events," 
 said Harry ; " but I don't think I am a dupe." 
 
 " No — if you didy you would not be one : so you 
 don't see that it was and is Sir Ulick, and not her 
 hidyship, that wanted and wants to get rid of you ? " 
 No, Harry did not see this, and would not be
 
 ORMOND. 69 
 
 persuaded of it. He defended his guardian most 
 warmly ; he was certain of Sir Ulick's affection ; he 
 was sure Sir UHck was incapable of acting with such 
 dupHcity. 
 
 His majesty repeated, at every pause, " You are a 
 dupe ; but I hke you the better for it. And," added 
 he, " you don't — blind buzzard 1 as your want of 
 conceit makes you, for which I like you the better, 
 too — you don't see the reason why he banished you 
 from Castle Hermitage — 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. " O sir, you would not be so ill-natured 
 as to make a jest of me ! — I know how ignorant, how 
 uninformed, what a raw boy I am. Marcus has been 
 educated like a gentleman." 
 
 "More shame for his father that couldn'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." 
 
 " Ay, 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 " 
 
 " Pwival him ! the thought of rivalling my friend 
 never entered my head." 
 
 " But is he your friend ? " said Cornelius. 
 
 "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 directly 
 or indirectly ; but don't let me be accused or sus-
 
 70 ORMOND. 
 
 pected unjustly — I never for one instant had the 
 treachery, presumption, 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 Cornelius. 
 
 " I am very sorry for that," said Harry ; " for I 
 have lost a kind friend in Lady Annaly — one who at 
 least T might have hoped would have become my 
 friend, if I had deserved it." 
 
 '* Might have hoped ! — Would have become / — 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 sub- 
 junctive mood tenure of a friend. Give me the good 
 imperative 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 proviso and 
 an excuse 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 rason to dislike 
 the woman. What business liad 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." 
 
 *' She is no preacher, I assure you, sir."
 
 ORMOND. 7 1 
 
 " 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 ray eyes open, nor never will — quite 
 enough for me that impertinent list of your faults she 
 enclosed 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 pas- 
 sionate." 
 
 " Passionate 1 true ; that is Moriarty you are think- 
 ing of; and I grant you, 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 ray fault ; but ray late vow has prevented 
 the future, and Moriarty's better in the world than 
 ever he was." 
 
 " Thanks to your goodness, sir." 
 
 " Oh ! I wasn't thinking of ray goodness — 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 penitence." 
 
 " In the way of reformation though, I hope, I shall
 
 7 2 ORMOND. 
 
 all my life," said Harry. " One comfort — I have 
 never been in a passion since." 
 
 *' But, then, a rasonable passion's allowable : I 
 wouldn't give a farthing for a man that couldn't 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." 
 
 " 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 
 bHnds 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 himself — every 
 feature under the courtier's regimen of hypocrisy. 
 Harry Ormond, don't set about to cure yourself of 
 your natui-al passions — why, this is rank Methodism, 
 all ! " 
 
 " Methodism, sir ? " 
 
 " Methodism, sir ! — don't contradict or repeat me — ■ 
 Methodism, that the woman 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 cither, with their neiv lights. New lights ! new 
 nonsense ! — for man, woman, or beast. But enough 
 of this, and too much, Harry. Prince Harry, pull 
 that bell a dozen times for rae this minute, till they 
 bring out my old horse." 
 
 Before it was possible that any one could have come 
 upstairs, the impatient monarch, pointing with his 
 crutch, added, " Run to the head of the stairs. Prince 
 Harry dear, and call, and screech to them to make no 
 delay ; and I want you out with me ; so get your 
 horo'e, Harry."
 
 ORMOND. 73 
 
 " But, sir — is it possible — are you able ? " 
 
 " I am able, sir, possible or not," cried King Corny, 
 starting up on his cmtches. "Don't stand talking 
 to me of possibilities, 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 : his majesty 
 mounted, or rather was mounted, and they proceeded 
 to one of the prettiest farms in the Black Islands. 
 As they rode 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, " which I am glad of for your sake. Prince 
 Harry ; I won't have you, like that donny English 
 prince or king, they nicknamed 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 the bog to meet us at 
 Moriarty's. Here he is, and Moriarty along with him 
 to welcome you. Patrick, give Prince Harry possession 
 — with sod and twig. Here's the kay from my own 
 hand, and I give you joy. Nay, don't deny me the 
 pleasure — 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 Connal is a fat grazier, 
 who will make her as rich as a Jew ; and anyway, 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
 
 74 ORMOND. 
 
 up whenever you please. Well ! we'll settle that 
 between ourselves," continued his majesty ; " 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, 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. 
 
 When he was invested with his petty principality, 
 it was expected of him to 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 coursing continually. Well, 
 was not it a happy thing for the islands, when Harry 
 Ormond first set foot on them ? From a boy 'twas 
 flsy to see what a man he'd be. Long may he live to 
 reign over us ! " 
 
 The taste for vxJgar praise grew by what it fed 
 upon. Harry was in great danger of forgetting that 
 he was too fond of flattery, and too fond of company 
 — not the best. He excused himself to himself, by 
 saying that companions of some kind or other he must 
 have, and he was in a situation where good company 
 was not to be had. Then Moriarty Carroll was game-
 
 ORMOND. 75 
 
 keeper, and Morlarty Carroll was always out hunting 
 or shooting with him, and he was led by kind and 
 good feelings to be more familiar and free with this 
 man than he would have been with any other in the 
 same rank of life. The poor fellow was ardently 
 attached to hira, 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 ax>y man of common sense, any one 
 who had lived in civilized society, and who had had 
 anything 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 essential points, 
 pretty nearly the same. 
 
 It happened about this time that Betty Dunshaughlin 
 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 danced 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, in the 
 meantime, 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 some time or other, but somehow or 
 other he had never had time : and now he was in the 
 greatest possible hurry, for the hounds were out. But 
 
 * Patron, probably — an entertainment held in honour of the 
 fatron saint. A festive meeting, similar to a wake in Elngland.
 
 76 ORMOND. 
 
 when once he had opened the book, he could not shut 
 it : 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 cuiiosity 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 the same position, while Betty held forth unheard, 
 about cap, supper, and pattern. At last he carried off 
 the book, to his own 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 break- 
 ing 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 nothing at-all at-all about the 
 book, and I'm very sorry I 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 nothing." 
 
 But having seized upon her, he refused to let her go, 
 and protested that he would continue to be the torment 
 of her life, till she should find the other 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 apple-room, 
 tossed over the heap of tattered mouldy books, and 
 at last found the precious volume. He devoured it 
 eagerly — nor was it forgotten as soon as finished. As 
 the chief part of the entertainment depended on the 
 characters, it did not fade from his imagination. He 
 believed the story to be true, for it was constructed 
 with unparalleled ingenuity, and developed with con-
 
 ORMOND. 77 
 
 summate art. The character which particularly interested 
 him was that of the hero, tlie more peculiarly, because 
 he saw, or fancied that he saw, a resemblance to his 
 own ; with some differences, to be sure — but young 
 readers readily assimilate and identify themselves with 
 any character, the leading points of which resemble 
 their own, and in whose general feelings they sympathize. 
 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, impinident 
 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 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 com- 
 mencement of his career : he might become accom- 
 plished 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 harsh 
 word ; but what other will express the idea ? Un- 
 luckily, the easiest points to be imitated in any character 
 are not always the best; and where any latitude is 
 given to conscience, or any precedents are allowed to 
 the grosser passions for their justification, those are the 
 points which are afterwards remembered and applied in 
 practice, when the moral salvo sentences are forgotten, 
 or are at best but of feeble countervailing effect. 
 
 At six o'clock on Monday evening the cap — the
 
 78 ORMOND. 
 
 prize cap, flaming with red ribbons from the top of the 
 pole, streamed to the summer air, and delighted 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 one of the prettiest, "smartest," 
 " most likely-looking " " lasses," that ever appeared 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 advantage of having been some- 
 times at the big house at Castle Hermitage — she was 
 the gardener's daughter — Peggy Sheridan — dis- 
 tinguished among her fellows by a nosegay, such as no 
 other could have procured — distinguished more by her 
 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 coquette ; but let not this suggest a thought 
 derogatory to the reputation of the lively Peggy. She 
 was a well-behaved, well-meaning, innocent, industrious 
 girl — a good daughter, 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 suscej^tible to the 
 charms of beauty ; and, never well guarded by pru- 
 dence, he was now, with his head full of Tom Jones, 
 prone to run into danger himself, and raslily ready to 
 hurry on an innocent girl to her destruction. He was 
 not without hopes of pleasing — what young man of 
 nineteen or twenty is ? He was not without chance of
 
 ORMOND. 79 
 
 success, as it is called, with Peggy — what woman can 
 be pronounced safe, who ventures to extend to a young 
 lover the encouragement of coquettish 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 garden ; and even 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 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, candoiu" obliges us to acknowledge, that 
 there was some truth in these scandalous reports. He 
 certainly pursued, most imprudently, "pursued the 
 chase of youth and beauty ; " nor would he, we fear, 
 have dropped the chase till Peggy was his prey, but 
 that fortunately, in the full headlong career of passion, 
 he was suddenly 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 tremble. 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 was in love. It happened one 
 evening that he, with a rose yet unfaded in his hand 
 — a rose which he had snatched from Peggy Sheridan 
 — took the path towards Moriarty Carroll's cottage. 
 Moriarty, seeing him from afar, came out to meet him ; 
 * Greatcoat.
 
 8o ORMOND. 
 
 but when he came within sight of the rose, Monarty's 
 pace slackened, 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 Ormond, 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 his head away again. 
 
 " 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 determined to know whether it was the 
 truth or not. 
 
 *' I'll not leave you, till I know what's the matter," 
 said he. 
 
 ** Then none will know that till I die," said 
 Moriarty ; adding, after a little pause, " there's no 
 knowing what's wrong withinside of a man till he is 
 opened." 
 
 " But alive, Moriarty, if the heart is in the case 
 only," said Ormond, " a man can open himself to a 
 friend." 
 
 " Ay, if he had a friend," said Moriarty. " I'll 
 beg your honour to let me pass — I am able for it now 
 — I am quite stout again." 
 
 " Then if you arc quite stout again, I shall want 
 you to row me across the lake." 
 
 " I am not able for that, sir," replied Moriarty, 
 pushing past him.
 
 ORMOND. 8 1 
 
 " But," said Orniond, 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 youi' wife." 
 
 " Wife ! " repeated Moriarty, joy illuminating, but 
 fear as instantly darkening his countenance. " How 
 will that be now ?" 
 
 " It tuill be — it shall be — as happily as honourably. 
 Listen to me, Moriarty — ^as honourably now as ever. 
 Can you think me so wicked, so base, as to say, tu'tfey 
 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 ! " 
 
 " 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 ; but a quite 
 different — better — but worse. So strange with me — I 
 
 F
 
 82 ORMOND. 
 
 can't speak rightly — for the pleasure has seized me 
 stronger than the pain." 
 
 "Lean against me, poor fellow. Oh, if I had 
 broken such a heart ! " 
 
 " Then how wrong I was when I said that word I 
 did," said Moriarty. " I 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 word 
 again — it was very ungenerous." 
 
 " Noble fellow ! " said Ormond. 
 
 *' Good night to your honour, kindly," said 
 Moriarty. 
 
 " How happy I am now," said our young hero to 
 himself, as he walked home, " which I never should 
 have been if I had done this wrong." 
 
 A fortunate escape ! — yes : but when the escape 
 is owing to good fortune, not to prudence — to good 
 feeling, not to principle — there is no security for the 
 future. 
 
 Ormond was steady to his promise towards Moriarty : 
 to do him justice, he was more than this — he was 
 generous, actively, perseveringly generous, in his con- 
 duct to him. With open heart, open purse, public 
 overtui'e, and private negotiation with the parents of 
 Peggy Sheridan, he at last succeeded in accomplishing 
 Moriarty's marriage. 
 
 Ormond's biographer may well be allowed to make 
 the most of his persevering generosity on this occasion, 
 because no other scrap of good can be found of which 
 to make anything 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 precepts were not
 
 ORMOND, 83 
 
 always edifying — whether this young man had been 
 prepared by previous errors of example and education 
 — or whether he fell into mischief because he had 
 nothing 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. 
 
 Cljapter iJtij. 
 
 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 under age, or what the years 
 of discretion of a Turk may be, we do not at this 
 moment recollect. We only know that our own hero 
 is not yet twenty. Without being quite as accommo- 
 dating as the Mahometan angel, we should wish to 
 obliterate from our record some months of Ormond's 
 existence. 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, 
 rather, it was not enough to weep over the loss — how 
 to repair it was the question. 
 
 Whenever Ormond returned to his better self, when- 
 ever he thought of improving, he remembered Lady 
 Annaly ; and he now recollected with shame, that he 
 had never had the grace to answer 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
 
 84 ORMOND. 
 
 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 recurring to the letter, he 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, 
 containing them, to be sent to Annaly, and had desired 
 her agent there to forward it ; but in case any delay 
 should occur, she begged Mr Ormond would take the 
 trouble to inquire for them himself. This whole affair 
 about the books had escaped Ormond's memory : he 
 felt himself blush all over when he read the letter 
 again ; and sent off a messenger immediately to the 
 agent at Annaly, who had kept the box till it was 
 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 French classics : the French 
 books were, at this time, quite useless to him, for he 
 could not read French. Lady Annaly, however, sent 
 these books on purpose to induce him to learn a lan- 
 guage, which, if he should go into the army, as he 
 seemed inclined to do, would be particularly 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 learning French ; as most of the 
 Irish parish priests were, at that time, educated at St 
 Omer's or Louvain.
 
 ORMOND. 85 
 
 Father Jos had been at St Omar's, and Harry resolved 
 to attack him with a French grammar and dictionary; 
 but the French that 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 obeyed her 
 commands ; and that he could read at least a page of 
 Gil Bias. Before this was accomplished, he learnt 
 from the agent that Lady Annaly was in great afflic- 
 tion 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 it seemed too late 
 to write at all. 
 
 Among the English books was one in many volumes, 
 which did not seize his attention forcibly, like Tom 
 Jones, at once, but which won upon him by degrees, 
 drew him on against his will, and against his taste. 
 He hated moralizing and reflections ; and there was 
 here an abundance 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 attention. The heroine's per- 
 petual egotism 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 splen- 
 did, too formal for everyday use : at first he detested 
 Sir Charles Grandison, who was so diflferent 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.
 
 86 ORMOND. 
 
 Sensible as Ormond was of the power of liumour 
 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 young hero's 
 mind, inspired him with virtuous emulation, and made 
 him ambitious to be a gentleman in the best and highest 
 sense of the word : in short, it completely counter- 
 acted in his mind the effects of his late study. 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 adven- 
 turer, a spendthrift, and a rake, he now saw, united 
 with high moral and religious principles, in the char- 
 acter of a man of virtue, as well as a man of honour ; 
 a man of cultivated understanding and accomplished 
 manners. In Sir Charles Grandison's history he 
 read that of a gentleman, who, fulfilling every duty of 
 his station in society, eminently useful, respected 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. 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 concerns 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 siime kind of en- 
 thusiasm himself; and though he had, as he said,
 
 ORMOND. 87 
 
 never been regularly what is called a reading man, yet 
 the books he had read left ineffaceable traces in his 
 memory. Fictions, if they touched him at all, struck 
 him with all the force of reality ; and he never spoke 
 of the characters as in a book, but as if they had lived 
 and acted. Harry was glad to find that here again, 
 as in most things, they sympathised, 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 discipline to his mind, giving him 
 that versatility in which persons of powerful imagina- 
 tion, accustomed to live in retirement and to command 
 their ov/n time and occupations, are often most 
 deficient. 
 
 At this period, when our young hero was suddenly 
 seized with a voracious appetite for books, it was try- 
 ing to his patience to be frequently interrupted. 
 
 " Come, come — Harry Bookworm you are growing ! 
 — no good ! — come out ! " cried King Corny. " Lay 
 down whatever you have in your hand, and come off 
 this minute, till I show you a badger at bay, with half- 
 a-dozen dogs." 
 
 '* Yes, sir, this minute — be kind enough to wait one 
 minute." 
 
 " 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 volume 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
 
 88 ORMOND. 
 
 worked stools 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 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, desert rock, in which the sea-fowl built ; 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 
 dangerous it was to obtain the eggs which the bird had 
 hidden in this pinnacle of the rock, the more eager 
 Corny was to have them ; and he, and Ormond, and 
 Moriarty, were at this perilous work for hours. King 
 Corny directing and bawling, and Moriarty and 
 Ormond with pole, net, and polehook, swinging and 
 leaping from one ledge of rock to another, clambering, 
 clinging, sliding, pushing, and pulling each other alter- 
 nately, from hold to hold, with frightful precipices 
 beneath them. As soon as Ormond had warmed to 
 the business, he was delighted with the dangerous 
 pursuit ; but suddenly, just as he had laid his hand on 
 the eggs, 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 
 ankle. The fall, and the sprain, would not have been
 
 ORMOND. 8g 
 
 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 read, during these long 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 backgammon with Father Jos, who was always 
 cross when he did not win. Kind-hearted King 
 Corny, considering always that Harry's sprain was 
 incurred in his service, 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 
 evening returned from his various out-of-doors occupa- 
 tions and amusements, Harry was glad to talk to him 
 of what he had been reading, and to hear his odd 
 summary reflections. 
 
 " Well, Harry, my boy, now I've told you how it 
 has been with me all day, let's hear how you have been 
 getting on with your bookmen : — has it been a good day 
 with you to-day ? — were you with Shakspeare — 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 — it did not awe 
 his understanding in the slightest degree. 
 
 If it was poetry, " did it touch the heart, or inflame 
 the imagination ? " If it was history, " was it true ? " 
 If it was philosophy, " was it sound reasoning ? " 
 These were the questions he asked. " No cramming 
 anything down his throat," he said. This daring 
 temper of mind, though it sometimes led him wrong, 
 was advantageous to his young friend. It wakened
 
 90 ORMOND. 
 
 Oimond's powers, and prevented his taking upon 
 trust the assertions, or the reputations, even of great 
 writers. 
 
 The spring was now returning, and Dora was to 
 return with spring. He looked forward to her return 
 as to a new era in his existence : then he should live 
 in better company, he should see something 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 broken a beautiful 
 mare for Dora. Dora, when a child, was very fond 
 of riding, and constantly rode out with her father. At 
 the time when Harry Ormond's head was full of Tom 
 Jones, Dora had always been his idea of Sophy Western, 
 though nothing else that he could recollect in her person, 
 mind, or manner, bore any resemblance 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 facility, turned into his new idea of a heroine — 
 not his heroine, for she was engaged to White Connal 
 — merely a 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, and improve his manners. 
 He was conscious that his manners had, since his coming 
 to the Black Islands, rusticated 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-master, would polish him, and set all 
 to rights, in the most agreeable manner possible. In
 
 ORMOND. gt 
 
 the course of these his speculations on his rapid improve- 
 ments, and his reflections on the perfectibility of man's 
 nature under the tuition of woman, some idea of its 
 falHbility did cross his imagination or his memory ; but 
 then he blamed, most unjustly, his imagination 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 before been at the Black Islands, 
 and whom Ormond had never seen, was to accompany 
 Dora on her return to Corny Castle : our young hero 
 had settled it in his head that this aunt must be some- 
 thing like Aunt Ellenor, in Sir Charles Grandison ; a 
 stiff-backed, prim, precise, old-fashioned looking aunt. 
 Never was man's astonishment more visible in his 
 countenance 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. 
 
 There was nothing surprising in the lady, but there 
 was, indeed, an extraordinary difference between our 
 hero's preconceived notion and the real person whom 
 he now beheld. Mademoiselle — as Miss O'Faley was 
 called, in honour of her French parentage and educa- 
 tion, 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 
 temme d'un 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
 
 5 2 ORMOND. 
 
 knew no better, might call an elderly woman ; but she 
 was as alert and lively as a girl of fifteen : a little 
 wrinkled, but withal in fine preservation. She wore 
 abundance of rouge, obviously — still more obviously 
 took superabundance of snufF — and without any obvious 
 motive, continued to play unremittingly a pair of large 
 black French eyes, in a manner impracticable to a mere 
 Englishwoman, 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 Irish 
 — 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 strik- 
 ing 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 
 attempted to speak English, which she spoke with an 
 inveterate brogue, her ideas, 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 expected 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, yet as our hero thought
 
 ORMOND. 93 
 
 agreeably, with her womanish airs and manner. No- 
 thing but her external appearance could be seen this first 
 evening — she was tired, and went to bed early. 
 
 Ormond longed to see more of her on whom so 
 much of his happiness was to depend. 
 
 THIS was the first time Mdlle. O'Faley had ever 
 been at Corny Castle. Hospitality, as well as 
 gratitude, determined the king of the Black 
 Islands to pay her honour due. 
 
 " Now, Harry Ormond," said he, " I have made 
 one capital, good resolution. Here is my sister-in- 
 law, Mdile. 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, notwithstanding all her eternal jabbering about 
 pol'itesse, and all her manifold absurdities, and infinite 
 female vanities, of which she has a double proportion, 
 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 mademoiselle — 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 T 
 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
 
 94 ORMOND. 
 
 approved by Oimond, 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 merchant in 
 Dublin, whom living she had despised, because he 
 was "neither tioble nor comme il faut," dying, had 
 lately left her a considerable sum of money : so that, 
 after having been many years in straitened circum- 
 stances, 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 were, 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 show 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 attics to the cellar, and show her all the 
 additions, improvements, and contrivances, he had made, 
 and all he intended to make, if Heaven should lend him 
 life to complete everything, or anything — there was 
 nothing Jitiis bed. 
 
 " Nor ever will be," said Dora, looking 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 sl/ift" said Dora : " I will show you 
 dozens of them as we go over this house. He calls 
 them substitutes — /call them makeshifts." 
 
 Ormond followed as they went over the house ; 
 and though he was sometimes 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 odditiesy and he was often in pain for his good 
 hicnd Corny.
 
 ORMOND. 95 
 
 His majesty was both proud and ashamed of his 
 palace : proud of the various instances it exhibited 
 of his taste, originality, and daring ; ashamed of the 
 deficiencies and want of comfort and finish. 
 
 His ready wit had excuses, reasons, or remedies, for 
 all mademoiselle's objections. Every alteration she 
 proposed he promised to get executed, and he promised 
 impossibilities with the best faith imaginable. 
 
 " 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 presuming 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. 
 
 "This is Corny Castle, mademoiselle," said he, 
 " and you are making it Castle Topsy-Turvy, which 
 must not be. Stop this work ; for I'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 — I give you a carte-blanche ; but I 
 won't have another wall touched, nor chimney pulled 
 down : so far shalt thou go, but no farther, Mdlle. 
 O'Faley." Mademoiselle was forced to submit, and 
 to confine her brilliant imagination to papering, painting, 
 and glazing. 
 
 Even in the course of these operations King Corny 
 became so impatient that she was forced to get them 
 finished surreptitiously, 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
 
 g6 ORMOND. 
 
 on the opposite banks of the lake was soon known to 
 her, and she was current in every house. The boat 
 was constantly rowing backwards and forwards over 
 the lake ; cars waiting or driving on the banks : in 
 short, this summer all was gaiety at the Black Islands. 
 Miss O'Faley was said to be a great acquisition in 
 the neighbourhood : 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. Everything 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 match, and expressed this so openly, that some 
 people began to think it would be broken off; others, 
 who knew Cornelius O' Shane's steadiness to his tuord 
 of honour, were convinced that Miss O'Faley would 
 never shake King Corny, and that Dora would 
 assuredly be Mrs Connal. 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 a great prize ; besides, she 
 was thought quite a beauty, and remarkable elegant. 
 
 Dora was just the thing to be the belle and coquette 
 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 de- 
 lightful pains to attract and then capriciously re])cl- 
 ling, succeeded, as Miss O'Faley observed, admirably. 
 Harry Orniond accompanied her and her aunt on all
 
 ORMOND. 97 
 
 their parties of pleasure: Miss O'Faley would never 
 venture in the boat or across the lake without him. 
 He was absolutely essential to their parties : he was 
 useful in the boat ; he was useful to drive the car — 
 Miss O'Faley would not trust anybody else to drive 
 her; he was an ornament 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. She often 
 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 would prefer him for a nephew to 
 another with his thousands. Mr Ormond was well- 
 born, and he had some politesse ; 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 salons that she could 
 name, only it might turn his head too much." So far 
 she said, and more she thought. 
 
 It was a million of 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 buried all 
 their days in the Black Islands. Mdlle. O'Faley's 
 heart still turned to Paris : in Paris she was determined 
 to live — there was no living, what you call living, 
 anywhere else — elsewhere people only vegetate, as 
 somebody said. Miss O'Faley, nevertheless, was ex- 
 cessively 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. Marquis ; but Dora's father would 
 not hear of her living anywhere but in Ireland, or 
 marrying any one but an Irishman. Miss O'Faley had 
 
 G
 
 98 ORMOND. 
 
 lived long enough in Ireland to know that the usual 
 method, in all disputes, is to split the 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 fortune 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 
 Mdlle. O'Faley's head — even the wedding-dresses had 
 floated in her fancy. 
 
 " As to the promise given to White 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 — anything but what he 
 should wear ; therefore it would be a f;nour 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 promise." 
 
 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
 
 ORMOND. 99 
 
 favourite : he had called him his son — son-in-law was 
 almost the same thing. Thus arguing with happy female 
 casuistry, mademoiselle 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, blundering good-nature ; 
 add to all this a degree oi confidencey that could not have 
 been acquired by any means but one. Thus accom- 
 plished, " rarely did she manage matters." 
 
 By the very boldness and openness of her railing against 
 the intended bridegroom, she convinced her brother-in- 
 law that she meant nothing more than talk. Besides, 
 through all her changing varieties of objections, there 
 •was one point on which she never varied — she never 
 objected to going to Dublin, in September, to buy the 
 wedding-clothes for Dora. This seemed to Cornelius 
 O'Shane perfect proof that she had no serious intention 
 to break off or defer the match. As to the rest, he 
 was glad to see his own Harry such a favourite : he 
 deserved to be a favourite with everybody, Cornelius 
 thought. The young people were continually together. 
 " So much the better," he would say : " all was above- 
 board, and there could be no harm going forward, and 
 no danger in life." All was above-board on Harry 
 Ormond's part; he knew nothing of Miss O'Faley's 
 designs, nor did he as yet feel that there was for him 
 much danger. He was not thinking as a lover of Dora 
 in particular, but he felt a new and extraordinary desire 
 to please in general. On every fair occasion, he liked 
 to show how well he could ride ; how well he could 
 dance ; how gallant and agreeable he could be ; his 
 whole attention was now turned to the cultivation of 
 his personal accomplishments. He succeeded : he 
 danced, he rode to admiration — his glories of horseman- 
 ship, and sportsmanship, the birds that he shot, and the
 
 lOO ORMOND. 
 
 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 personal 
 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 Sheridan's class was he the favourite, 
 but with all the young ladies, the belles of the half 
 gentry, who filled the ball-rooms ; and who made the 
 most distinguished figure in the riding, boating, walking, 
 tea-drinking 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 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 imminent danger of his 
 becoming a mere dancing, diiving, country coxcomb. 
 
 Cf)apter j:. 
 
 ONE day, when Harry Ormond was out shooting 
 with Moriarty Carroll, Moriarty 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
 
 ORMOND. lOl 
 
 to the last, every inch, even with the coat dropping 
 off 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 it in him, inside no more than out- 
 side." 
 
 " You may be mistaken there, as you have never 
 been withinside of him, Moriarty," said Ormond. 
 
 " Oh, faith, and if I have not been withinside of 
 him, I 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 shister 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 
 mate, 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 round the 
 neck, that was sent to sell him the eggs " 
 
 " Hush ! Moriarty," said Ormond, who did not 
 wish to hear any farther 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 show 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 ; but that he
 
 I02 ORMOND. 
 
 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 I 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 becaase 
 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 anything 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 difference ! — 
 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 forbear to 
 drive, and pound, and process, for the little con acre, 
 the potato ridge, the cow's grass, or the trifle for the 
 woman's peck of flax, was she dying, and sell the 
 woman's last blanket? — White Connal is a hard 
 man, and takes all to the uttermost farthing the law 
 allows." 
 
 " Well, even so, I suppose the law does not allow 
 him more than his due," said Orniond. 
 
 " Oil ! begging your pardon, master Harry," said 
 Moriarty, "that's because you are not a lawyer." 
 
 " And are you ? " said Harry. 
 
 " Only as we all arc through the country. And 
 now I'll only just tell you, master Harry, how this
 
 ORMOND. 103 
 
 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 Moriarty, " is, I'm grieving that a daughter of 
 our dear King Corny, 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 forget Peggy Sheridan — and his 
 goodness." 
 
 Moriarty said not a word more about White Connal 
 or Miss Dora ; 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 Connal, and that private 
 feelings had induced him to exaggerate. Harry was 
 persuaded of this, because Cornelius O'Shane had 
 spoken to him of Connal, and had never represented 
 him to be a hard man. In fact, O'Shane did not 
 know him. White Connal had a property in a distant 
 county, where he resided, and only came 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
 
 I04 ORMOND. 
 
 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 possessions 
 do not gain quite so much respect in this world as solid 
 wealth. The son was determined, therefore, to get 
 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. 
 
 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, 
 "with Miss O'Shane; she was as fine a girl v.s any 
 in Ireland — turn out who they could against her ; all 
 her points good. But, better than beauty, she would 
 be no contemptible fortune : with her aunt's assistance, 
 she would 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 lady was his destined bride, 
 had begun by taking the matter coolly, and resolving 
 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 imme- 
 diately. 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 pleasure, 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
 
 ORMOND. 105 
 
 Intentions, and begged to have the answer directed to 
 his father's at Glynn. 
 
 One morning as Miss O'Faley, Mr O'Shane, and 
 Ormond, were at breakfast, Dora, who was usually 
 late, not having 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 ; that is, it is not the 
 post, but a little special of my own — a messenger I 
 sent off to catch post^ 
 
 " To do what ? " said mademoiselle. 
 
 " Why, to catch post," said Corny. " I bid him 
 gallop off for the life and put across [lahe 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, to say nothing of his chance of drowning. 
 
 " 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.
 
 106 ORMOND. 
 
 I wonder ! This is what you style clean, too, in this 
 country ? " 
 
 " Why, then," said the boy, looking closely 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 O'Faley'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, bobbed his head in sign of 
 thanks, and drawing, not shutting, the door after him, 
 disappeared. 
 
 "As sure as I am Cornelius O'Shane, this is White 
 Connal in propria persona " said he, opening the note. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! Bon Dieu ! Ah Dieu ! " cried 
 Mdlle. O'Faley. 
 
 "Hush! Whisht!" cried the father — "here's 
 Dora coming." 
 
 Dora came in. " Any letter for me ? " 
 
 "Ay, darling, one for you." 
 
 " Oh, give it me ! I'm always in a desperate hurry 
 for my letters : where is it ? " 
 
 " No — you need not hold out your pretty hand ; 
 the letter \s for you, but not to you," said King Corny ; 
 "and now you know — ay, now you guess — my quick 
 little blusher, who 'tis from." 
 
 " I guess ? not I, indeed — not worth my guessing," 
 cried Dora, throwing herself 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.
 
 ORMOND. 107 
 
 «<Mon chere! mon chat!" said Mdlle. O'Faley, 
 " you are quite right to spare yourself the trouble of 
 guessing ; 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 this, which you here behold." 
 
 Dora, who during this speech had sat fishing for 
 sugar in her tea-cup, raised her long eyelashes, and 
 shot a scornful glance at the letter ; but intercepting 
 a crossing look of Ormond's, the expression of her 
 countenance suddenly changed, and with perfect com- 
 posure she observed, " A man may fold a letter badly, 
 and be nevertheless a very good man." 
 
 " That nobody can possibly contradict," said her 
 father ; " and on all occasions 'tis a comfort to be able 
 to say what no one can contradict." 
 
 " No well-bred person will never contradict no- 
 thing," said Miss O'Faley. " But without contra- 
 dicting you, my child," resumed Miss O'Faley, " I 
 maintain the impossibility of his being a gentleman 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 trust, 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 angrily.
 
 I08 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 I " said Miss O'Faley. 
 
 " Form ! " continued the father, addressing himself 
 to his daughter ; '■'■form, 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 together to her lips 
 at this instant, so that the substance of the saucer com- 
 pletely hid her face from her father. 
 
 "But," said Miss O'Faley, "you have not told us 
 yet what the man says." 
 
 " He says he will be here whenever we please." 
 
 "That's never," said Miss O'Faley: "never, I'd 
 give for answer, if my pleasure 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." 
 
 "Then the sooner the better, I say," continued her 
 father ; " for when a disagreeable 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 inter- 
 fering " 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 suddenly started back
 
 ORMOND. 109 
 
 from her scalding tea ; Harry involuntarily uttered 
 some exclamation of pity ; she turned, and seeing his 
 eyes still fixed upon her, said, " Very rude, sir, to 
 stare at any one so." 
 
 " I only thought you had scalded yourself." 
 
 " Then you only thought wrong." 
 
 " At any rate, there's no great occasion to be angry 
 with me, Dora." 
 
 " And who is angry, pray, Mr Ormond ? What 
 put it in your head that I was doing you the honour 
 to be angry with you ? " 
 
 " The cream ! the cream ! " cried Miss O'Faley. 
 
 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," added 
 she, changing the places of the cream ewer and cups 
 and saucers before her, " 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." 
 
 " 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 ;
 
 no ORMOND. 
 
 but there was something so unfeminine, so unamlable, 
 so decided and bold, he thought, in the tone of her 
 voice, as she pronounced the word marriage, that he 
 then, without reluctance, and with a feeling of disgust, 
 quitted the room, and left her " to manage her own 
 affairs, and to take her own way." 
 
 OUR young hero, hero-like, took a solitary walk 
 to indulge his feelings ; and as he rambled, he 
 railed to his heart's content against Dora. 
 " Here all my plans of happiness and improvement 
 are again overturned : Dora cannot improve me, can give 
 me no motive for making myself anything better than 
 what I am. Polish my manners ! no, when she has 
 such rude, odious manners herself; much changed for 
 the worse — a hundred times more agreeable when she 
 was a child. Lost to me she is every way — no longer 
 my playfellow — no chance of her being my friend. 
 Her good father hoped she would be a sister to me — 
 very sorry I should be to have such a sister : then I 
 am to consider her as a married woman — pretty wife 
 she will make ! I am convinced she cares no more 
 for that man she is going to marry than I do — marrying 
 merely to be married, to manage her own affairs, and 
 have her own way — so childish! — or marrying merely 
 to get an establishment — so base ! How women, and 
 such young creatures, can bring themselves to make 
 these venal matches — I protest Peggy Sheridan's worth 
 a hundred of such. Moriarty may think himself a 
 happy fellow — Suzy — Jenny, anybody — only with 
 dress and manner a little different — is full as good in 
 reality. I question whether they'd give themselves,
 
 ORMOND. I I I 
 
 without liking, to any White Connal in their own 
 rank, at the first offer, for a few sheep, or a cow, or to 
 have their own way." 
 
 Such was the summing-up of the topics of invective, 
 which, during a two hours' walk, had come round and 
 round continually in Ormond's indignant fancy. He 
 went plucking off the hawthorn blossoms in his path, 
 till at one desperate tug, that he gave to a branch which 
 crossed his way, he opened to a bank that sloped down 
 to the lake. At a little distance below him he saw 
 old Sheelah sitting under a tree, rocking herself back- 
 wards and forwards ; while Dora stood motionless 
 opposite to her, with her hand covering her eyes, and 
 her head drooping. They neither of them saw Ormond, 
 and he walked on pursuing his own path ; it led close 
 behind the hedge to the place where they were, so 
 close, that the sounds " Willastrew ! Willastrew ! " 
 from old Sheelah, in her funereal tone, reached his 
 ear, and then the words, " Oh, my heart's darling ! 
 
 so young to be a sacrifice But what next did he 
 
 say r 
 
 Ormond's curiosity was strongly excited ; but he 
 was too honourable to listen or to equivocate with 
 conscience : so to warn them that some one was within 
 hearing, he began to whistle clear and strong. Both 
 the old woman and the young lady started. 
 
 " Murder ! " cried Sheelah, " it's Harry Ormond. 
 Oh ! did he overhear anything — or all, think ye ? " 
 
 "Not I," answered Ormond, leaping over the hedge 
 directly, and standing firm before them : " I overheard 
 nothing — I heard only your last words, Sheelah — you 
 spoke so loud I could not help it. They are as safe 
 with me as with yourself — but don't speak so loud 
 another time, if you are talking secrets ; and whatever 
 you do, never suspect me of listening — I am incapable 
 oi that, or any other baseness."
 
 112 ORMOND. 
 
 So saying, he turned his back, and was preparing to 
 vault over the hedge again, when he heard Dora, in a 
 soft low voice, say, " I never suspected you, Harry, of 
 that, or any other baseness." 
 
 "Thank you, Dora," said he, turning with some 
 emotion, "thank you, Dora, for this first, this only 
 kind word you've said to me since you came home." 
 
 Looking at her earnestly, as he approached nearer, 
 he saw the traces of tears, and an air of dejection in 
 her countenance, which turned all his anger to pity 
 and tenderness in an instant. With a soothing tone 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. " And pray how — and 
 why — and for what did you think me to blame, sir ?" 
 
 The impossibility of explanation, the impropriety of 
 what he had said flashed suddenly on his mind ; and 
 in a few moments a rapid succession of ideas followed. 
 " Was Dora to blame for obeying her father, for being 
 ready to marry the man to whom her father had 
 destined — promised her hand; and was he, Harry 
 Ormond, the adopted child, the trusted friend of the 
 family, to suggest to the daughter the idea of rebelling 
 against her father's will, or disputing the propriety of 
 his choice ? " 
 
 Ormond's imagination took a rapid flight on Dora's 
 side of the question, and he finished with the conviction 
 that she was " a sacrifice, a martyr, and a miracle of 
 perfection ! " 
 
 « Blame you, Dora ! " cried he, " blame you ! No — 
 I admire, I esteem, I respect you. Did I say that I 
 blamed you ? I did not know what I said, or what I 
 meant." 
 
 " And are you sure you know any better what you 
 say or what you mean, now I " said Dora.
 
 ORMOND. 113 
 
 The altered look and tone of tartness in which this 
 question was asked produced as sudden a change in 
 Harry's conviction. He hesitatingly answered, «I 
 
 am 
 
 "He is," said Sheelah confidently. 
 
 « I did not ask your opinion, Sheelah : I can judge 
 for myself," said Dora. " Youi- words tell me one 
 thing, sir, and your looks another," said she, turning 
 to Ormond ; " which am I to believe, pray ? " ^^ 
 
 <'0h! believe the young man anyway, sure," said 
 Sheelah ; " silence speaks best for him." 
 
 « Best against him, in my opinion," said Dora. 
 
 " Dora, will you hear me ? " Ormond began. 
 
 "No, sir, I will not," interrupted Dora. "What's 
 the use of hearing or listening to a man who does not, 
 by the confession of his own eyes, and his own tongue, 
 know two minutes together what he means, or mean 
 two minutes together the same thing? A woman 
 might as well listen to a fool or a madman ! " 
 
 " Too harsh, too severe, Dora," said he. 
 
 " Too true, too sincere, perhaps, you mean." 
 
 « Since I am allowed, Dora^ to speak to you as a 
 
 brother " 
 
 "Who allowed you, sir ? " interrupted Dora. 
 
 " Your father, Dora." 
 
 " My father can not, shall not ! Nobody but nature 
 can make any man my brother — nobody but myself 
 shall allow any man to call himself my brother." 
 
 "I am sorry I presumed so far. Miss O'Shane — I 
 was only going to offer one word of advice." 
 
 "I want no advice — I will take none from you, 
 
 sir." 
 
 « You shall have none, madam, henceforward, from 
 
 Harry Ormond." 
 
 " 'Tis well, sir. Come away, Sheelah." 
 
 " Oh ! wait, dear — Och 1 I am too old," said 
 
 H
 
 114 ORMOND. 
 
 Sheelah, groaning as she rose slowly. " I'm too slow 
 entirely for these quick passions." 
 
 *' Passions ! " cried Dora, growing scarlet and pale 
 in an instant : " what do you mean by passions, 
 Sheelah ? " 
 
 «I mean changes,^' said Sheelah, «« changes, dear. 
 I am ready now — where's my stick? Thank you, 
 master Harry. Only I say I can't change my quarters 
 and march so quick as you, dear." 
 
 « Well, well, lean on me," said Dora impatiently. 
 
 " Don't hurry, poor Sheelah — no necessity to hurry 
 away from me," said Ormond, who had stood for a 
 few moments like one transfixed. " 'Tis for me to go 
 — and I will go as fast and as far as you please, Dora, 
 away from you and for ever." 
 
 " For ever ! " said Dora : " what do you mean ? " 
 
 " Away from the Black Islands ? he can't mean 
 that," said Sheelah. 
 
 " Why not ? — Did not I leave Castle Hermitage at 
 a moment's warning ? " 
 
 *^ Warning! Nonsense!" cried Dora: "lean on 
 him, Sheelah — he has frightened you ; lean on him, 
 can't you — sure he's better than your stick. Warning ! 
 — where did you find that pretty word? Is Harry 
 Ormond then turned footman ? " 
 
 "Harry Ormond! — and a minute ago she would 
 
 not let me Miss O'Shane, I shall not forget myself 
 
 again — amuse yourself with being as capricious as you 
 please, but not at my expence ; 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."
 
 ORMOND. 115 
 
 " But without exposing you to any displeasure, I 
 can," replied Ormond, " contrive " 
 
 " Contrive nothing at all — do leave me to contrive 
 for myself. I don't mean to say leave me — you take 
 up one's words so quickly, and are so passionate, Mr 
 Ormond." 
 
 " If you would have me understand you, Dora, 
 explain how you wish me to live with you." 
 
 " Lord bless me ! what a fuss the man makes about 
 living with one — one would think it was the most 
 difficult thing in the world. Can't you live on like 
 anybody else ? There's my aunt in the hedgerow 
 walk, all alone — I must go and take care of her : I 
 leave you to take care of Sheelah — you know you were 
 always very good-natured when we were children." 
 
 Dora went off quick as lightning, and what to make 
 of her Ormond did not well know. Was it mere 
 childishness, or affectation, or coquetry ? No ; the 
 real tears and real expression of look and word forbade 
 each of these suppositions. One other cause for her 
 conduct might have been suggested by a vain man. 
 Harry Ormond was not a vain man ; but a little 
 fluttering delight was just beginning to play round his 
 head, when Sheelah, leaning heavily on his arm as they 
 ascended the bank, reminding him of her existence — 
 " My poor old Sheelah ! " said he, " are you not 
 tired ? " 
 
 "Not now, thanks to your arm, master Harry, 
 dear, that was always good to me — not now — I am 
 not a whit tired ; now I see all right again between 
 my childer — and happy I was, these five minutes past, 
 watching you smiling to yourself; and I don't doubt 
 but all the world will smile on ye yet. If it was my 
 world, it should. But I can only wish you my best 
 wish, which I did long ago — may you live to ivonder at 
 your oiun good luck."
 
 Il6 ORMOND. 
 
 Ormond looked as if he was going to ask some 
 question that interested him much, but it ended by 
 nvondering what o'clock it was. Sheelah wondered at 
 him for thinking what the hour was, when she was 
 talking of Miss Dora. After a silence, which brought 
 them to the chicken-yard door, where Sheelah was 
 ** to quit his arm," she leaned heavily again. 
 
 " The marriage — that they are all talking of in the 
 kitchen, and everywhere through the country — Miss 
 Dora's marriage with White Connal, is reprieved for 
 the season. She axed time till she'd be seventeen — very 
 rasonable. So it's to be in October — if we all live 
 till those days — in the same mind. Lord, he knows 
 — I know nothing at all about it ; but I thank you 
 kindly, master Harry, and wish you well, any way. 
 Did you ever happen to see the bridegroom that is to 
 be?" 
 
 " Never." 
 
 Harry longed to hear what she longed to say ; but 
 he did not deem it prudent, he did not think it honour- 
 able, to let her enter on this topic. The prudential 
 consideration might have been conquered by curiosity ; 
 but the honourable repugnance to obtaining second- 
 hand information, and encouraging improper confidence, 
 prevailed. He deposited Sheelah safe on her stone 
 bench at the chicken-yard door ; and much against her 
 will, he left her before she had told or hinted to him 
 all she did know — and all she did not know. 
 
 The fluttering delight that played about our young 
 hero's head had increased, was increasing, and ought 
 to be diminished. Of this he was sensible. It should 
 never come near his heart — of that he was determined ; 
 he would exactly follow the letter and spirit of his 
 benefactor's commands — he would always consider 
 Dora as a married woman ; but the prospect of there 
 being some temptation, and some struggle, was infinitely
 
 ORMOND. 
 
 117 
 
 agreeable to our young hero — it would give him some- 
 thing to do, something to think of, something to feel. 
 
 It was much in favour of his resolution that Dora 
 really was not all the kind of woman he had pictured 
 to himself either as amiable or charming : she was not 
 in the least like his last patterns of heroines, or any of 
 his approved imaginations of the beau ideal. But she 
 was an exceedingly pretty girl ; she was the only very 
 pretty and tolerably accomplished girl immediately near 
 hira. A dangerous propinquity ! 
 
 — e!8(s»- 
 
 WHITE CoNNAL and his father — we name the 
 son first because his superior wealth invert- 
 ing the order of nature, gave him, in his own 
 opinion, the precedency on all occasions — ^White Connal 
 and his father arrived at Corny Castle. King Corny 
 rejoiced to see his old friend, the elder Connal ; but 
 through all the efforts that his majesty made to be 
 more than civil to the son — the degenerate grazier, 
 his future son-in-law — it was plain that he was only 
 keeping his promise, and receiving such a guest as he 
 ought to be received. 
 
 Mademoiselle decided that old Connal, the father, 
 was quite a gentleman, for he handed her about, and 
 in his way had some politeness towards the sex ; but 
 as for the son, her abhorrence must have burst forth 
 in plain English, if it had not exhaled itself safely 
 in French, in every exclamation of contempt which 
 the language could afford. She called him bete ! and 
 grand bete ! by turns, hutor ! dne ! and grand bulor I 
 — n'lgaud I and grand nlgaud ! — pronounced him to 
 be " Un homme qui ne dit rien — d'ailleurs un homme
 
 Il8 ORMOND. 
 
 qui n'a pas I'air comme il faut — ^un hommc, enfin, qui 
 n'est pas presentable — meme en fait de mari." 
 
 Dora looked unutterable things ; but tliis was not 
 unusual with her. Her scornful airs, and short 
 answers, were not more decidedly rude to White 
 Connal than to others ; indeed she was rather more 
 civil to him than to Ormond. There was nothing in 
 her manner of keeping Connal at a distance, beyond 
 what he, who had not much practice or skill in the 
 language of female coquetry, might construe into 
 maiden coyness to the acknowledged husband lover. 
 
 It seemed as if she had some secret hope, or fear, 
 or reason, for not coming to open war ; in short, as 
 usual, she was odd, if not unintelligible. White Connal 
 did not disturb himself at all to follow her doublings : 
 his pleasure was not in the chase — he was sure the 
 game was his own. 
 
 Be bold, but not too bold. White Connal! — be 
 negligent, but not too negligent, of the destined bride. 
 'Tis bad, as you say, to be spoiling a ivlfe 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 ? 
 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 
 f;irms — 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
 
 ORMOND, 119 
 
 was going to ride out with Dora, that just as he 
 mounted, her veil fluttering before his horse's eyes, 
 startled the animal ; and the awkward rider being 
 unable to manage him, King Corny begged Harry 
 Ormond to change horses with him, that Mr Connal 
 might go quietly beside Dora, " who was a bit of a 
 coward." Imprudent father! Harry obeyed — ^and 
 the difference between the riders and the gentlemen 
 was but too apparent. For what avails it that you 
 have the finest horse, if another ride him better ? 
 "What avails it that you have the finest saddle, if 
 another become it better ? What use to you your 
 Wogden pistols, if another hit the mark you miss ? 
 What avails the finest fowling-piece to the worst 
 sportsman ? The thousands upon thousands to him 
 who says but little, and says that little ill? What 
 avail that the offices at Connal's Town be finished, 
 dog-kennel and all? or what boots it that the plan 
 and elevation of Connal's Town be unrolled, and sub- 
 mitted to the fair one's inspection and remarks, if 
 the fair disdain to inspect, and if she remark only that 
 a cottage and love are more to her taste ? White 
 Connal put none of these questions to himself — he went 
 on his own way. Faint heart never won fair lady. 
 Then no doubt he was in a way to win, for his heart 
 never quailed, his colour never changed when he saw 
 his fair one's fmtive smiles or heard her aunt's open 
 praises of the youth, by whom riding, dancing, shoot- 
 ing, speaking, or silent, he was always eclipsed. 
 Connal of Connal's Town despised Harry Ormond of 
 no-town — viewed him with scornflil, but not with 
 jealous eyes : idle jealousies were far from Connal's 
 thoughts — he was intent upon the noble recreation of 
 cock-fighting. Cock-fighting had been the taste of 
 his boyish days, before he became a money-making 
 man ; and at every interval of business, at each inter-
 
 I20 ORMOND. 
 
 mission 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 man that is not used to it, 
 to be tied to a woman's apron-strings, twirling his 
 thumbs all the mornings, for form's sake." 
 
 There was a strolling kind of gentleman in the 
 islands, a Mr O'Tara, who was a famous cock-fighter. 
 O'Tara came one day to dine at Corny Castle. The 
 kindi'ed souls found each other out, and an animated dis- 
 course across the table commenced concerning cocks. 
 After dinner, as the bottle went round, the rival cock- 
 fighters warmed to enthusiasm in praise of their birds. 
 Each relating wonders, they finished by proposing a 
 match, laying bets, and despatching messengers and 
 hampers for their favourites. The cocks arrived, and 
 were put in separate houses, under the care of separate 
 feeders. 
 
 Moriarty Carroll, who was curious, and something of 
 a spoilsman, had a mind to have a peep at the cocks. 
 Opening the door of one of the buildings hastily, he 
 disturbed the cock, who taking fright, flew about the 
 barn with such violence, as to tear off several of his 
 feathers, and very much to deface his appearance. Un- 
 fortunately, at this instant White Connal and Mr 
 O'Tara came by, and finding what had happened, 
 abused Moriarty with all the vulgar eloquence which 
 anger could supply. Ormond, who had been with 
 Moriarty, but who had no share in the disaster, 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 
 Connal's anger lasted longer : for many reasons he
 
 ORMOND. 121 
 
 disliked Ormond ; and thinking from Harrj''s gentle- 
 ness, 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 ungentle- 
 manlike action, which it was easier to apologize for 
 than to defend." Harry took fire, and instantly was 
 much more ready than his opponent wished to give any 
 other satisfaction that Mr Connal desired. Well, 
 " Name his hour — his place." " To-morrow morning, 
 six o'clock in the east meadow, out of reach and sight 
 of all," Ormond said ; or he was ready at that instant, 
 if Mr Connal pleased : he hated, he said, to bear malice 
 — he could not sleep upon it. 
 
 Moriarty now stepping up privately, besought Mr 
 Connal's " honour, for heaven and earth's sake, to re- 
 collect, if he did not know it, what a desperate good 
 shot Mr Harry notoriously was always." 
 
 " What ! you rascal ! are you here still ? " cried 
 White Connal : " Hold your peace ! how dare you 
 speak between gentlemen ? " 
 
 Moriarty begged pardon and departed. The hint 
 he had given, however, operated immediately upon 
 White Connal. 
 
 " This scatter-brained young Ormond," said he to 
 himself, " desires nothing better than to fight. Very 
 natural — he has nothing to lose in the world but his 
 bare life : neither money, nor landed property, as I have, 
 to quit in leaving the world — unequal odds. Not 
 worth my while to stand his shot, for the feather of a 
 cock," concluded Connal, as he pulled to pieces one 
 of the feathers, which had been the original cause of 
 all the mischief. 
 
 Thus cooled, and suddenly become reasonable, he 
 lowered his tone, declaring that he did not mean to 
 say anything, in short, that could give offence, nothing 
 but what it was natural tor any man in the heat of
 
 122 ORMOND. 
 
 passion to say, and it was enough to put a man in a 
 passion at first sight to see his favourite bird disfigured. 
 If he had said anything too strong he hoped Mr 
 Ormond would excuse it. 
 
 Ormond knew what the heat of passion was, and 
 was willing to make all proper allowances. White 
 Connal made more than proper apologies ; and Ormond 
 rejoiced that the business was ended. But White 
 Connal, conscious that he had first bullied, then 
 quailed, and that if the story were repeated, it would 
 tell to his disadvantage, made it his anxious request 
 that he would say nothing to Cornelius O' Shane of 
 what had passed between them, lest it should offend 
 Cornelius, who he knew was so fond of Mr Ormond. 
 Harry eased the gentleman's mind, by promising that 
 he would never say a word about the matter. Mr 
 Connal was not content till this promise was solemnly 
 repeated. Even this, though it seemed quite to satisfy 
 him at the time, did not afterwards relieve Connal from 
 the uneasy consciousness he felt in Ormond's company. 
 He could bear it only the remainder of this day. The 
 next morning he left the Black Island, having received 
 letters on business, he said, which required his imme- 
 diate presence at Connal's Town. Many at Corny 
 Castle seemed willing to dispense with his farther stay, 
 but King Corny, true to his word and his character, 
 took leave of him as his son-in-law, and only as far as 
 hospitality required was ready to "speed the parting 
 guest." At parting White Connal drew his future 
 father-in-law aside, and gave him a hint, that he had 
 better look sharp after that youth he was fostering. 
 
 "Harry Ormond, do you mean ? " said O'Shane. 
 
 " I do," said Connal : " but, Mr O'Shane, don't go 
 to mistake me. I am not jealous of the man — not 
 capable — of such a fellow as that — a wild scatter-brains, 
 who is not worth a sixpence scarce — I have too good
 
 ORMOND. 123 
 
 an opinion of Miss Dora. But if I was in your place, 
 her father, just for the look of the thing in the whole 
 country, I should not like It : not that I mind what 
 people say a potato skin ; but still, if I was her father, 
 I'd as soon have the devil an inmate and intimate in my 
 house, muzzling in my daughter's ear behind backs." 
 
 Cornelius O'Shane stoutly stood by his young 
 friend. 
 
 He never saw Harry Ormond muxzUng — behind 
 backs, especially — did not believe any such thing : all 
 Harry said and did was always above-board, and 
 before faces, any way. " In short," said Cornelius, 
 " I will answer for Harry Ormond's honour with my 
 own honour. After that, 'twould be useless to add 
 with my life, if required — that of course ; and this 
 ought to satisfy any son-in-law, who was a gentleman 
 — none such could glance or mean to reflect on Dora." 
 
 Connal, perceiving he had overshot himself, made 
 protestations of his innocence of the remotest intention 
 of glancing at, or reflecting upon, or imagining any- 
 thing but what was perfectly angelic and proper in 
 Miss Dora — Miss O'Shane. 
 
 "Then that was all as it should be," Mr O'Shane 
 said, " so far : but another point he would not concede 
 to mortal man, was he fifty times his son-in-law 
 promised, that was, his own right to have who he 
 pleased and lu'tUed to have, at his own castle, his 
 inmate and his intimate." 
 
 " No doubt — to be sure," Connal said : " he did 
 not mean — he only meant — he could not mean — in 
 short, he meant nothing at all, only just to put Mr 
 O'Shane on his guard — that was all he meant." 
 
 "Phoo!" said Cornelius O'Shane; but checking 
 the expression of his contempt for the man, he made 
 an abrupt transition to Connal's horse, which had just 
 come to the door.
 
 1 24 ORMOND. 
 
 " That's a handsome horse ! certainly you are well 
 mounted, Mr Connal." 
 
 O'Shane's elision of contempt was beyond Mr 
 Connal's understanding or feeling. 
 
 *' Well mounted ! certainly I am that, and ever 
 will be, while I can so well afford it," said Connal, 
 mounting his horse ; and identifying himself with the 
 animal, he sat proudly, then bowing to the ladies, 
 who were standing at an open window, " Good day 
 to ye, ladies, till October, when I hope " 
 
 But his horse, who did not seem quite satisfied of 
 his identity with the man, would not permit him to 
 say more, and off he went — half his hopes dispersed 
 in empty air. 
 
 " I know I wish," said Cornelius O'Shane to him- 
 self, as he stood on the steps, looking after the man 
 and horse, " I wish that that unlucky bowl of punch 
 had remained for ever unmixed, at the bottom of 
 which I found this son-in-law for my poor daughter, 
 my innocent Dora, then unborn ; but she must make 
 the best of him for me and herself, since the fates 
 and my word, irrevocable as the Styx, have bound 
 me to him, the purse-proud grazier and mean man 
 — not a remnant of a gentleman ! as the father was. 
 O my poor Dora ! " 
 
 As King Corny heaved a heartfelt sigh, very diffi- 
 cult to force from his anti-sentimental bosom, Harry 
 Ormond, with a plate of meat in his hand, whistling 
 to his dog to follow him, ran down the steps. 
 
 " Leave feeding that dog, and come here to me, 
 Harry," said O'Shane, "and answer me truly such 
 questions as I shall ask." 
 
 " Truly — if I answer at all," said Harry. 
 
 " Answer you must, when I ask you : every man, 
 every gentleman, must answer in all honour for what 
 he does."
 
 ORMOND. 125 
 
 " Certainly, answer yor 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 equivo- 
 cating on monosyllables." 
 
 " Equivocate ! I never equivocated, sir," said 
 Harry. 
 
 " Don't begin now, then," said Cornelius : " I've 
 enough to put me out of humour already — so answer 
 straight, like yourself. What's this you've done to 
 get the ill-will of White Connal, that's just gone?" 
 
 Surprised and embarrassed, Ormond answered, ** I 
 trust I have not his ill-will, sir." 
 
 "You have, sir," said O' Shane. 
 
 " Is it possible ? " cried Harry, " when we shook 
 
 hands You must have misunderstood, or have been 
 
 misinformed. How do you know, my dear sir ? " 
 
 " I know it from the man's own lips, see ! I can 
 give you a straight answer at once. Now answer me, 
 was there any quarrel between you ? and what cause of 
 offence did you give ? " 
 
 " Excuse me, sir — those are questions which I can- 
 not 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." 
 
 " O sir, can you suspect ? " 
 
 " I suspect nothing, Harry Ormond : I am, I thank 
 my God, above suspicion. Listen to me. You know 
 — whether I ever told it you before or not, I can't
 
 126 ORMOND. 
 
 remember — but whether or not, you Inoiu as well as if 
 you were withinside of me — that in my heart's core 
 there's not a man alive I should have preferred for my 
 son-in-law to the man I once thought Harry Ormond, 
 without a penny " 
 
 « Once thought ! " 
 
 " Interrupt me again, and I'll lave you, sir. In 
 confidence between ourselves, thinking as once I did, 
 that I might depend on your friendship and discretion, 
 equally with your honour, I confessed I repented a 
 rash promise, and let you see my regret deep enough 
 that my son-in-law will never be what Dora deserves 
 — I said, or let you see as much, no matter which ; I 
 am no equivocator, nor do I now unsay or retract a 
 word. You have my secret ; but remember when first 
 I had the folly to tell it you, same time I warned you 
 — I warned you, Harry, like the moth from the candle 
 — I warned you in vain. In another tone I warn you 
 now, young man, for the last time — I tell you my 
 promise to me is sacred — she is as good as married to 
 White Connal — fairly tied up neck and heels — and so 
 am I, to all intents and purposes ; and if I thought it 
 were possible you could consider her, or make her by 
 any means consider herself, in any other light, I will 
 tell you what I would do — I would shoot myself; for 
 one of us must fall, and I wouldn't choose it should be 
 you, Harry. That's all." 
 
 " Oh ! hear me, sir," cried Harry, seizing his arm 
 as he turned away, " kill me if you will, but hear me 
 — I give you my word you are from beginning to end 
 mistaken. I cannot tell you the whole — but this much 
 believe, Dora was not the cause of quarrel." 
 
 " Then there was a quarrel. Oh, for shame ! for 
 shame ! you are not used to falsehood enough yet — 
 you can't carry it through — why did you attempt it 
 with me ? "
 
 ORMOND. 127 
 
 " 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 honoui'." 
 
 " Your honour ! " repeated Cornelius with a severe 
 look. — severe more in its sorrow than its anger. " O 
 Harry Ormond : what signifies whether the name was 
 mentioned ? You know she was the thing — the cause 
 of offence. Stop ! I charge you — equivocate no more. 
 If a lie's beneath a gentleman, an equivocation is doubly 
 beneath a man." 
 
 C^aptcr Tciii, 
 
 HARRY Ormond thought it hard to bear 
 unmerited reproach and suspicion ; found it 
 painful to endure the altered eye of his once 
 kind and always generous, and to him always dear, 
 friend and benefactor. But Ormond had given a 
 solemn promise to White Connal never to mention 
 anything that had passed between them to O'Shane; 
 and he could not therefore explain these circumstances 
 of the quarrel. Conscious that he was doing right, he 
 kept his promise to the person he hated and despised, 
 at the hazard, at the certainty, of displeasing the man 
 he most loved in the world ; and to whom he was the 
 most obliged. While his heart yearned with tender- 
 ness 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 equivocation and breach of confidence : 
 he bore it all ; and, in reward, he had the conviction 
 of his own firmness, and an experience, upon trial, 
 of his adherence to his word of honour. The trial 
 may seem but trivial, the promise but weak : still it
 
 128 ORMOND. 
 
 was a great trial to him, and he thought the promise as 
 sacred as if it had been about an affair of state. 
 
 It happened some days after the conversation had 
 passed between him and O'Shane, that Cornelius met 
 O'Tara, the gentleman who had laid the bets about the 
 cock-fight with Connal ; and chancing to ask him what 
 had prevented the intended battle, O'Tara told all he 
 knew of the adventure. Being a good-natured and 
 good-humoured man, he stated the matter as playfully 
 as possible — acknowledged that they had all been 
 foolish and angry ; but that Harry Ormond and 
 Moriarty had at last pacified them by proper apolo- 
 gies. Of what had passed afterwards, of the bullying, 
 and the challenge, and the submission, O'Tara knew 
 nothing ; but King Corny having once been put on 
 the right scent, soon made it all out. He sent for 
 Moriarty, and cross-questioning him, heard the whole ; 
 for Moriarty had not been sworn to secrecy, and had 
 very good ears. When he had been turned out of the 
 stable, he had retreated only to the harness-room, and 
 had heard all that had passed. King Corny was 
 delighted with Harry's spirit — and now he was Prince 
 Harry again, and the generous, warm-hearted Cor- 
 nelius went, in impatience, to seek him out, and to beg 
 his pardon for his suspicions. He embraced him, 
 called him son, and dear son — said he had now found 
 out, no thanks to him, Connal's cause of complaint, 
 and it had nothing to do with Dora. — "But why 
 could not you say so, man ? " 
 
 He had said so repeatedly. 
 
 " Well, so I suppose it is to be made out clearly to 
 be all my fault, that was in a passion, and could not 
 hear, understand, or believe. Well, be it so ; if I was 
 unjust, I'll make it up to you, for I'll never believe 
 my own ears, or eyes, against you, Harry, while I live, 
 depend upon it : — if I heard you asking her to marry
 
 ORMOND. 129 
 
 you, I would believe my ears brought me the words 
 wrong ; if I saw you even leading her into the church 
 instead of the chapel, and the priest himself warning 
 me of it, I'd say and think, Father Jos, 'tis a mistake — 
 a vision — or a defect of vision. In short, I love and 
 trust you as my own soul, Harry Ormond, for I did 
 you injustice." 
 
 This full return of kindness and confidence, besides 
 the present delight it gave him, left a permanent and 
 beneficial impression upon our young hero's mind. 
 The admiration he felt for O'Shane's generous conduct, 
 and the self-approbation he enjoyed in consequence of 
 his own honourable firmness, had a great effect in 
 strengthening and forming his character : it also 
 rendered him immediately more careful in his whole 
 behaviour towards Miss O'Shane. He was prudent 
 till both aunt and niece felt indignant astonishment. 
 There was some young lady with whom Harry had 
 danced and walked, and of whom he had, without any 
 design, spoken as a pleasing gentle girl. Dora re- 
 collected this praise, and joining it with his present 
 distant behaviour towards herself, she was piqued and 
 jealous ; and then she became, what probably she 
 would never otherwise have been, quite decided in her 
 partiality for Harry Ormond. The proofs of this 
 were soon so manifest, that many thought, and Miss 
 O'Faley in particular, that Harry was grown stupid, 
 blind, and deaf. He was not stupid, blind, or deaf — 
 he had felt the full power of Dora's personal charms, 
 and his vanity had been flattered by the preference 
 which Dora showed for him. Where vanity is the 
 ruling passion, young men ai"e easily flattered into 
 being in love with any pretty, perhaps with any ugly, 
 girl, who is, or who affects to be, in love with them. 
 But Harry Ormond had more tenderness of heart than 
 vanity : against the suggestions of his vanity he had 
 
 I
 
 130 ORMOND. 
 
 Struggled successfully ; but now his heart had a hard 
 trial. Dora's spirits were failing, her cheek growing 
 pale, her tone of voice was quite softened ; sighs would 
 sometimes break forth — persuasive sighs ! — Dora was 
 no longer the scornful lady in rude health, but the 
 interesting invalid — the victim going to be sacrificed. 
 Dora's aunt talked of the necessity of advice for her 
 niece's health. Great stress was laid on air and 
 exercise, and exercise on horseback. Dora rode 
 every day on the horse Harry Ormond broke for her, 
 the only horse she could now ride ; and Harry under- 
 stood its ivayst and managed it so much better than 
 anybody else ; and Dora was grown a coward, so that 
 it was quite necessary he should ride or walk beside her. 
 Harry Ormond's tenderness of heart increased his idea of 
 the danger. Her personal charms became infinitely more 
 attractive to him ; her defects of temper and character 
 were forgotten and lost in his sense of pity and grati- 
 tude ; and the struggle of his feelings was now violent. 
 
 One morning our young hero rose early, for he 
 could no longer sleep, and he walked out, or, more 
 properly, he rambled, or he strolled, or stroamed out, 
 and he took his way — no, his steps were irresistibly 
 led — to his accustomed haunt by the water-side, under 
 the hawthorn bank, and there he walked and picked 
 daisies, and threw stones into the lake, and he loitered 
 on, still thinking of Dora and death, and of the circles 
 in the water, and again of the victim and of the sacrifice, 
 when suddenly he was roused from his reverie by a 
 shrill whistle, that seemed to come from the wood 
 above, and an instant afterwards he heard some one 
 shouting, " Harry Ormond ! — Harry Ormond ! " 
 
 " Here 1 " answered Harry ; and as the shouts were 
 repeated he recognized the voice of O'Tara, who now 
 came, whip in hand, followed by his dogs, running down 
 the bank to him.
 
 ORMOND. 131 
 
 " O Harry Ormond, I've brought great news with 
 me for all at Corny Castle ; but the ladies are not out 
 of their nests, and King Corny's Lord knows how far 
 off. Not a soul or body to be had but yourself here, 
 by good luck, and you shall have the first of the news, 
 and the telling of it." 
 
 " Thank you," said Ormond ; " and what is the 
 news ? " 
 
 " First and foremost," said O'Tara, " you know birds 
 of a feather flock together. White Connal, though, 
 except for the cock-fighting, I never relished him, was 
 mighty fond of me, and invited me down to Connal's 
 Town, where I've been with him this week — you know 
 that much, I conclude." 
 
 Harry owned he did not. 
 
 O'Tara wondered how he could help knowing it. 
 " But so it was ; we had a great cock-fight, and White 
 Connal, who knew none of my secrets in the feeding 
 line, was bet out and out, and angry enough he was ; 
 and then I offered to change birds with him, and beat 
 him with his own Ginger by my superiority 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 through the whole detail of 
 the cock-fight. " The end of it was, that White 
 Connal was worsted by his own bird, and then mad 
 angry was he. So, then," continued O'Tara, "to get 
 the triumph again on his side, one way or another, was 
 the thing. I had the advantage of him in dogs, too, 
 for he kept no hounds — you know he is close, and hounds 
 lead to a gentlemanlike expence ; but very fine horses he 
 had, I'll acknowledge, and, Harry Ormond, you can't 
 but remember that one which he could not manage the 
 day he was out riding here with Miss Dora, and you 
 changed with him." 
 
 <' I remember it well," said Ormond.
 
 132 ORMOND. 
 
 "Ay, and he has got reason to remember It now, 
 sure enough." 
 
 " Has he had a fall ? " said Ormond, stopping. 
 
 " Walk on, can't ye — keep up, and I'll tell you all 
 regular." 
 
 " There is King Corny," exclaimed Ormond, who 
 just then saw him come in view. 
 
 "Come on, then," cried O'Tara, leaping over a 
 ditch that was between them, and running up to King 
 Corny. " Great news for you. King Corny, I've 
 brought — your son-in-law elect, White Connal, is off." 
 
 " Off— how ? " 
 
 " Out of the world clean ! Poor fellow, broke his 
 neck with that horse he could never manage — on Sunday 
 last. I left him for dead Sunday night — found him 
 dead Monday morning — came off straight with the 
 news to you." 
 
 " Dead ! " repeated Corny and Harry, looking at 
 one another. 
 
 " Heaven forbid," said Corny, " that I should " 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " repeated Harry ; " but " 
 
 " But good morning to you both, then," said 
 O'Tara : " shake hands either way, and I'll condole 
 or congratulate to-morrow as the case may be, with 
 more particulars if required." 
 
 O'Tara ran off, saying he would be back again 
 soon ; but he had great business to do. " I told the 
 father last night." 
 
 " I am no hypocrite," said Corny. " Rest to the 
 dead and all their faults ! White Connal is out of 
 my poor Dora's way, and I am free from my accursed 
 promise!" Then clasping his hands, "Praised be 
 Heaven for that ! — Heaven is too good to me ! — Oh, 
 my child ! how unworthy White Connal of her ! — 
 Thank Heaven on my knees, with my whole heart, 
 thank Heaven, that I am not forced to the sacrifice !
 
 ORMOND. 133 
 
 — My child, my darling Dora, she is free ! — Harry 
 Ormond, my dear boy, I'm free," cried O'Shane, 
 embracing Harry with all the warmth of paternal 
 affection. 
 
 Ormond returned that embrace with equal warmth, 
 and with a strong sense of gratitude : but was his 
 joy equal to O'Shane's ? What were his feelings at 
 this moment ? They were in such confusion, such 
 contradiction, he could scarcely tell. Before he heard 
 of White Connal's death, at the time when he was 
 throwing pebbles into the lake, he desired nothing so 
 much as to be able to save Dora from being sacrificed 
 to that odious marriage ; he thought, that if he were 
 not bound in honour to his benefactor, he should 
 instantly make that offer of his hand and heart to 
 Dora, which would at once restore her to health and 
 happiness, and fulfil the wishes of her kind, gene- 
 rous father. But now, when all obstacles seemed to 
 vanish — when his rival was no more — when his bene- 
 factor declared his joy at being freed from his promise 
 — when he was embraced as O'Shane's son, he did 
 not feel joy : he was surprised to find it ; but he 
 could not. Now that he could marry Dora, now that 
 her father expected that he should, he was not clear 
 that he wished it himself. Quick as obstacles vanished, 
 objections recurred : faults which he had formerly 
 seen so strongly, which of late compassion had veiled 
 from his view, reappeared ; the softness of manner, 
 the improvement of temper, caused by love, might be 
 transient as passion. Then her coquetry — her frivolity. 
 She was not that superior kind of woman which his 
 imagination had painted, or which his judgment could 
 approve in a wife. How was he to explain this con- 
 fusion of feehng to Corny ? Leaning on his arm, he 
 walked on towards the house. He saw Corny, smiling 
 at his own meditations, was settling the match, and
 
 1 34 ORMOND. 
 
 anticipating the joy to all he loved. Harry sighed, 
 and was painfully silent. 
 
 "Shoot across like an arrow to the house," cried 
 Corny, turning suddenly to him, and giving him a 
 kind push — " shoot off, Harry, and bring Dora to meet 
 me like lightning, and the poor aunt, too — 'twould be 
 cruel else ! But what stops you, son of my heart ? 
 
 " Stay ! " cried Corny, a sudden thought striking 
 him, which accounted for Harry Ormond's hesita- 
 tion ; " Stop, Harry ! You are right, and I am a 
 fool. There is Black Connal, the twin brother — oh, 
 mercy ! — against us still. May be old Connal will 
 keep me to it still — as he couldn't, no more than I 
 could, foresee that when I promised Dora that was 
 not then born, it would be twins — and as I said son, 
 and surely I meant the son that would be born then 
 — and twins is all as one as one, they say. Promise 
 fettering still ! Bad off as ever, may be," said Cor- 
 nelius. His whole countenance and voice changed ; 
 he sat down on a fallen tree, and rested his hands on 
 his knees. '•' What shall we do now, Harry, with 
 Black Connal?" 
 
 " He may be a very different man from White 
 Connal — in every respect," said Ormond. 
 
 O'Shane looked up for a moment, and then in- 
 terpreting his own way, exclaimed, " 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 woman's 
 beautiful form — and that's the greatest temptation man 
 can meet — could tempt my Harry Ormond from the 
 straight path of honour ' " 
 
 Harry Ormond stood at this moment abashed by 
 praise which he did not quite deserve. *' Indeed, 
 sir," said he, " you give me too much credit."
 
 ORMOND. 135 
 
 " I cannot give you too much credit ; you are an 
 honourable young man, and I understand you through 
 and through." 
 
 That was more than Harry himself did. Corny 
 went on talking to himself aloud, " Black Connal is 
 abroad these great many years, ever since he was a 
 boy — never saw him since a child that high — an 
 officer he is in the Irish Brigade now — black eyes and 
 hair ; that was why they called him Black Connal — 
 Captain Connal now ; and I heard the father say he 
 was come to England, and there was some report of 
 his going to be married, if I don't mistake," cried 
 Corny, turning again to Harry, pleasure rekindling 
 in his eye. " If that should be ! there's hope for us 
 still ; but I see you are right not to yield to the hope 
 till we are clear. My first step, in honour, no doubt, 
 must be across the lake this minute to the father — 
 Connal of Glynn ; but the boat is on the other side. 
 The horn is with my fishing-tackle, Harry, down 
 yonder — run, for you can run — horn the boat, or if 
 the horn be not there, sign to the boat with your 
 handkerchief — bring it up here, and I will put across 
 before ten minutes shall be over — my horse I will 
 have down to the water edge by the time you have got 
 the boat up — when an honourable tough job is to be 
 done, the sooner the better." 
 
 The horse was brought to the water's edge, the 
 boat came across, Corny and his horse were in ; and 
 Corny, with his own hands on the oar, pushed away 
 from land : then calling to Harry, he bid him wait on 
 the shore hy such an hour, and he should have the first 
 news. 
 
 " Rest on your oars, you, while I speak to Prince 
 Harry. 
 
 " That you may know all, Harry, sooner than I can 
 tell you, if all be safe, or as we wish it, see, I'll hoist
 
 136 ORMOND. 
 
 my neckcloth, nvhlte, to the top of this oar ; if not, the 
 black flag, or none at all, shall tell you. Say nothing 
 till then — God bless you, boy ! " 
 
 Harry was glad that he had these orders, for he 
 knew that as soon as mademoiselle should be up, and 
 hear of O'Tara's early visit, with the message he said 
 he had left at the house that he brought great news, 
 mademoiselle would soon sally forth to learn what 
 that news might be. In this conjecture Ormond 
 was not mistaken. He soon heard her voice " Mon- 
 D'leu !-ing" at the top of the bank : he ducked — he 
 dived — he darted through nettles and brambles, and 
 escaped. Seen or unseen he escaped, nor stopped 
 his flight even when out of reach of the danger. As 
 to tmsting himself to meet Dora's eyes, " 'twas what 
 he dared not." 
 
 He hid, and wandered up and down, till near 
 dinner-time. At last, O' Shane's boat was seen re- 
 turning — but no white flag ! The boat rowed nearer 
 and nearer, and reached the spot where Harry stood 
 motionless. 
 
 "Ay, my poor boy, I knew I'd find you so," said 
 O'Shane, as he got ashore. "There's my hand, you 
 have my heart — I wish I had another hand to give 
 you — but it's all over with us, I fear. Oh 1 my poor 
 Dora! — and here she is coming down the bank, 
 and the aunt ! — O Dora ! you have reason to h;ite 
 me." 
 
 " To hate you, sir ? Impossible 1 " said Ormond, 
 squeezing his hand strongly, as he felt. 
 
 "Impossible ! — true — for her to hate, who is all love 
 and loveliness ! — impossible too {ov you, Harry Ormond, 
 who is all goodness ! " 
 
 "Bon Dieu," cried mademoiselle, who was now 
 within exclamation distance. " What a course we have 
 had after you, gentlemen ! Ladies looking for gentle-
 
 ORMOND. 137 
 
 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 hat- 
 less 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 she, turning to 
 her brother-in-law. 
 
 " Let us dine first," said Cornelius, " and when the 
 cloth is removed, and the waiting-ears out of hearing, 
 time enough to have our talk to ourselves." 
 
 " Bien singulier, ces Anglois ! " muttered madc- 
 moiselL" to he: self, as they proceeded to the house. 
 "Here is a young man, and the most polite of the 
 silent company, who may well be in some haste for 
 his dinner ; for to my knowledge, he is without his 
 breakfast." 
 
 Harry had no appetite for dinner, but swallowed as 
 much as Mademoiselle O'Faley desired. A remark- 
 ably silent meal it would have been, but for her happy 
 volubility, equal to all occasions. At last came the 
 long-expected words, "Take away." When all was 
 taken away, and all were gone, but those who, as 
 O' Shane said, would too soon wish unheard what they 
 were dying to hear, he drew his daughter's chair close 
 to him, placed her so as "to save her blushes," and
 
 1 3^ ORMOND. 
 
 began his story, by relating all that O'Tara had 
 told. 
 
 " It was a sudden death — shocking ! " mademoiselle 
 repeated several times ; but both she and Dora re- 
 covered from the shock, or from the word " shock- 
 ing ! " and felt the delight of Dora's being no longer 
 a sacrifice. 
 
 After a general thanksgiving having been offered for 
 her escape from the butor, mademoiselle, in transports, 
 was going on to say that now her niece was free to 
 make a suitable match, and she was just turning to 
 wonder that Harry Ormond was not that moment at 
 her niece's feet ; and Dora's eyes, raised slowly towards 
 him and suddenly retracted, abashed and perplexed 
 Harry indescribably ; when Corny continued thus ; 
 " Dora is not free, nor am I free in honour yet, nor 
 can I give anybody freedom of tongue or heart until I 
 know farther." 
 
 Various exclamations of surprise and sorrow inter- 
 rupted him. 
 
 " Am I never, never, to be free ? " cried Dora : 
 " Oh ! am not I now at liberty ? " 
 
 " Hear me, my child," said her father ; " I feel it 
 as you do." 
 
 " And what is it next — Qu'est ce que c'est — this 
 new obstacle ? — What can it be ? " said mademoiselle. 
 
 The father then stated sorrowfully, that old Connal 
 of Glynn would by no means relinquish the promise, 
 but considered it equally binding for the twin born 
 with White Connal, considering both twins as coming 
 under the promise to his son that was to be born. He 
 said he would write immediately to his son, who was 
 now in England. 
 
 " And now tell me what kind of a person is this 
 new pretender, this Mr Black Connal," cried made- 
 moiselle.
 
 ORMOND. 139 
 
 " Of him we know nothing as yet, ' said O'Shanc ; 
 " but I hope, in Heaven, that the man that is coming 
 is as difFerent from the man that's gone as black from 
 white." 
 
 Harry heard Dora breathe quick and quicker, but 
 she said nothing. 
 
 " Then we shall get his answer to the father's 
 letter in eight days, I count," said mademoiselle ; 
 *' and I have great hopes we shall never be troubled 
 with him : we shall know if he will come or not, in 
 eight days." 
 
 " About that time," said O'Shane : " but, sister 
 O'Faley, do not nurse my child or yourself up with 
 deceitful hopes. There's not a man alive — not a 
 Connal, surely, hearing what happiness he is heir to, 
 but would come flying over post-haste. So you may 
 expect his answer in eight days — Dora, my darling, 
 and God grant he may be " 
 
 " No matter what he is, sir — I'll die before I will 
 see him," cried Dora, rising, and bursting into tears. 
 
 *' O my child, you won't die ! — you can't — from 
 me, your father ! " Her father threw his arms round 
 her, and would have drawn her to him, but she turned 
 her face from him : Harry was on the other side — 
 her eyes met his, and her face became covered with 
 blushes. 
 
 " Open the window, Harry ! " said O'Shane, who 
 saw the conflict; "open the window! — we all want 
 it." 
 
 Harry opened the window, and hung out of it 
 gasping for breath. 
 
 " She's gone — the aunt has taken her off — it's over 
 for this fit," said O'Shane. "O my child, I must 
 go through with it. My boy, I honour as I love 
 you — I have a great deal to say about your own affairs, 
 Harry."
 
 140 ORMOND. 
 
 " My affairs — oh ! what affairs have I ? Never 
 think of mc, dear sir " 
 
 " I will — but can't now — I am spent for this day 
 — leave cut 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 in- 
 quired whether he was most French or English ; 
 Ormond, whether he was going to be married. 
 
 To all these questions O'Tara pleaded ignorance : 
 except with respect to the sports of the field, he had 
 very little curiosity or intelligence. 
 
 A ray of hope again darted across the mind of 
 Corny. From his knowledge of the world, he thought 
 it very probable that a young officer in the French 
 Brigade would be well contented to be heir to his 
 brother's fortune, without encumbering himself with 
 an Irish wife, taken from an obscure part of the 
 country. Corny, therefore, eagerly inquired from 
 O'Tara what became of White Connal's property. 
 O'Tara answered, that the common cry of the country 
 was, that all White Connal's profitable farms were 
 leasehold property, and upon his own life. Poor 
 Corny's hopes were thus frustrated : he had nothing 
 left to do for some days but to pity Harry Ormond, 
 to bear with the curiosity and impatience of made- 
 moiselle, and with the froward sullcnness of Dora, 
 till some intelligence should arrive respecting the new 
 claimant to her destined hand. 
 
 -aws*-
 
 ORMOND. 141 
 
 Cf)apter ):tb, 
 
 A FEW days afterwards, Sheelah, bursting into 
 Dora's room, exclaimed, " Miss Dora ! Miss 
 Dora ! for the love of God, they are coming ! 
 They're coming down the avenue, powdering along ! 
 Black Connal himself flaming away, with one in a 
 gold hat, this big, galloping after, and all gold over he 
 is entirely ! — Oh ! what will become of us, Master 
 Harry, now ! Oh ! it took the sight out of my eyes ! 
 And yours as red as ferrets, dear! — Oh! the cratur. 
 But come to the window and look out — nobody will 
 mind — stretch out the body, and I'll hold ye fast, 
 never fear ! — at the turn of the big wood do you see 
 them behind the trees, the fir dales, glittering and 
 flaming ? Do you see them at all ? " 
 
 " Too plainly," said Dora, sighing ; " but I did 
 not expect he would come in such a grand style. I 
 wonder " 
 
 " Oh ! so do I, greatly — mostly at the carriage. 
 Never saw the like with the Connals, so grand — but 
 the queer thing " 
 
 " Ah ! my dear Dore, un cabriolet ! " cried made- 
 moiselle, entering in ecstacy. Here is Monsieur de 
 Connal for you in a French cabriolet, and a French 
 servant riding on to advertise you and all. Oh ! what 
 are you twisting your neck, child? I will have no 
 toss at him, now — he is all the gentleman, you shall 
 see : so let me set you all to rights while your father 
 is receive. I would not have him see you such a 
 horrible figure — not presentable ! you look " 
 
 " I do not care how I look — the worse the better," 
 said Dora : " I wish to look a horrible figure to him 
 — to Black Connal." 
 
 " Oh ! put your Black Connals out of your head —
 
 142 ORMOND. 
 
 that is always in your mouth : I tell you lie is call M. 
 de Connal. Now did I not hear him this minute 
 announced by 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 Connal's Irish born ! " said 
 Sheelah : " that much I know, any way." 
 
 A servant knocked at the door with King Corny's 
 request that the ladies would come downstairs, to see, 
 as the footman added to his master's message, to see 
 old Mr Connal and the French gentleman. 
 
 "There! French, I told you," said mademoiselle, 
 " and quite the gentleman, depend upon it, my dear — 
 come your ways." 
 
 " No matter what he is," said Dora, " I shall not 
 go down to see him j so you had better go by yourself, 
 aunt." 
 
 " Not one step 1 oh ! that would be the height of 
 impolitesse and disobedience — you could not do that, 
 my dear Dore ; consider, he is not a man that nobody 
 knows, like your old butor of a White Connal. Not 
 signify how bad you treat him — like the dog ; but here 
 is a man of a certain quality, who knows the best people 
 in Paris, who can talk, and tell everywhere. Oh ! in 
 conscience, my dear Dore, I shall not suffer these airs 
 with a mail who is somebody, and " 
 
 " If he was the king of France," cried Dora, " if he 
 was Alexander the Great himself, I would not be 
 forced to see the man, or marry him against my 
 will ! " 
 
 " Marry ! who talk of marry ? Not come to that 
 yet ; ten to one he has no thought of you, more than 
 politeness require." 
 
 " Oh ! as to that," said Dora, " aunt, you certainly 
 are mistaken there. What do you think he comes
 
 ORMOND. 143 
 
 over to Ireland, what do you think he comes here 
 for ? " 
 
 " Hark ! then," said Sheelr.h, " don't I hear them 
 out of the window ? Faith ! there they are, walking 
 and talking and laughing, as if there was nothing at all 
 in it." 
 
 " Just Heavens ! What a handsome uniform ! " said 
 Miss O'Faley ; "and a very proper-looking man," 
 said 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 strange 
 that he should be so very much at his ease. Look at 
 him — hear him — I wonder what he is saying — and 
 Harry Ormond ! — Give me my bonnet, Sheelah — 
 behind you, quick. Aunt, let us go out of the garden 
 door, and meet them out walking, by accident — that 
 is the best way — I long to see how somebody will look." 
 
 " Very good — now you look all life and spirit — 
 perfectly charming ! Look that manner, and I'll 
 engage he will fall in love with you." 
 
 " He had better not, I can tell him, unless he has a 
 particular pleasure in being refused," said Dora, with a 
 toss of her head and neck, and at the same time a 
 glance at her looking-glass, as she passed quickly out 
 of the room. 
 
 Dora and her aunt walked out, and accidentally met 
 the gentlemen in their walk. As M. de Connal 
 approached, he gave them full leisure to form their 
 opinions as to his personal appearance. He had the 
 air of a foreign officer — easy, fashionable, and updn
 
 144 ORMOND. 
 
 uncommonly good terms with liimself — 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-satis- 
 faction. Interrupting his conversation only when he 
 came within a few paces of the ladies, he advanced with 
 an air of happy confidence and Parisian gallantry, 
 begging that Mr O'Shane would do him the honour 
 and pleasure to present him. After a bow, that said 
 nothing, to Dora, he addressed his conversation 
 entirely to her aunt, walking beside mademoiselle, and 
 neither approaching nor attempting to speak to Dora ; 
 he did not advert to her in the least, and seemed 
 scarcely to know she was present. This quite discon- 
 certed the young lady's whole plan of proceedings — no 
 opportunity was afforded her of showing disdain. She 
 withdrew her arm from her aunt's, though mademoiselle 
 held it as fast as she could — but Dora withdrew it 
 resolutely, and falling back a step or two took Harry 
 Ormond's arm, and walked with him, talking with as 
 much unconcern, and as loudly as she could, to mark 
 her indifference. But whether she talked or was 
 silent, walked on with Harry Oimond or stayed 
 behind, whispered, or laughed aloud, it seemed to 
 make no impression, no alteration whatever in Monsieur 
 do Connal : he went on conversing with mademoiselle, 
 and with her father, alternately in French and English. 
 In English he spoke with a native Irish accent, which 
 seemed to have been preserved from childhood ; but 
 though the brogue was strong, yet there were no vulgar 
 expressions : he spoke good English, but generally 
 wiih somewhat of French idiom. Whether this was 
 from habit or affectation it was not easy to decide. It 
 seemed as if the person who was speaking thought in 
 French, and translated it into English as he went on.
 
 ORMOND. 1^5 
 
 The peculiarity of manner and accent — for there was 
 French mixed with the Irish — fixed attention ; and 
 besides, Dora was really curious to hear what he was 
 saying, for he was very entertaining. Mademoiselle 
 was in raptures while he talked of Paris and Versailles, 
 and various people of consequence and fashion at the 
 court. The dauphiness ! — she was then but just married 
 — M. de Connal had seen all the fetes and the fire- 
 works — but the beautiful dauphiness! — In answering a 
 question of mademoiselle's about the colour of her hair, 
 he for the first time showed that he had taken notice of 
 Dora. "Nearly the colour, I think, of that young 
 lady's hair, as well as one can judge ; but powder 
 prevents the possibility of judging accurately." 
 
 Dora was vexed to see that she was considered 
 merely as a young lady ; she exerted herself to take 
 a part in the conversation, but Mr Connal never joined 
 in conversation with her — with the most scrupulous 
 deference he stopped short in the middle of his sen- 
 tence, If she began to speak. He stood aside, shrink- 
 ing into himself with the utmost care, if she was to 
 pass ; he held the boughs of the shrubs out of her way, 
 but continued his conversation with mademoiselle all 
 the time. When they came in from their walk, the 
 same sort of thing went on. " It really is very 
 extraordinary," thought she : " he seems as if he was 
 spell-bound — obliged by his notions of politeness to let 
 me pass incognita." 
 
 Mademoiselle was so fully engaged chattering away, 
 that she did not perceive Dora's mortification. The 
 less notice Connal took of her, the more Dora wished 
 to attract his attention : not that she desired to please 
 him — no, she only longed to have the pleasure of 
 refusing him. For this pui'pose the offer must be 
 made — and it was not at all clear that any offer would 
 be made.
 
 I4S ORMOND. 
 
 When the ladies went to dress before dinner, made- 
 moiselle, while she was presiding at Dora's toilette, 
 expressed how much she was delighted with M. de 
 Connal, and asked what her niece thought of him ? 
 Dora replied that indeed she did not trouble herself to 
 think of him at all — that she thought him a monstrous 
 coxcomb — and that she wondered what could bring so 
 prodigiously fine a gentleman to the Black Islands. 
 
 ** Ask your own sense what brought him here ! or 
 ask your own looking-glass what shall keep him 
 here ! " said Miss O'Faley. " I can tell you he thinks 
 you very handsome already ; and when he sees you 
 dress ! " 
 
 " Really ! he does me honour ; he did not seem as 
 if he had even seen me, more than any of the trees in 
 the wood, or the chairs in the room." 
 
 " Chairs ! — Oh, now you fish for complimens ! But 
 I shall not tell you how like he thinks you, if you were 
 mise a la Fran^oise, to la belle Comtesse de Barnac." 
 
 " But is not it very extraordinary, he absolutely 
 never spoke to me," said Dora : " a very strange 
 manner of paying his court ! " 
 
 Mademoiselle assured Dora " that this was owing to 
 M. de Connal's French habits. The young ladies in 
 Paris passing for nothing, scarcely ever appearing in society 
 till they are married, the gentlemen have no intercourse 
 with them, and it would be considered as a breach of 
 respect due to a young lady or her mother to address 
 much conversation to her. And you know, my dear 
 Dore, their marriages are all make up by the father, tlie 
 mother, the friends — the young people themselves never 
 speak, never know nothing at all about each one another, 
 till the contract is sign : in fact, the young lady is the 
 little round what you call cipher, but lias no value in 
 societe at all, till the figure of de husband come to give 
 it the value."
 
 OR MONO. 147 
 
 " 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 liberie to dress, to go, to 
 come, to do what she like, with her own carriage, her 
 
 own box at de opera, and You listen well, and I 
 
 shall draw all that out for you, from M. de Connal." 
 
 Dora languidly, sullenly begged her aunt would 
 not give herself the trouble — she had no curiosity. 
 But nevertheless she asked several questions about la 
 Comtesse de Barnac ; and all the time saying she did 
 not in the least care what he thought or said of her, she 
 drew from her aunt every syllable that M. de Connal 
 had uttered, and was secretly mortified and surprised to 
 find he had said so little. She could not dress herself 
 to her mind to-day, and protesting she did not care how 
 she looked, she resigned herself into her aunt's hands. 
 ^Vhatever he might think, she should take caie to show 
 him at dinner that young ladies in this country were not 
 ciphers. 
 
 At dinner, however, as before, all Dora's precon- 
 certed airs of disdain, and determination to show that 
 she was somebody, gave way, she did not know how, 
 before M. de Connal's easy assurance, and polite in- 
 difference. His knowledge of the world, and his 
 talents for conversation, with the variety of subjects 
 he had flowing in from all parts of tlie 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 
 turkeys stuffed with ti-ulHes — and Paris for ever! — • 
 Dash on! at everything! — hit or miss — sure of the 
 applause of mademoiselle — and, as he thought, secure
 
 143 ORMOND. 
 
 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 wonder at all that M. de Connal 
 said, and all that he did — even to the fashion in which 
 he stowed trusses of salad into his mouth with a fork, 
 and talked — through it all. 
 
 And Dora, what did she think ? — she thought she 
 was very much mortified that there was room for her 
 to say so little. The question now was not what 
 she thought of M. de Connal, but what he thought 
 of her. After beginning with various little mock 
 defences, avertings of the head, and twists of the 
 neck, of the shoulders and hips, compound motions 
 resolvable into mauvaise honte and pride, as dinner 
 proceeded, and Monsieur de Connal's success was un- 
 doubted, she silently gave up her resolution " not to 
 admire." 
 
 Before the first coui-se was over, Connal perceived 
 that he had her eye : " Before the second is over," 
 thought he, " I shall have her ear ; and by the time 
 we come to the dessert, I shall be in a fair way for 
 the heart." 
 
 Though he seemed to have talked without any 
 design, except to amuse himself and the company in 
 general, yet in all he had said there had been a pro- 
 spective view to his object. He chose his means 
 well, and in mademoiselle he found at once a happy 
 dupe and a confederate. Without previous concert, 
 they raised visions of Parisian glory which were to 
 prepare the young lady's imagination for a French 
 lover or a French husband. M. de Connal was well 
 aware that no matter who touched her heart, if he 
 could pique her vanity. 
 
 After dinner, when the ladies retired, old Mr 
 Connal began to enter upon the question of the in-
 
 ORMOND. 149 
 
 tended union between the families — Ormond left the 
 room, and Corny suppressed a deep sigh. M. de 
 Connal took an early opportunity of declaring that 
 there was no truth in the report of his going to be 
 married in England: he confessed that such a thing 
 had been in question — he must speak with delicacy 
 ■ — but the fmiily and connexions did not suit him ; 
 he had a strong prejudice, he owned, in favour of 
 ancient family — Irish family ; he had always wished 
 to marry an Irish woman — for that reason he had 
 avoided opportunities that might have occurred of con- 
 necting himself, perhaps advantageously, in France ; 
 he was really ambitious of the honour of an alliance 
 with the O' Shanes. Nothing could be more fortu- 
 nate for him than the friendship which had subsisted 
 between his father and Mr O'Shane — And the 
 promise? — Relinquish it! — Oh, that, he assured Mr 
 O'Shane, was quite impossible, provided the young 
 lady herself should not make a decided objection — 
 he should abide by her decision — he could not possibly 
 think of pressing his suit, if there should appear any 
 repugnance : in that case, he should be infinitely 
 mortified — he should be absolutely in despair ; but he 
 should know how to submit — cost him what it would : 
 he should think, as a man of honour, it was his part 
 to sacrifice his wishes to what the young lady might 
 conceive to be for her happiness. 
 
 He added a profusion of compliments on the young 
 lady's charms, v/Ith a declaration of the effect they had 
 already produced on his heart. 
 
 This was all said with a sort of nonchalance, which 
 Corny did not at all like. But mademoiselle, who 
 was summoned to Corny's private council, gave it as 
 her opinion, that M. de Connal was already quite in 
 love — quite as much as a French husband ever was. 
 She was glad that her brother-in-law was bound by
 
 150 ORMOND. 
 
 his promise to a gentleman who would really be a 
 proper husband for her niece. Mademoiselle, in short, 
 saw everything couleur de rose ; and she urged, that, 
 since M. de Connal had come to Ireland for the 
 express pui'pose of forwarding his present suit, he 
 ought to be invited to stay at Corny Castle, tliat 
 he might endeavour to make himself acceptable to 
 Dora. 
 
 To this Corny acceded. He left mademoiselle to 
 make the invitation ; for, he said, she understood 
 French politeness, and all that, better than he did. 
 The invitation was made and accepted, with all due 
 expressions of infinite delight. 
 
 "Well, my dear Harry Ormond," said Corny, 
 the first moment he had an opportunity of speaking 
 to Harry in private, " what do you think of this 
 man ? " 
 
 "What Miss O'Shane thinks of him is the ques- 
 tion," said Harry, with some embarrassment. 
 
 "That's true — it was too hard to ask you. But 
 I'll tell you what I think : between ourselves, Black 
 Connal is better than White, inasmuch as a puppy is 
 better than a brute. We shall see what Dora will 
 say or think soon — the aunt is over head and ears 
 already : women are mighty apt to be taken one way 
 or other with a bit of a coxcomb. Vanity — vanity ! 
 but siill 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, aftc r all the little tremblings and variations : 
 when it ])oinis steady, I shall know how to steer my 
 course. I have a scheme in my Iicad, but I won't 
 mention it to you, Harry, because it might end in 
 disappointment : so go off to bed and to sleep, if you 
 can ; you have had a hard day to go through, my poor 
 honourable Harry."
 
 ORMOND. 151 
 
 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 nor endeavoured to 
 inspire passion, but by her own and her aunt's vanity. 
 Mademoiselle with constant importunity assailed her : 
 and though Dora saw that her aunt's only wish was 
 to settle in Paris, and to live in a fine hotel ; and 
 though Dora was persuaded that for this her aunt 
 would without scruple sacrifice her happiness and that 
 of Harry Ormond ; yet she was so dazzled by the 
 splendid representation of a Parisian life as not to 
 see very distinctly what object she had herself in 
 view. Connal's flattery, too, though it had scarcely 
 any pretence to the tone of truth or passion, yet 
 contrasting with his previous indifference, gratified 
 her. She was sensible that he was not attached to 
 her as Harry Ormond was, but she flattered herself 
 that she should quite turn his head in time. She 
 tried all her power of charming for this purpose, at 
 first chiefly with the intention of exciting Hariy's 
 jealousy, and forcing him to break his honourable 
 resolution. Harry continued her first object for some 
 little time, but soon the idea of piquing him was 
 merely an excuse for coquetry. She imagined that 
 she could recede or advance with her new admirer, 
 just as she thought proper ; but she was mistaken : 
 she had now to deal with a man practised in the 
 game : he might let her appear to win, but not for 
 nothing would he let her win a single move ; yet he 
 seemed to play so carelessly, as not in the least to 
 alarm, or put her on her guard. The bystanders 
 began to guess how the game would terminate : it 
 was a game in which the whole happiness of Dora's 
 life was at stake, to say nothing of his own, and 
 Ormond could not look on without anxiety — and, not-
 
 152 ORMOND. 
 
 withstanding his outwardly calm appearance, without 
 strong conflicting emotions. 
 
 " If," said he to himself, " I were convinced that 
 this man would make her happy, I think. I could be 
 happy myself." But the more he saw of Connal, the 
 less he thought him likely to make Dora happy ; unless, 
 indeed, her vanity could quite extinguish her sensibility : 
 then, Monsieur de Connal would be just the husband to 
 suit her. 
 
 Connal was exactly what he appeared to be — a gay 
 young officer, who had made his own way up in the 
 world — a petit-maitre, who had really lived in good 
 company at Paris, and had made himself agreeable to 
 women of rank and fortune. He might, perhaps, as he 
 said, with his figure, and fashion, and connexions, have 
 made his fortune in Paris by marriage, had he had time 
 to look about him — but a sudden run of ill fortune 
 at play had obliged him to quit Paris for a season. 
 It was necessary to make his fortune by marriage in 
 England or Ireland, and as expeditiously as possible. 
 In this situation, Dora, with her own and her aunt's 
 property, was, as he considered it, an offer not to be 
 rashly slighted ; nor yet was he very eager about the 
 matter — if he failed here, he should succeed elsewhere. 
 This real indifference gave him advantages with Dora 
 which a man of feeling would perhaps never have 
 obtained, or never have kept. Her father, though he 
 believed in the mutable nature of woman, yet could 
 scarcely think that his daughter Dora was of this 
 nature. He could scarcely conceive that her passion for 
 Harry Ormond — that passion which had but a short time 
 before certainly affected her spirits, and put him in fear for 
 her health — could have been conquered by a coxcomb, 
 who cared very little whether he conquered or not. 
 
 How was this possible ? Good Corny invented 
 many solutions of the problem : he fancied one hour
 
 ORMOND. 153 
 
 that his daughter was sacrificing herself from duty to 
 him, or complaisance to her aunt ; the next hour, he 
 settled, and with more probability, that she was piqued 
 by Harry Ormond's not showing more passion. iCing 
 Corny was resolved to know distinctly how the matter 
 really was : he therefore summoned his daughter and 
 her aunt into his presence, and the person he sent to 
 summon them was Harry Ormond. 
 
 " Come back with them yourself, Harry — I shall 
 want you also." 
 
 Harry returned with both the ladies. By the 
 countenance of Cornelius O' Shane, they all three 
 augured that he had something of importance to say, 
 and they stood in anxious expectation. He went to 
 the point immediately. 
 
 " Dora, I know it is the custom on some occasions 
 for ladies never to tell the truth — therefore I shall not 
 ask any question that I think will put your truth to the 
 test. I shall tell you my mind, and leave you to judge 
 for yourself. Take as long or as short a time to know 
 your own mind as you please — only know it clearly, 
 and send me your answer by your aunt. All I beg is, 
 that when the answer shall be delivered to me, this 
 young man may be by. Don't interrupt me, Dora — 
 I have a high opinion of him," said he, keeping his eye 
 upon Dora's face. " I have a great esteem, affection, 
 love for him : " he pronounced the words deliberately, 
 that he might see the effect on Dora ; but her 
 countenance was as undecided as her mind — no judg- 
 ment could be formed from its changes. 
 
 " I wish Harry Ormond," continued he, *' to know 
 all my conduct : he knows that, long ago, I made a 
 foolish promise to give my daughter to a man I knew 
 nothing about." 
 
 Mademoiselle was going to interrupt, but Cornelius 
 O' Shane silenced her.
 
 154 ORMOND. 
 
 (( 
 
 Mademoiselle — sister O'Faley, I will do the best 
 I can to repair that folly — and to leave you at liberty, 
 Dora, to follow the choice of your heart." 
 
 He paused, and again studied her countenance, 
 which was agitated. 
 
 " Her choice is your choice — her father's choice is 
 always the choice of the good daughter," said made- 
 moiselle. 
 
 " I believe she is a good daughter, and that is the 
 particular reason I am determined to be as good a 
 father as I can to her." 
 
 Dora wept in silence — and mademoiselle, a good 
 deal alarmed, wanted to remove Harry Ormond 
 out of the young lady's sight : she requested him 
 to go to her apartment for a smelling-bottle for her 
 niece. 
 
 "No, no," said King Corny, "go yourself, sister 
 O'Faley, if you like it, but I'll not let Harry Ormond 
 stir — he is my witness present. Dora is not fainting 
 — if you would only let her alone, she would do well. 
 Dora, listen to me : if you don't really prefer this 
 Black Connal for a husband to all other men, as you 
 are to swear at the altar you do, if you marry 
 him " 
 
 Dora was strongly affected by the solemn manner of 
 her father's appeal to her. 
 
 " If," continued her fatlier, " you are not quite 
 clear, my dear child, that you prefer him to other men, 
 do not marry him. I have a notion I can bring you 
 off without breaking my word : listen. I would will- 
 ingly 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
 
 ORMOND. 155 
 
 certain that Mr Coniial would not, for anything upon 
 earth that could be offered to him, give up the 
 match. 
 
 Corny said he was willing to make the trial, if they 
 pleased. Mademoiselle seemed to hesitate ; but Dora 
 eagerly accepted the proposal, thanked her father for 
 his kindness, and declared that she should be happy to 
 have, and to abide by, this test of Mr Connai's love. 
 If he were so base as to prefer half her fortune to her- 
 self, she should, she said, think herself happy in having 
 escaped from such a traitor. 
 
 Dora's pride was wakened, and she now spoke in a 
 high tone : she always, even in the midst of her weak- 
 nesses, had an ambition to show spirit. 
 
 " I will put the test to him myself, within this 
 hour," said Corny ; " and before you go to bed this 
 night, when the clock strikes twelve, all three of you 
 be on this spot, and I will give you his answer. But 
 stay, Harry Ormond, we have not had your opinion — 
 would you advise me to make this trial ? " 
 
 " Certainly, sir." 
 
 " But if I should lose half of Dora's fortune ? " 
 
 " You would think it well bestowed, I am sure, sir, 
 in securing her from an unhappy marriage." 
 
 " But then she might not, perhaps, so easily find 
 another lover with half a fortune — that might make a 
 difference, hey, Harry ? " 
 
 " Impossible, I should think, sir, that it could 
 make the least difference in the affection of any 
 one who really — who was really worthy oi Miss 
 O'Shane." 
 
 The agitation into which Harry Ormond v/as 
 thrown flattered and touched Dora for the moment ; 
 her aunt hurried her out of the room. 
 
 Cornelius O'Shane rang, and inquired where Mr 
 Connal was ? In his own apartment, writing letters.
 
 156 ORMOND. 
 
 his servant believed. O' Shane sent to beg to see him 
 as soon as he was at leisure. 
 
 At twelve o'clock Dora, mademoiselle, and Orniond 
 were all in the study, punctually as the clock was 
 striking. 
 
 " Well, what is M. de Connal's answer ? " cried 
 mademoiselle. " If he hesitate, my dear Dore, give 
 him up dat minute." 
 
 " Undoubtedly," said Dora : " I have too much 
 spirit to do otherwise. What's his answer, father? " 
 
 " His answer, my dear child, has proved that you 
 knew him better than I did — he scorns the offer of 
 lialf your fortune — for your whole fortune he would 
 not give you up." 
 
 ** I thought so," cried Dora triumphantly. 
 
 " I thought so," echoed mademoiselle. 
 
 " I did him injustice," cried Ormond. " I am 
 glad that M. de Connal has proved himself worthy of 
 you, Dora, since you really approve him — you have 
 not a friend in the world, next to your father, who 
 wishes your happiness more sincerely than I do." 
 
 He hurried out of the room. 
 
 " There's a heart for you ! " said Corny. 
 
 " Not for me," said mademoiselle ; " he has no passion 
 in him." 
 
 ** I give you joy, Dora," said her father. " I own 
 I misjudged the man — on account of his being a bit 
 of a coxcomb. But if you can put up with that, so 
 will I — when I have done a man injustice, I will 
 make it up to him every way I can. Now let him, 
 he has my consent, be as great a coxcomb as ever 
 wore red heels. I'll put up with it all, since he really 
 loves my child. I did not think he would have 
 stood the test." 
 
 Nor would he, had not he been properly prepared 
 by mademoiselle — she had, before M. de Connal went
 
 ORMOND. 157 
 
 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. 
 
 -«!>!5«- 
 
 Cljapter ):b. 
 
 VAIN of showing that he was not in the slightest 
 degree jealous, Connal talked to Ormond in the 
 freest manner imaginable, touching with indiffer- 
 ence 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 v/ell," he said, " quite 
 natural — in the common course of things — impossible 
 it should have been otherwise. A young woman, 
 who saw no one else, must inevitably fall in love with 
 the first agreeable young man who made love to her, 
 or who did not make love to her — it was quite equal 
 to him which. He had heard wonders from his father- 
 in-law elect on that last topic, and he was willing to 
 oblige him, or any other gentleman or lady, by believing 
 miracles." 
 
 Ormond, extremely embarrassed by the want of 
 delicacy and feeling with which this polished cox- 
 comb spoke, had, however, sufficient presence of mind 
 to avoid, either by word or look, making any particular 
 application of what was said. 
 
 " You have really prodigious presence of mind, and 
 discretion, and iact, for a young man who has, I 
 presume, had so little practice in these affairs," said 
 Connal ; <' but don't constrain yourself longer. I speak 
 frankly to take off all embarrassment on your part —
 
 158 ORMOND. 
 
 you see there exists none on mine — never, for a moment : 
 no, how can it possibly signify," continued he, " to any 
 man of common sense, who or what a woman hked 
 before she saw him ? You don't think a man who has 
 seen anything of the world would trouble himself to 
 inquire whether he was, or was not, the first love of 
 the woman he is going to marry. To marry — observe 
 the emphasis — distinguish — distinguish, and seriously 
 let us calculate." 
 
 Ormond gave no interruption to his calculations, and 
 the petit-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 ivlth, as 
 they call it ? My good sir, not five per cent., depend 
 on it. The thing is morally impossible, unless girls 
 are married out of a convent, as with us in France, 
 and very difficult even then ; and after all, what are 
 the French husbands the better for it ? I understand 
 English husbands think themselves best off. I don't 
 pretend to judge ; but they seem to prefer what they 
 call domestic happiness to the French esprit de societe. 
 Still, this may be prejudice of education — of country : 
 each nation has its taste. Everything is for the best 
 in this world for people who know how to make the 
 best of it. You would not think, to look at me, I was 
 so philosophic : but even in the midst of my military 
 career I have thought — thought profoundly. Every- 
 body in France thinks now," said M. de Connal, 
 taking a pinch of snuff with a very pensive air. 
 
 " Everybody in France thinks now ! " repeated 
 Ormond. 
 
 " Every man of a certain rank, that is to say." 
 
 " That is to say, of your rank," said Ormond. 
 
 " Nay, I don't give myself as an example ; but — 
 you may judge — I own I am surprised to find myself
 
 ORMOND. 1 59 
 
 philosophising here in the Black Islands — but one 
 philosophises everywhere." 
 
 " And you would have more time for it here, I 
 should suppose, than in Paris •" 
 
 " Time, my dear sir — no such thing ! Time is merely 
 in idea ; but Tah-toi Jean Jacques ! Tais-toi Condillac ! 
 To resume the chain of our reasoning — love and mar- 
 riage — I say it all comes to much the same thing in 
 France and in these countries — after all. There is 
 more gallantry, perhaps, before marriage in England, 
 more after marriage in France — which has the better 
 bargain ? I don't pretend to decide. Philosophic 
 doubt for me, especially in cases where 'tis not worth 
 while to determine ; but I see I astonish you, Mr 
 Ormond." 
 
 " You do, indeed," said Ormond ingenuously. 
 
 " I give you joy — I envy you," said M. de Connal, 
 sighing. " After a certain age, if one lives in the 
 world one can't be astonished — that's a lost pleasure." 
 
 " To me who have lived out of the world it is a 
 pleasure, or rather a sensation — I am not sure whether 
 I should call it a pleasure — that is not likely to be soon 
 exhausted," said Ormond. 
 
 " A sensation ! and you are not sure whether you 
 should call it a pleasure. Do you know you've a 
 genius for metaphysics ? " 
 
 "II" exclaimed Ormond. 
 
 " Ah 1 now I have astonished you again. Good ! 
 whether pleasurable or not, trast me, nothing is so im- 
 proving to a young man as to be well astonished. 
 Astonishment I conceive to be a sort of mental electric 
 shock — electric fire ; it opens at once and enlightens the 
 understanding : and really you have an understanding so 
 well worth enlightening — I do assure you, that your 
 natural acuteness will, whenever and wherever you 
 appear, make you un homme marquant.
 
 l6d ORMOND. 
 
 " Oh ! spare me, Mr Connal," said Ormond. " I 
 am not used to French compliment." 
 
 " No, upon my honour, without compliment, in all 
 English bonhommie" (laying his hand upon his heart) 
 — " upon the honour of a gentleman, your remarks have 
 sometimes perfectly astonished me." 
 
 " Really ! " said Ormond ; " but I thought you had 
 lived so much in the world, you could not be 
 astonished." 
 
 " I thought so, I own," said Connal ; " but it was 
 reserved for M. Ormond to convince me of my mistake, 
 to revive an old pleasure — more difficult still than to invent 
 a new one ! In recompense, I hope I give you some 
 new ideas — ^just throw out opinions for you. Accept — 
 reject — reject now — accept an hour, a year hence, 
 perhaps — just as it strikes — merely materials for think- 
 ing 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 conver- 
 sation — in everything, is a certain degree of — of — you 
 have no English word — lightness." 
 
 " Legerete, perhaps you mean," said Ormond. 
 
 " Precisely. I forgot you understood French so well. 
 Legerete — untranslatable ! — You seize my idea." 
 
 He left Ormond, as he fancied, in admiration of the 
 man who, in his own opinion, possessed the whole theory 
 and practice of the art of pleasing, and the science of 
 happiness. 
 
 M. de Connal's conversation and example might have 
 produced a great effect on the mind of a youth of 
 Ormond's strong passions, lively imagination, and total 
 ignorance of the world, if he had met this brilliant officer 
 in different society. Had he seen Connal only as a man
 
 ORMOND. l6l 
 
 shining in company, or considered him merely as a com- 
 panion, he must have been dazzled by his fashion, 
 charmed by his gaiety, and imposed upon by his decisive 
 tone. 
 
 Had such a vision lighted on the Black Islands, and 
 appeared to our hero suddenly, in any other circum- 
 stances but those in which it did appear, it might have 
 struck and overawed him ; and without inquiring 
 " whether from heaven or hell," he might have followed 
 wherever it led or pointed the way. But in the form 
 of a triumphant rival — without delicacy, without feeling, 
 neither deserving nor loving the woman he had won — 
 not likely to make Dora happy — almost certain to make 
 her father miserable — there was no danger that Black 
 Connal could ever obtain any ascendency over Ormond ; 
 on the contrary, Connal was useful in forming our 
 hero's character. The electric shock of astonishment 
 did operate in a salutary manner in opening Harry's 
 understanding : the materials for thinking were not 
 thrown away : he did t\{mV. — even in the Black Islands ; 
 and in judging of Connal's character, he made continual 
 progress in forming his own : he had motive for exer- 
 cising his judgment — he was anxious to study the 
 man's character on Dora's account. 
 
 Seeing his unpolished friend, old Corny, and this 
 finished young man of the world, in daily contrast, 
 Ormond had occasion to compare the real and the 
 factitious, both in matter and manner : he distinguished, 
 and felt often acutely, the difference between that 
 politeness of the heart, which respects and sympathizes 
 with the feelings of others, and that conventional polite- 
 ness, which is shown merely to gratify the vanity of 
 him by whom it is displayed. In the same way he 
 soon discriminated in conversation between Corny's 
 power of original thinking, and M. de Connal's knack 
 of throwing old thoughts into new words ; between 
 
 h
 
 1 62 ORMOND. 
 
 the power of answering an argument, and the art of 
 evading it by a repartee. But it was chiefly in com- 
 paring different ideas of happiness and modes of life 
 that our young hero's mind was enlarged by Connal's 
 conversation — whilst the comparison he secretly made 
 between this polished gentleman's principles and his 
 own was always more satisfactory to his pride of 
 virtue than Connal's vanity could have conceived to be 
 possible. 
 
 One day some conversation passed between Connal 
 and his father-in-law elect, as he now always called 
 him, upon his future plans of life. 
 
 Good Corny said he did not know how to hope 
 that, during the few years he had to live, Connal 
 would not think of taking his daughter from him to 
 Paris, as, from some words that had dropped from 
 mademoiselle, he had reason to fear. 
 
 *' No," Connal said, " he had formed no such cruel 
 intention: the Irish half of mademoiselle must have 
 blundered on this occasion. He would do his utmost, 
 if he could with honour, to retire from the service ; 
 unless the service imperiously called him away, he 
 should settle in Ireland : he should make it a point 
 even, independently of his duty to his own father, not to 
 take Miss O' Shane from her country and her friends." 
 
 The father, open-hearted and generous himself, was 
 fond to believe what he wished : and confiding in these 
 promises, the old man forgave all that he did not other- 
 wise approve in his future son-in-law, and thanked him 
 almost with tears in his eyes ; still repeating, as his 
 natuial penetration remonstrated against his credulity, 
 " But I could hardly have believed this from such a 
 young man as you, Captain Connal. Indeed, how 
 you could ever bring yourself to think of settling in 
 retirement is wonderful to me ; but love does mighty 
 things, brings about great changes."
 
 ORMOND. 163 
 
 French commonplaces of sentiment upon love, and 
 compliments on Dora's charms and his own sensibility, 
 were poured out by Connal, and the father left the 
 room satisfied. 
 
 Connal then, throwing himself back in his chair, 
 burst out a-laughing, and turning to Ormond, the 
 only person in the room, said, " Could you have con- 
 ceived this ? " 
 
 " Conceived what, sir ? " said Ormond. 
 
 "Conceived this King Corny's capacity for belief? 
 What! — believe that I will settle in his Black Islands! 
 — I ! — As well believe me to be half marble, half 
 man, like tJic unfortunate in the Black Islands of the 
 Arabian Tales. Settle in the Black Islands ! — No : 
 could you conceive a man on earth could be found so 
 simple as to credit such a thing ? " 
 
 " Here is another man on earth who was simple 
 enough to believe it," said Ormond, " and to give you 
 credit for it." 
 
 " You ! " cried Connal — " That's too much ! — Im- 
 possible ! " 
 
 " But when you said it — when I heard you promise 
 it to Mr O'Shane " 
 
 "Oh, mercy! — Don't kill me with laughing!" 
 said he, laughing affectedly : " Oh ! that face of yours 
 — there is no standing it. You heard me promise — 
 and the accent on promise. Why, even women, now- 
 a-days, don't lay such an emphasis on a promised 
 
 " That, I suppose, depends on who gives it," said 
 Ormond. 
 
 "Rather on who receives it," said Connal: "but 
 look here, you who understand the doctrine of pro- 
 mises, tell me what a poor conscientious man must 
 do who has two pulling him different ways ? " 
 
 " A conscientious man cannot have given two 
 diametrically opposite promises."
 
 1 64 ORMOND. 
 
 '■'■ D'lametrtcaUy ! — Thank you for that word — it just 
 saves my lost conscience. Commend me always to an 
 epithet in the last resource for giving one latitude of 
 conscience in these nice cases — I have not given two 
 diametrically opposite — no, I have only given four 
 that cross one another. One to your King Corny ; 
 another to my angel, Dora ; another to the dear aunt ; 
 and a fourth to my dearer self. First promise to King 
 Corny, to settle in the Black Islands ; a gratuitous 
 promise, signifying nothing — read Burlamaqui : second 
 promise to mademoiselle, to go and live with her at 
 Paris ; with her — on the face of it absurd ! a promise 
 extorted too under fear of my life, of immediate peril 
 of being talked to death — see Vatel on extorted pro- 
 mises — void : third promise to my angel, Dora, to live 
 wherever she pleases ; but that's a lover's promise, 
 made to be broken — see Love's Calendar, or, if you 
 prefer the bookmen's authority, I don't doubt that, 
 under the head of promises made when a man is not in 
 his right senses, some of those learned fellows in wigs 
 would bring me off sain et sauf: but now for my 
 fourth promise — I am a man of honour — when I make 
 a promise intending to keep it, no man so scrupulous ; 
 all promises made to myself come under this head ; 
 and I have promised myself to live, and make my wife 
 live, wherever I please, or not to live with her at all. 
 This promise I shall hold sacred. Oblige me with a 
 smile, Mr Ormond — a smile of approbation." 
 
 " Excuse me, Mr Connal, that is impossible — I am 
 sincere." 
 
 " So am I, and sincerely you are too romantic. 
 See things as they are, as a man of the world, I 
 beseech you." 
 
 " I am not a man of the world, and I thank God 
 for it," cried Ormond. 
 
 "Thank your God for what you please," said
 
 ORMOND. 165 
 
 Connal ; "but in disdaining to be a man of the world, 
 you will not, I hope, refuse to let me think you a man 
 of common sense." 
 
 " Think what you please of me," said Ormond, 
 rather haughtily ; " what I think of myself is the chief 
 point with me." 
 
 "You will lose this little brusquerie of manner," 
 said Connal, " when you have mixed more with man- 
 kind. Providentially, we are all made dependent on 
 one another's good opinion. Even I, you see, cannot 
 live without yours." 
 
 Whether from vanity, from the habit of wishing to 
 charm everybody in every house he entered, especially 
 any one who made resistance ; or whether he was 
 piqued and amused with Ormond's frank and natural 
 character, and determined to see how far he could urge 
 him, Connal went on, though our young hero gave him 
 no encouragement to hope that he should win his good 
 opinion. 
 
 "Candidly," said he, "put yourself in my place 
 for a moment : I was in England, following my own 
 projects ; I was not in love with the girl as you — 
 well, pardon — as anybody might have been — but I 
 was at a distance, that makes all the difference ; I am 
 sent for over by two fathers, and I am told that in 
 consequence of my good or evil fortune in being born 
 a twin, and of some inconceivable promise between 
 two Irish fathers over a punch-bowl, I am to have 
 the refusal, I should rather say the acceptance, of a 
 very pretty girl with a very pretty fortune. Now, 
 except just at the moment when the overture reached 
 me, it could not have been listened to for a moment 
 by such a man as I am." 
 
 " Insufferable coxcomb," said Ormond to himself. 
 
 " But to answer a question, which I omitted to 
 answer just now to my father-in-law — what could
 
 1 66 ORMOND. 
 
 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 " 
 
 " Confess nothing, I beg, Mr Connal, to me, that 
 you do not wish to be known to Mr O'Shane : I am 
 his friend — he is my benefactor." 
 
 " You would not repeat — you are a gentleman, and 
 a man of honour." 
 
 " I am ; and as such I desire, on this occasion, not 
 to hear what I ought neither to repeat nor to keep 
 secret. It is my duty not to leave my benefactor in 
 the dark as to any point." 
 
 *' Oh ! come — come," interrupted Connal, " we had 
 better not take it on this serious tone, lest, if we begin 
 to talk of duty, we should presently conceive it to be 
 our duty to run one another through the body, which 
 would be no pleasure." 
 
 " No pleasure," said Ormond ; " but if it became a 
 duty, I hope, on all occasions, I should be able to 
 do whatever I thought a duty. Therefore to avoid 
 any misunderstanding, Mr Connal, let me beg that 
 you will not honour me farther with your confidence. 
 I cannot undertake to be the confidant of any one, 
 of whom I have never professed myself to be the 
 friend." 
 
 " Ca sufiit," said Connal lightly. " We under- 
 stand one another now perfectly — you shall in future 
 play the part of prince, and not of confidant. Pardon 
 me, I forgot your highness's pretensions ; " so saying, 
 he gaily turned on his heel, and left the room. 
 
 From this time forward little conversation passed 
 between Mr Connal and Ormond — little indeed 
 between Ormond and Dora. With mademoiselle, 
 Ormond had long ceased to be a favourite, and even
 
 ORMOND. 167 
 
 her loquacity now seldom addressed itself to him. 
 He was in a painful situation ; — he spent as much of 
 his time as he could at the farm his friend had given 
 him. As soon as O' Shane found that there was no 
 truth in the report of Black Connal's intended marriage 
 in England, that he claimed in earnest his promise of 
 his daughter, and that Dora herself inclined to the 
 new love, his kind heart felt for poor Harry. 
 
 Though he did not know all that had passed, yet 
 he saw the awkwardness and difficulty of Ormond's 
 present situation, and, whatever it might cost him to 
 part with his young friend, with his adopted son, 
 Corny determined not to detain him longer. 
 
 " Harry Ormond, my boy," said he to him one day, 
 " time for you to see something of the world, also for 
 the world to see something of you ; I've kept you here 
 for my own pleasure too long : as long as I had any hope 
 of settling you as I wished, 'twas a sufficient excuse to 
 myself; but now I have none left — I must part with 
 you : and so, by the blessing, God helping me to 
 conquer my selfishness, and the yearnings of my heart 
 towards you, I will. I mean," continued he, " to send 
 you far from me — to banish you for your good from the 
 Black Islands entirely. Nay, don't you interrupt me, 
 nor say a word ; for if you do, I shall be too soft to 
 have the heart to do you justice. You know you said 
 yourself, and I felt it for you, that it was best you 
 should leave this. Well, I have been thinking of you 
 ever since, and licking different projects into shape for 
 you — listening too to everything Connal threw out; 
 but all he says that way is in the air — no substance, 
 when you try to have and to hold — too full of himself, 
 that youngster, to be a friend to another." 
 
 " There is no reason why he should be my friend, 
 sir," said Ormond — " I do not pretend to be his ; and 
 I rejoice in not being under any obligations to him."
 
 1 68 ORMOND. 
 
 " Right ! — and high ! — ^just as I feel for you. After 
 all, I approve of your own wish to go into the British 
 service in preference to any foreign service, and you could 
 not be of the Irish brigade, Harry." 
 
 " Indeed, sir, I infinitely prefer," said Ormond, '* the 
 service of my own country — the service in which my 
 father — I know nothing of my father, but I have always 
 heard him spoken of as a good officer ; I hope I shall 
 not disgrace his name. The English service for me, 
 sir, if you please." 
 
 " Why then, I'm glad you see things as I do, and 
 are not run away with by uniform, and all that. I 
 have lodged the needful in the bank, to purchase a 
 commission for you, my son. Now ! no more go to 
 thank me, if you love me, Harry, than you would your 
 own father. I've written to a friend to choose a 
 regiment in which there'd be as little danger as possible 
 for you." 
 
 " As little danger as possible ! " repeated Harry, 
 surprised. 
 
 " Phoo ! you don't think I mean as little danger of 
 fighting. I would not wrong you so. No — but as 
 little danger of gambling. Not that you're inclined to 
 it, or anything else that's bad — but there is no knowing 
 what company might lead the best into ; and it is my 
 duty and inclination to look as close to all these things 
 as if for my own son." 
 
 " My kind father — no father could be kinder," cried 
 Harry, quite overpowered. 
 
 " So then you go as soon as the commission comes 
 — that's settled ; and I hope I shall be able to bear it, 
 Harry, old as I am. There may perhaps be a delay of 
 a little time longer than you could wish." 
 
 " Oh ! sir, as long as you wish me to stay with 
 
 you—" 
 
 " Not a minute beyond what's necessary. 1 mention
 
 ORiMOND. 169 
 
 the cause of delay, that you may not think I'm dallying 
 for my own sake. You remember General Albemarle, 
 who came here one day last year — election time, 
 canvassing — ^the general that had lost the arm." 
 
 " Perfectly, sir, I remember your answer — ' I will 
 give my interest to this empty sleeve.' " 
 
 " Thank you — never a word lost upon you. Well, 
 now, I have hopes that this man — this general, will 
 take you by the hand ; for he has a hand left yet, and 
 a powerful one to serve a friend ; and I've requested 
 him to keep his eye upon you, and I have asked his 
 advice : so we can't stir till we get it, and that will be 
 eight days, or ten, say. My boy, you must bear on as 
 you are — we have tlie comfort of the workshop to our- 
 selves, and some rational recreation ; good shooting we 
 will have soon too for the first time this season." 
 
 Among the various circumstances which endeared 
 Harry to our singular monarch, his skill and keenness 
 as a sportsman were not inconsiderable : he knew 
 where all the game in the island was to be found ; so 
 that, when his good old patron was permitted by the 
 gout to take the field, Harry's assistance saved him a 
 vast deal of unnecessary toil, and gratified him in his 
 favourite amusement, whilst he, at the same time, 
 sympathized in the sport. Corny, besides being a 
 good shot, was an excellent mechanic : he beguiled 
 the hours, when there was neither hunting nor shooting, 
 in a workshop which was furnished with the best tools. 
 Among the other occupations at the work-bench, he 
 was particularly skilful in making and adjusting tlie 
 locks of guns, and in boring and polishing the inside of 
 their barrels to the utmost perfection : he had contrived 
 and executed a tool for the enlarging the barrel of a gun 
 in any particular pa't, so as to increase its eifects in 
 adding to the force of the discharge, and in preventing 
 the shot from scattering too widely.
 
 170 ORMOND. 
 
 The hope of the success of his contrivance, and the 
 prospect of going out with Harry on the approaching 
 first of September, solaced King Corny, and seemed 
 to keep up his spirits, through all the vexation he felt 
 concerning Connal and this marriage, v/hich evidently 
 was not to his taste. It was to Dora's, however, and 
 was becoming more evidently so every hour — and soon 
 M. Connal pressed, and mademoiselle urged, and Dora 
 named the happy day — and mademoiselle, in trans- 
 ports, prepared to go to Dublin, with her niece, to 
 choose the wedding-clothes, and Connal to bespeak 
 the equipages. 
 
 Mademoiselle was quick in her operations when 
 dress was in question : the preparations for the de- 
 lightful journey were soon made — the morning for 
 their departure came — the carriage and horses were 
 sent over the water early — and O' Shane and Harry 
 afterwards accompanied the party in the boat to the 
 other side of the lake, where the carriage waited with 
 the door open. Connal, after handing in mademoiselle, 
 turned to look for his destined bride — who was taking 
 leave of her father — Harry Ormond standing by. The 
 moment she quitted her father's embrace. Father Jos 
 poured with both his hands on her head the benedictions 
 of all the saints. Released from Father Jos, Captain 
 Connal hurried her on : Harry held out his hand to her 
 as she passed. " Good-bye, Dora — probably I shall 
 never see you again." 
 
 " Oh, Harry ! " said she, one touch of natural 
 feeling stopping her short — "Oh, Harry! — Why?" 
 Bursting into tears, she drew her hand from Connal 
 and gave it to Harry : Harry received the hand openly 
 and cordially, shook it heartily, but took no advantage 
 and no notice of the feelings by which he saw her at 
 that moment agitated. 
 
 " Forgive ! " she began.
 
 ORMOND. 171 
 
 " Good-bye, dear Dora. God bless you —may you 
 be as happy — half as happy, as I wish you to be ! " 
 
 " To be sure she will — happy as the day is long," 
 said mademoiselle, leaning out of the carriage : " why 
 will you make her cry, Mr Ormond, spoiling her 
 eyes at parting ? come in to me — Dora, M. de Connal 
 is waiting to hand you, mon enfant." 
 
 " Is her dressing-box in, and all right ? " asked 
 Captain Connal, as he handed Dora into the carriage, 
 who was still weeping. 
 
 " Bad compliment to M. de Connal, mon amie. 
 Vrai scandale ! " said mademoiselle, pulling up the 
 glass, while Dora sunk back in the carriage, sobbing 
 without restraint. 
 
 <' Good morning," said Connal, who had now 
 mounted his horse, " au revoir, mon beau-pere ; " and 
 bowing gracefully to Mr Ormond, " Adieu, Mr 
 Ormond — command me in any way you please. 
 Drive on ! " 
 
 CMpter );bu 
 
 THE evening after the departure of the happy trio, 
 who were gone to Dublin to buy wedding- 
 dresses, the party remaining at Castle Corny 
 consisted only of King Corny, Ormond, and Father 
 Jos. When the candles were lighted, his majesty 
 gave a long and loud yawn, Harry set the backgammon 
 table for him, and Father Jos, as usual, settled himself 
 in the chimney-corner. " And now mademoiselle's 
 gone," said he, " I shall take leave to indulge myself 
 in my pipe." 
 
 " You were on the continent this morning. Father 
 Jos," said Cornelius. " Did ye learn any news for 
 us ? Size ace ! that secures two points."
 
 172 ORMOND. 
 
 " News ! I did," said Father Jos. 
 
 " Why not tell it us, then ? " 
 
 " I was not asked. You both seemed so wrapped 
 up, I waited my time and opportunity. There's a 
 new parson come to Castle Hermitage." 
 
 " What new person ? " said King Corny. " Doublets, 
 aces, Harry." 
 
 " A new parson I'm talking of," said Father Jos, 
 " that has just got the living there ; and they say Sir 
 Ulick's mad about it, in Dublin, where he is still." 
 
 "Mad! — Three men up — and you can't enter, 
 Harry. Well, what is he mad about ? " 
 
 " Because of the presentation to the living," replied 
 the priest, " which Government wouldn't make him a 
 compliment of, as he expected." 
 
 " He is always expecting compliments from Govern- 
 ment," said Corny, " and always getting disappoint- 
 ments. Such throws as you have, Harry — Sixes ! 
 again — Well, what luck ! — all over with me — It is 
 only a hit at any rate ! But what kind of man," 
 continued he, ** is this new clergyman ? " 
 
 " Oh ! them parsons is all one kind," said Father 
 Jos. 
 
 " All one kind ! No, no more than our own 
 priests," said Corny. " There's good and bad, and all 
 the difference in life." 
 
 " I don't know anything 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.
 
 ORMOND. 173 
 
 " Faults on both sides generally in all quarrels," 
 said Corny. 
 
 " In lay quarrels, like enough," said Father Jos. 
 " In Church quarrels, it don't become a good Catholic 
 to say that." 
 
 " What ? " said Corny. 
 
 " That,^' said the priest. 
 
 " Which ? " said Corny. 
 
 "That which you said, that there's faults on both 
 sides ; sure there's but one side, and that's our own 
 side, can be in the right — there can't be two right 
 sides, can there ? and consequently there won't be two 
 wrong sides, will there ? — Ergo, there cannot, by a 
 parity of rasoning, be two sides in the wrong." 
 
 " Well, Harry, I'll take the black men now, and 
 gammon you," said Corny. "Play away, man — 
 what are you thinking of? is it of what Father Jos 
 said ? 'tis beyond the limits of the human under- 
 standing." 
 
 Father Jos puffed away at his pipe for some time. 
 
 " I was tired and ashamed of all the wrangling for 
 twopence with the last man," said King Corny, 
 "and I believe I was sometimes too hard and too hot 
 myself; but if this man's a gentleman, I think we 
 shall agree. Did you hear his name, or anything at 
 all about him, father ? " 
 
 " He is one of them refugee families, the Huguenots, 
 banished France by the fldict of Nantz, they say, and 
 his name's Cambray." 
 
 " Cambray ! " exclaimed Ormond. 
 
 "A very good name," said O'Shane ; "but what 
 do you know of it, Harry ? " 
 
 " Only, sir, I happened to meet with a Dr Cambray 
 the winter I was in Dublin, whom I thought a very 
 agreeable, respectable, amiable man — and I wonder 
 whether this is the same person."
 
 1 74 ORMOND. 
 
 " There is something more now, Harry Ormond, 
 I know by your face," said Corny : " there's some 
 story of or belonging to Dr Cambray — what is it ?" 
 
 " No story, only a slight circumstance — wliich, 
 if you please, I'd rather not tell you, sir," said 
 Ormond. 
 
 " That is something very extraordinary, and looks 
 mysterious," said Father Jos. 
 
 " Nothing mysterious, I assure you," said Ormond 
 — " a mere trifle, which, if it concerned only myself, 
 I would tell directly." 
 
 " Let him alone, father," said King Corny ; " I 
 am sure he has a good reason — and I'm not curious : 
 only let me whisper this in your ear to show you my 
 own penetration, Harry — I'd lay my life" (said he, 
 stretching over and whispering), "I'd lay my life 
 Miss Annaly has something to do with it." 
 
 "Miss Annaly! — nothing in the world — only — 
 yes, I recollect she was present." 
 
 " There now — would not anybody think I'm a con- 
 juror ? a physiognomist is cousin to (and not twice 
 removed from) a conjuror." 
 
 " But I assure you, though you happened to guess 
 right partly as to her being present, you are totally 
 mistaken, sir, as to the rest." 
 
 "My dear Harry, totally means ivhoUy : if I'm 
 right in a part, I can't be mistaken in the whole. I 
 am glad to miake you smile, any way — and I wish I 
 was right altogether, and that you was as rich as 
 Croesus into the bargain ; but stay a bit, if you come 
 home a hero from the wars — that may do — ladies are 
 mighty fond of heroes." 
 
 It was in vain that Ormond assured his good old 
 imaginative friend that he was upon a wrong scent. 
 Cornelius stopped to humour him ; but was convinced 
 that he was right ; then turned to the still smoking
 
 ORMOND. 175 
 
 Father Jos, and went on asking questions about Dr 
 Cambray. 
 
 " I know nothing at all about him," said Father Jos, 
 " but this, that Father M'Cormuck has dined with him, 
 if I'm not misinformed, oftener than I think becoming 
 in these times — making too free ! And in the chapel 
 last Sunday, I hear, he made a very extraordinary 
 address to his flock — there was one took down the 
 words and handed them to me : after remarking on 
 the great distress of the season — first and foremost 
 about the keeping of fast days the year — he allowed 
 the poor of his flock, which is almost all, to eat meat 
 whenever offered to them, because, said he, many 
 would starve — now mark the obnoxious word — 'if it 
 was not for their benevolent Protestant neighbours, 
 who make soup and broth for them.' " 
 
 " What is there obnoxious in that ? " said Co!- 
 nelius. 
 
 " Wait till you hear the end — ' and feed and clothe 
 the distressed.' " 
 
 "That is not obnoxious either, I hope," said 
 Ormond, laughing. 
 
 " Young gentleman, you belong to the Establishment, 
 and are no judge in this case, permit me to remark," 
 said Father Jos; "and I could wish Mr O'Shane 
 would hear to the end, before he joins in a Protestant 
 laugh." 
 
 " I've heard of a * Protestant wind ' before," said 
 Harry, " but not of a Protestant laugh." 
 
 " Well, I'm serious, Father Jos," said Corny ; " let 
 me hear to the end, what makes your face so long." 
 
 '* ' And, I am sorry to say, show more charity to 
 them than their own people, the rich Catholics, some- 
 times do.' If that is not downright slander, I don't 
 know what is," said Father Jos. 
 
 " Are you sure it is not truth, father ? " said Corny.
 
 1 76 ORMOND. 
 
 '* And if it was, even, so much the worse, to be 
 telling it in the chapel, and to his flock — very improper 
 in a priest, very extraordinary conduct ! " 
 
 Father Jos worked himself up to a high pitch of 
 indignation, and railed and smoked for some time, while 
 O'Shane and Ormond joined in defending M'Cormuck, 
 and his address to his flock — and even his dining with 
 the new clergyman of the parish. Father Jos gave up, 
 and had his punch. The result of the whole was, that 
 Ormond proposed to pay his respects the next morning 
 to Dr Cambray. 
 
 "Very proper," said O'Shane; "do so — fit you 
 should — you are of his people, and you are acquainted 
 with the gentleman — and I'd have you go and show 
 yourself safe to him, that we've made no tampering 
 with you." 
 
 Father Jos could not say so much, therefore he said 
 nothing. 
 
 O'Shane continued, " A very exact church-goer at 
 the little church there you've always been, at the other 
 side of the lake — I never hindered — make what com- 
 pliment you will proper for me — say I'm too old and 
 clumsy for morning visitings, and never go out of my 
 islands. But still I can love my neighbour in or out 
 of them, and hope, in the name of peace, to be on good 
 terms. Shan't be my fault if them tithes come across. 
 Then I wish that bone of contention was from between 
 the two Churches. Meantime, I'm not snarling, if 
 others is not craving ; and I'd wish for the look of it, 
 for your sake, Harry, that it should be all smooth ; so 
 say anything you will for me to this Dr Cambray — 
 though we are of a difl^ercnt faith, I should do any- 
 thing in r^son." 
 
 " R(7son ! what's that about rason ? " said Father 
 Jos : " I hope faith comes before rason." 
 
 " And after it, too, I hope, father," said Corny.
 
 ORMOND. 177 
 
 Father Jos finished his punch, and went to sleep 
 upon it. 
 
 Ormond, next morning, paid his visit. Dr Cam'oray 
 was not at home ; but Harry was charmed with the 
 neatness of his house, and with the amiable and happy 
 appearance of his family. He had never before seen 
 Mrs Cambray or her daughters, though he had met the 
 doctor in Dublin. The circumstance which Harry 
 had declined mentioning, when Corny questioned him 
 about his acquaintance with Dr Cambray, was very 
 slight, though Father Jos had imagined it to be of 
 mysterious importance. It had happened, that among 
 the dissipated set of young men with whom Marcus 
 O'Shane and Harry had passed that winter in Dublin, 
 a party had one Sunday gone to hear the singing at 
 the Asylum, and had behaved in a very unbecoming 
 manner during the service. Dr Cambray preached — 
 he spoke to the young gentlemen afterwards with mild 
 but becoming dignity. Harry Ormond instantly, sen- 
 sible of his error, made proper apologies and erred no 
 farther. But Marcus O'Shane in particular, who was 
 not accustomed to endure anything, much less any 
 person, that crossed his humour, spoke of Dr Cambray 
 afterwards with vindictive bitterness, and with all his 
 talents of mimickry endeavoured to make him ridicu- 
 lous. Harry defended him with a warmth of ingenuous 
 eloquence which did him honour ; and with truth, 
 courage, and candour, that did him still more, cor- 
 rected 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 pre- 
 possessed 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 
 
 M
 
 1 78 ORMOND. 
 
 now so long ago, and Harry was so much altered since 
 that time, that it was scarcely to be expected the doctor 
 should recollect even his person. However, when Dr 
 Cambray came to the Black Islands to return his visit, he 
 did immediately recognize Ormond, and seemed so much 
 pleased with meeting him again, and so much interested 
 about him, that Corny's warm heart was immediately 
 won. Independently of this, the doctor's persuasive 
 benevolent politeness could not have failed to operate, 
 as it usually did, even on a first acquaintance, in 
 pleasing and conciliating even those who were of 
 opposite opinions. 
 
 " There now," said Corny, when the doctor was 
 gone, " there, now, is a sincere minister of the Gospel 
 for you, and a polite gentleman into the bargain. Now 
 that's politeness that does not trouble me — that's not 
 for show — that's for us, not himself, mark ! — and con- 
 versation ! 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 hinder- 
 ance ! — liberal and sincere too ! Well, I only wish 
 — Father Jos, no offence — I only wish, for Dr Cam- 
 bray's sake, and the Catholic Church's sake, I was, 
 for one day. Archbishop of Canterbury, or primate 
 of all Ireland, or whatever else makes the bishops in 
 your Church, and I'd skip over dean and archdeacon 
 and all, and make that man clean a bishop before 
 night." 
 
 Harry smiled, and wished he had the power as well 
 as the good-will.
 
 ORMOND. 179 
 
 Father Jos said, " A man ought to be ashamed not 
 to think of his oiun first." 
 
 " Now, Harry, don't think I'd make a bishop 
 lightly," continued King Corny ; " I would not — I've 
 been a king too long for that ; and though only a 
 king of my own fashion, I know what's fit for govern- 
 ing a country, observe me ! — Cousin Ulick would 
 make a job of a bishop, but I would not — nor I 
 wouldn't to please my fancy. Now don't think I'd 
 make that man a bishop just because he noticed and 
 praised my gimcracks and inventions, and substitutes^' 
 
 Father Jos smiled, and demurely abased his eye. 
 
 " Oh ! then you don't know me as v/ell as you 
 think you do, father," said O'Shane. " Nor what's 
 more, Harry, not his noting down the two regiments 
 to make inquiry for friends for you, Harry, shouldn't 
 have bribed me to partiality — though I could have 
 kissed his shoe-ties for it." 
 
 " Mercy on you ! " said Father Jos : " this doctor 
 has bewitched you." 
 
 " But did you mind, then," persisted Corny, " the 
 way he spoke of that cousin of mine. Sir Ulick, who 
 he saw I did not like, and who has been, as you tell 
 us, bitter against him, and even against his getting the 
 living. Well, the way this Doctor Cambray spoke 
 tlien pleased me — good morals without preaching — 
 there's do good to your enemies — the true Christian 
 doctrine — and the hardest point. Oh ! let Father Jos 
 say what he will, there's the man will be in heaven 
 before many — heretic or no heretic, Harry ! " 
 
 Father Jos shrugged up his shoulders, and then 
 fixing the glass in his spectacles, replied, " We shall 
 see better when we come to the tithes." 
 
 " That's true," said Corny. 
 
 He walked off to his workshop, and took down his 
 fowling-piece to put the finishing stroke to his work
 
 l8o ORMOND. 
 
 for the next day, which was to be the first day of 
 partridge shooting ; he looked forward with dehght — 
 anticipating the gratification he should have in going 
 out shooting with Harry, and trying his new fowling- 
 piece. " But 1 won't go out to-morrow till the post 
 has come in ; for my mind couldn't enjoy the sport 
 till I was satisfied whether the answer could come 
 about your commission, Harry : my mind misgives 
 me — that is, my calculation tells me, that it will come 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Good Corny's calculations were just : the next 
 morning the little post-boy brought answers to various 
 letters which he had written about Ormond — one to 
 Ormond from Sir Ulick O'Shane, repeating his appro- 
 bation of his ward's going into the army, approving of 
 all the steps Cornelius had taken — especially of his 
 intention of paying for the commission. 
 
 " All's well," Cornelius said. The next letter was 
 from Cornelius's banker, saying that the five hundred 
 pound was lodged, ready. " All well." The army 
 agent wrote, " that he had commissions in two diffe- 
 rent regiments, waiting Mr O'Shane's choice and orders 
 per return of post, to purchase in conformity." — " That's 
 all well." General Albemarle's answer to Mr O'Shane's 
 letter was most satisfactory : in terms that were not 
 merely ojfficially polite, but kind, "he assured Mr 
 O'Shane that he should, as far as it was in his power, 
 pay attention to the young gentleman, whom Mr 
 O'Shane had so strongly recommended to his care, 
 and by whose appearance and manner the general 
 said he had been prepossessed, when he saw him 
 some months ago at Corny Castle. There was a 
 commission vacant in his son's regiment, which he 
 recommended to Mr Ormond." 
 
 " The very thing I could have wished for you, my 
 dear boy — you shall go off the day after to-morrow —
 
 ORMOND, 1 8 I 
 
 not a moment's delay — I'll answer the letters this 
 minute." 
 
 But Harry reminded him that the post did not go 
 out till the next day, and urged him not to lose this fine 
 day — this first day of the season for partridge shooting. 
 
 " Time enough for my business after we come home 
 — the post does not go out till morning." 
 
 " That's true : come off, then — let's enjoy the fine 
 day sent us ; and my gun, too — I forgot ; for I do 
 believe, Harry, I love you better even than my gun," 
 said the warm-hearted Corny. "Call Moriarty ; let 
 us have him with us — he'll enjoy it beyond all : one of 
 the last days' shooting with his own Prince Harry ! — 
 but, poor fellow, we'll not tell him that." 
 
 Moriarty and the dogs were summoned, and the 
 fineness of the day, and the promise of good sport, put 
 Moriarty in remarkably good spirits. By degrees King 
 Corny's own spirits rose, and he forgot that it was the 
 last day with Prince Harry, and he enjoyed the sport. 
 After various trials of his new fowling-piece, both the 
 king and the prince agreed that it succeeded to admira- 
 tion. But even in the midst of his pride in his success, 
 and his joy in the sport, his superior fondness for Harry 
 prevailed, and showed itself in little, almost delicate 
 instances of kindness, which could hardly have been 
 expected from his unpolished mind. As they crossed 
 a bog, he stooped every now and then, and plucked 
 different kinds of bog-plants and heaths. 
 
 "Here, Harry," said he, "mind these for Dr 
 Cambray. Remember yesterday his mentioning that 
 a daughter of his was making a botanical collection, 
 and there's Sheelah can tell you all the Irish names 
 and uses. Some I can note for you myself; and 
 here, this minute — by great luck ! the very thing he 
 wanted! — ^the Andromeda, I'll swear to it! throw 
 away all and keep this — carry it to her to-morrow —
 
 l82 ORMOND. 
 
 for I will have yoa make a fnend of that Dr Cam- 
 bray ; and no way so sui-e or fair to the father's heart 
 as by proper attention to the daughter — I know that 
 by myself. Hush, now, till I have that partridge! — 
 Whirr ! — Shot him clean, my dear gun ! — Was not 
 that good, Harry ? " 
 
 Thus they continued their sport till late; and re- 
 tui'ning, loaded with game, had nearly reached the 
 palace, when Corny, who had marked a covey, quitted 
 Harry, and sent his dog to spring it, at a distance much 
 greater than the usual reach of a common fowling-piece. 
 Harry heard a shot, and a moment afterwards a violent 
 shout of despair ; — he knew the voice to be that of 
 Moriarty, and running to the spot from whence it came, 
 he found his friend, his benefactor, weltering in his 
 blood. The fowling-piece, over- loaded, had burst, 
 and a large splinter of the barrel had fractured the skull, 
 and had sunk into the brain. As Monarty was trying 
 to raise his head, O' Shane uttered some words, of which 
 all that was intelligible was the name of Harry Ormond. 
 His eye was fixed on Harry, but the meaning of the 
 eye was gone. He squeezed Harry's hand, and an 
 instant afterwards O' Shane's hand was powerless. The 
 dearest, the only real friend Harry Ormond had upon 
 earth, was gone for ever ! 
 
 A BOY passing by saw what had happened, and 
 ran to the house, calling as he went to some 
 workmen, who hastened to the place, where 
 they heard the howling of the dogs. Ormond neither 
 heard nor saw — till Moriarty said, " He must be 
 carried home ; " and some one approaching to lift
 
 ORMOND. 183 
 
 the body, Ormond started up, pushed the man back, 
 without uttering a syllable — made a sign to Moriarty, 
 and between them they cari-ied the body home. Sheelah 
 and the women came out to meet them, wringing their 
 hands, and uttering loud lamentations. Ormond, bear- 
 ing his burden as if insensible of what he bore, walked 
 onward, looking at no one, answering none, but forcing 
 his way straight into the house, and on — till they 
 came to O'Shane's bedchamber, which was upon the 
 ground-floor — there laid him on his bed. The women 
 had followed, and all those who had gathered on the 
 way rushed in to see and to bewail. Ormond looked 
 up, and saw the people about the bed, and made a sign 
 to Moriarty to keep them away, which he did, as well 
 as he could. But they would not be kept back — 
 Sheelah, especially, pressed forward, crying loudly, 
 till Moriarty, with whom she was struggling, pointed 
 to Harry. Struck with his fixed look, she submitted 
 at once. " Best leave him J " said she. She put every- 
 body out of the room before her, and turning to 
 Ormond, said, they would leave him " a little space of 
 time till the priest should come, who was at a clergy 
 dinner, but was sent for." 
 
 When Ormond was left alone he locked the door, 
 and kneeling beside the dead, offered up prayers for 
 the friend he had lost, and there remained some time 
 in stillness and silence, till Sheelah knocked at the 
 door, to let him know that the priest was come. 
 Then retiring, he went to the other end of the house, 
 to be out of the way. The room to which he went 
 was that in which they had been reading the letters 
 just before they went out that morning. There was 
 the pen which Harry had taken from his hand, and 
 the answer just begun. 
 
 " Dear general, I hope my young friend, Harry 
 Ormond "
 
 184 ORMOND. 
 
 That hand could write no more ! — that warm heart 
 was cold ! The certainty was so astonishing, so stupi- 
 fying, that Ormond, having never yet shed a tear, 
 stood with his eyes fixed on the paper, he knew not 
 how long, till he felt some one touch his hand. It 
 was the child, little Tommy, of whom O'Shane was so 
 fond, and who was so fond of him. The child, with 
 his whistle in his hand, stood looking up at Harry, 
 without speaking. Ormond gazed on him for a few 
 instants, then snatched him in his arms, and burst 
 into an agony of tears. Sheelah, who had let the 
 child in, now came and carried him away. " God be 
 thanked for them tears," said she, " they will bring 
 relief;" and so they did. The necessity for manly 
 exertion — the sense of duty — pressed upon Ormond's 
 recovered reason. He began directly, and wrote all 
 the letters that were necessary to his guardian and to 
 Miss O'Faley, to communicate the di'eadful intelligence 
 to Dora. The letters were not finished till late in the 
 evening. Sheelah came for them, and leaving the 
 door, and the outer door to the hall open, as she 
 came in, Ormond saw the candles lighted, and smelt 
 the smell of tobacco and whiskey, and heard the sound 
 of many voices. 
 
 " The wake, dear, which is beginning," said she, 
 hastening back to shut the doors, as she saw him 
 shudder. " Bear with it, master Harry," said she : 
 "hard for you! — but bear with us, dear; 'tis the 
 custom of the country ; and what else can we do but 
 what the forefathers did ? — how else for us to show 
 respect, only as it would be expected, and has always 
 been ? — and great comfort to think we done our best 
 for him that is gone, and comfort to know his wake will 
 be talked of long hereafter, over the fires at night, of 
 all the people that is there without — and that's all we 
 have for it now : so bear with it, dear."
 
 ORMOND, 185 
 
 This night, and for two succeeding nights, the doors 
 of Corny Castle remained open for all who chose to 
 come. 
 
 Crowds, as many, and more, than the castle could 
 hold, flocked to King Corny's wake, for he was greatly 
 beloved. 
 
 There was, as Sheelah said, " plenty of cake, and 
 wine, and tea, and tobacco, and snufF — everything 
 handsome as possible, and honourable to the deceased, 
 who was always open-handed and open-hearted, and 
 with open house too." 
 
 His praises, from time to time, were heard, and 
 then the common business of the country was talked 
 of — and jesting and laughter went on — and all night 
 there were tea-diinkings for the women, and punch 
 for the men. Sheelah, who inwardly grieved most, 
 went about incessantly among the crowd, serving all, 
 seeing that none, especially them who came from a 
 distance, should be neglected — and that none should 
 have to complain afterwards, "or to say that any- 
 thing at all was wanting or niggardly." Mrs Betty, 
 Sheelah's daughter, sat presiding at the tea-table, 
 giving the keys to her mother when wanted, but 
 never forgetting to ask for them again. Little Tommy 
 took his cake and hid himself under the table, close 
 by his mother, Mrs Betty ; and could not be tempted 
 out but by Sheelah, whom he followed, watching for her 
 to go in to Mr Harry : when the door opened, he 
 held by her gown, and squeezed in under her arm 
 — and when she brought Mr Harry his meals, she 
 would set the child up at the table with him for com- 
 pany — and to tempt him to take something. 
 
 Ormond had once promised his deceased friend, 
 that if he was in the country when he died, he would 
 put him into his coffin. He kept liis promise. The 
 child hearing a noise, and knowing that Mr Harry
 
 l86 ORMOND. 
 
 had gone Into the room, could not be kept out ; the 
 crowd had left that room, and the child looked at the 
 bed with the curtains looped up with black — and at 
 the table at the foot of the bed, with the white cloth 
 spread over it, and the seven candlesticks placed upon 
 it. But the coffin fixed his attention, and he threw 
 himself upon it, clinging to it, and crying bitterly 
 upon King Corny, his dear King Corny, to come back 
 to him. 
 
 It was all Sheelah could do to drag him away ; 
 Ormond, who had always liked this boy, felt now 
 more fond of him than ever, and resolved that he 
 should never want a friend. 
 
 " You are in the mind to attend the funeral, sir, 
 I think you told me ? " said Sheelah. 
 
 " Certainly," replied Ormond. 
 
 " Excuse me, then," said Sheelah, " if I mention 
 — for you can't know what to do without. There 
 will be high Mass, may be you know. In the chapel. 
 And as it's a great funeral, thirteen priests will be 
 there, attending. And when the Mass will be finished, 
 It will be expected of you, as first of kin considered, to 
 walk up first with your offering — whatsoever you think 
 fit, for the priests — and to lay It down on the altar ; 
 and then each and all will follow, laying down their 
 offerings, according as they can. I hope I'm not too 
 bold or troublesome, sir." 
 
 Ormond thanked her for her kindness — and felt It 
 was real kindness. He consequently did all that was 
 expected from him handsomely. After the masses 
 were over, the priests, who could not eat anything 
 before they said mass, had breakfast and dinner joined. 
 Sheelah took care "the clergy was well served." 
 Then the priests — though it was not essential that all 
 should go, did all, to Sheelah's satisfaction, accompany 
 the funeral the ivhole 'way, three long miles, to the
 
 ORMOND. 187 
 
 burying-place of the O'Shanes; a remote old abbey- 
 ground, marked only by some scattered trees, and a 
 lew sloping grave-stones. King Corny's funeral was 
 followed by an immense concourse of people, on horse- 
 back and on foot ; men, women, and children : when 
 they passed by the doors of cabins, a set of the women 
 raised the funeral cry — not a savage howl, as is the 
 custom in some parts of Ireland, but chanting a melan- 
 choly kind of lament, not without harmony, simple 
 and pathetic. Ormond was convinced, that in spite of 
 all the festivity at the wake, which had so disgusted him, 
 the poor people mourned sincerely for the friend they 
 had lost. 
 
 We forgot to mention that Dr Cambray went to 
 the Black Islands the day after O' Shane's death, and 
 did all he could to prevail upon Ormond to go to his 
 house while the wake was going on, and till the funeral 
 should be over. But Ormond thought it right to stay 
 where he was, as none of the family were there, and 
 there was no way in which he could so strongly mark, 
 as Sheelah said, his respect for the dead. Now that 
 it was all over, he had at least the consolation of 
 thinking that he had not shrunk from anything that 
 was, or that he conceived to be, his duty. Dr Cam- 
 bray was pleased with his conduct, and at every 
 moment he could spare went to see him, doing all he 
 could to console him, by strengthening in Ormond's 
 mind the feelings of religious submission to the will of 
 Heaven, and of pious hope and confidence. Ormond 
 had no time left him for the indulgence of sorrow — 
 business pressed upon him. 
 
 Cornelius O'Shane's will, which Sir Ullck blamed 
 Harry for not mentioning in the first letter, was found 
 to be at his banker's in Dublin. All his property was 
 left to his daughter, except the farm, which he had 
 given to Ormond ; this was specially excepted, with
 
 1 88 ORMOND. 
 
 legal care : also a legacy of five hundred pounds was 
 left to Harry ; a trifling bequest to Sir Ulick, being 
 his cousin ; and legacies to servants. Miss O'Faley 
 was appointed sole executrix — this gave great umbrage 
 to Sir Ulick O' Shane, and appeared extraordinary to 
 many people ; but the will was in due form, and 
 nothing could be done against it, however much might 
 be said. 
 
 Miss O'Faley, without taking notice of anything 
 Ormond said of the money which had been lodged 
 in the bank to pay for his commission, wrote as execu- 
 trix to beg of him to do various business for her — all 
 which he did ; and fresh letters came with new re- 
 quests, inventories to be taken, things to be sent to 
 Dublin, money to be received and paid, stewards' and 
 agents' accounts to be settled — business of all kinds, in 
 short, came pouring in upon him, a young man un- 
 used to it, and with a mind peculiarly averse from it at 
 this moment. But when he found that he could be of 
 service to any one belonging to his benefactor, he felt 
 bound in gratitude to exert himself to the utmost. 
 These circumstances, however disagreeable, had an 
 excellent effect upon his character, giving him habits 
 of business which were ever afterwards of use to him. 
 It was remarkable that the only point in his letters 
 which had concerned his own affairs still continued 
 unanswered. Another circumstance hurt his feelings 
 — instead of Miss O'Faley's writing to make her own 
 requests, Mr Connal was soon deputed by mademoiselle 
 to write for her. He spoke of the shock the ladies had 
 felt, and the distressing circumstances in which they 
 were; all in commonplace phrases, which Ormond 
 despised, and from which he could judge nothing of 
 Dora's real feelings. 
 
 " The marriage must, of course," Mr Connal said, 
 " be put off for some time ; and as it would be painful
 
 ORMOND. 189 
 
 to the ladies to return to Corny Castle, he had advised 
 their staying in Dublin ; and they and he feeling 
 assured that, from Mr Ormond's regard for the family, 
 they might take the liberty of troubling him, they 
 requested so and so, and the executrix begged he would 
 see this settled and that settled : " at last, with 
 gradually forgotten apologies, falling very much into 
 the style of a person writing to an humble friend or 
 dependent, bound to consider requests as commands. 
 
 Our young hero's pride was piqued on the one side 
 as much as his gratitude was alive on the other. 
 
 Sir Ulick O' Shane wi'Ote to Harry that he was at 
 this time peculiarly engaged with affairs of his own. 
 He said, that as to the material point of the money 
 lodged for the commission, he would see the executrix, 
 and do what he could to have that settled ; but as to 
 all lesser points, Sir Ulick said, he really had not 
 leisure to answer letters at present. He enclosed a 
 note to Dr Cambray, whom he recommended it to his 
 ward to consult, and whose advice and assistance he 
 now requested for him in pressing terms. 
 
 In consequence of this direct application from the 
 young gentleman's guardian, Dr Cambray felt himself 
 authorised and called upon to interfere, where, other- 
 wise, delicacy might have prevented him. It was 
 fortunate for Ormond that he had Dr Cambray's 
 counsel to guide him, or else he would, in the first 
 moments of feeling, have yielded too much to the 
 suggestions of both gratitude and pride. 
 
 In the first impulse of generous pride, Ormond 
 wanted to give up the farm which his benefactor had 
 left him, because he wished that no possible suspicion 
 of interested motives having influenced his attachment 
 to Cornelius O' Shane should exist, especially with Mr 
 Connal, who, as the husband of Dora, would soon be 
 the lord of all in the Black Islands.
 
 1 90 ORMOND. 
 
 On the other hand, when Mr Connal wrote to him, 
 that the executrix, having no written order from the 
 deceased to that effect, could not pay the five hundred 
 pounds lodged in the bank for his commission, Or- 
 mond was on the point of flying out with intemperate 
 indignation. " Was not his own word sufficient ? 
 Was not the intention of his benefactor apparent from 
 the letters ? Would not this justify any executor, any 
 person of common sense or honour ? " 
 
 Dr Cambray, his experienced and placid counsellor, 
 brought all these sentiments to due measure by mildly 
 showing what was law and justice, and what was fit 
 and proper in each case ; putting jealous honour, and 
 romantic generosity, as they must be put, out of the 
 question in business. 
 
 He prevented Ormond from embroiling himself with 
 Connal about the legacy, and from giving up his farm. 
 He persuaded him to decline having anything to do 
 with the aflPairs of the Black Islands. 
 
 A proper agent was appointed, who saw Ormond's 
 accounts settled and signed, so that no blame or sus- 
 picion could rest upon him. 
 
 " There seems no probability, Mr Ormond," said 
 Dr Cambray, " of your commission being immediately 
 purchased. Your guardian. Sir Ulick 0' Shane, will 
 be detained some time longer, I understand, in Dublin. 
 You are in a desolate situation here — you have now done 
 all that you ought to do — leave these Black Islands, 
 and come to Vicar's Dale : you will find there a 
 cheerful family, and means of spending your time more 
 agreeably, perhaps more profitably, than you can have 
 here. I am sensible that no new friends can supply to 
 you the place of him you have lost ; but you will find 
 pleasure in the perception, that you have, by your own 
 merit, attached to you one friend in me, who will do 
 all in his power to soothe and serve you. Will you
 
 ORMOND. 191 
 
 trust yourself to me ? " added he, smiling. " You 
 have already found that I do not flatter. Will you 
 come to us ? — ^The sooner the better — to-morrow, if 
 you can." 
 
 It scarcely need be said, that this invitation was most 
 cordially accepted. Next day Ormond was to leave 
 the Black Islands. Sheelah was in despair when she 
 found he was going : the child hung upon him so that 
 he could hardly get out of the house, till Moriarty 
 promised to return for the boy, and carry him over in 
 the boat often, to see Mr Ormond. Moriarty would 
 not stay in the islands himself, he said, after Harry 
 went : he let the cabin and little tenement which 
 O'Shane had given him, and the rent was to be paid 
 him by the agent. Ormond went, for the last time, 
 that morning, to Ormond's Vale, to settle his own 
 affairs there : he and Moriarty took an unusual path 
 across this part of the island to the waterside, that they 
 might avoid that which they had followed the last 
 time they were out, on the day of Corny's death. 
 They went, therefore, across a lone tract of heath-bog, 
 where, for a considerable time, they saw no living 
 being. 
 
 On this bog, of which Cornelius O'Shane had 
 given Moriarty a share, the grateful poor fellow had, 
 the year before, amused himself with cutting in large 
 letters of about a yard long the words 
 
 " LONG LIVE KING CORNY." 
 
 He had sowed the letters with broom-seed in the 
 spring, and had since forgotten ever to look at them ; 
 but they were nov/ green and struck the eye. 
 
 " Think then of this being all the trace that's left of 
 him on the face of the earth ! " said Moriarty. " I'm 
 glad that I did even that same."
 
 192 ORMOND. 
 
 After crossing this lone bog, when they came to 
 the waterside, they found a great crowd of people, 
 seemingly all the inhabitants of the islands, assembled 
 there, waiting to take leave of master Harry ; and 
 each of them was cheered by a kind word and a look, 
 before they would let him step into the boat. 
 
 " Ay, go to the continent^' said Sheelah, " ay, go to 
 fifty continents, and in all Ireland you'll not find hearts 
 warmer to you than those of the Black Islands, that 
 knows you best from a child, master Harry dear." 
 
 ORMOND was received with much kindness in 
 Dr Cambray's family, in which he felt himself 
 at ease, and soon forgot that he was a stranger : 
 his mind, however, was anxious about his situation, as 
 he longed to get into active life. 
 
 Every morning, when the post came in, he hoped 
 there would be a letter for him with his commission ; 
 and he was every morning regularly surprised and 
 disappointed on finding that there was none. In the 
 course of each ensuing day, however, he forgot his 
 disappointment, and said he believed he was happier 
 where he was than he could be anywhere else. The 
 regular morning question of " Any letters for me ? " 
 was at last answered by *' Yes ; one franked by Sir 
 Ullck 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
 
 ORiiOND. 193 
 
 cousin in folly, King Corny, chose for himself. As 
 to that thing, half mud, half tinsel, half Irish, half 
 French, miss, or mademoiselle, O'Faley, that jointed 
 doll, is — all but the eyes, which move of themselves in 
 a very extraordinary way — a mere puppet, pulled by 
 wires in the hands of another. The master showman, 
 fully as extraordinary in his own way as his puppet, 
 kept, while I was by, as much as possible behind the 
 scenes. The hand and ruffle of the French petit- 
 maitre, and the prompter's voice, however, were visible 
 and audible enough for me. In plain English, I 
 suppose it is no news to you to hear that Mdlle. 
 O'Faley is a fool, and Monsieur de Connal, Captain 
 O'Connal, Black Connal, or by whatever other alias 
 he is to be called, is properly a puppy. I am sorry, my 
 dear boy, to tell you that the fool has let the rogue get 
 hold of the five hundred pounds lodged in the bank — 
 so no hope of your commission for three months, or 
 at the least two months, to come. My dear boy, your 
 much-lamented friend and benefactor (is not that the 
 style?). King Corny, who began, I think, by being, 
 years ago, to your admiration, his own tailor, has ended, 
 I fear, to your loss, by being his own lawyer : he 
 has drawn his will so that any attorney could drive 
 a coach and six through it — so ends 'every man 
 his own lawyer.' Forgive me this laugh, Harry. By- 
 the-bye, you, my dear ward, will be of age in Decem- 
 ber, I think — then all my legal power of interference 
 ceases. 
 
 " Meantime, as I know you will be out of spirits 
 when you read this, I have some comfort for you and 
 myself, which I kept for a bonne- bo uche — you will 
 never more see Lady O'Shane, nor I neither. Ar- 
 ticles 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
 
 194 ORMOND. 
 
 any one have the pleasure of putting her on board but 
 myself — I will see her safe off, and feel well assured 
 nothing can tempt her to return — even to haunt me — 
 or scold you. This was the business which detained 
 me in Dublin — well worth while to give up a summer 
 to secure for the rest of one's days liberty to lead a 
 bachelor's merry life, which I mean to do at Castle 
 Hermitage or elsewhere, now and from henceforth — 
 Miss Black in no ways, notwithstanding. Miss Black, 
 it is but justice to tell you, is now convinced of my 
 conjugal virtues, and admires my patience as much as 
 she used to admire Lady O'Shane's. She has been 
 very useful to me in arranging my affairs in this 
 separation — in consequence, I have procured a commission 
 of the peace for a certain Mr M'Crule, a man whom 
 you may remember to have seen or heard at the bottom 
 or corner of the table at Castle Hermitage, one of the 
 Cromwellians, a fellow with the true draw-down of the 
 mouth, and who speaks, or snorts, through his nose. 
 I have caused him, not without some difficulty, to ask 
 Miss Black to be his helpmate (Lord help him and 
 forgive me ! ) ; and Miss Black, preferring rather to 
 stay in Ireland and become Mrs M'Crule than to 
 return to England and continue companion to Lady 
 O'Shane, hath consented (who can blame her ?) to 
 marry on the spur of the occasion — to-morrow — I 
 giving her away — you may imagine with what satis- 
 faction. 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 1 next week I hope to 
 be down enjoying my liberty at Castle Hermitage, 
 where I shall be heartily glad to have my dear Harry 
 again. Marcus in England still — the poor Annalys in 
 great distress about the son, with whom, I fear, it is all 
 over. No time for more. Measure my affection by
 
 OR MONO. 195 
 
 the length of this, the longest epistle extant in my 
 handwriting. 
 
 *' My dear boy, yours ever, 
 
 "Ulick O'ShaiJe." 
 
 The mixed and crossing emotions which this letter 
 was calculated to excite having crossed, and mixed, 
 and subsided a little, the predominating feeling was 
 expressed by our young hero with a sigh and this 
 reflection : " Two months at the least I must wait 
 before I can have my commission — two months more 
 in idleness the fates have decreed." 
 
 " That last is a part of the decree that depends on 
 yourself, not on the fates. Two months you must 
 wait, but why in idleness ? " said Dr Cambray. 
 
 The kind and prudent doctor did not press the 
 question — he was content with its being heard, know- 
 ing that it would sink into the mind and produce its 
 effect in due season. Accordingly, after some time, 
 after Ormond had exhaled impatience, and exhausted 
 invective, and submitted to necessity, he returned to 
 reason with the doctor. One evening, when the 
 doctor and his family had returned from walking, and 
 as the tea-urn was just coming in bubbling and steam- 
 ing, Ormond set to work at a corner of the table, 
 at the doctor's elbow. 
 
 " My dear doctor, suppose I was now to read over 
 to you my list of books." 
 
 " Suppose you were, and suppose I was to fall 
 asleep," said the doctor. 
 
 " Not the least likely, sir, when you are to do any- 
 thing kind for a friend — may I say friend ? " 
 
 " You may. Come, read on — I am not proof against 
 flattery, even at my age — well, read away." 
 
 Ormond began ; but at that moment there drove 
 past the windows a travelling chariot and four.
 
 196 ORMOND. 
 
 ** Sir Ulick O' Shane, as I live ! " cried Ormond, 
 starting up. " I saw him — he nodded to me. Oh ! 
 no, impossible — he said he would not come till next 
 v/eek — Where's his letter ? — What's the date ? — 
 Could it mean this week ? — No, he says next week 
 quite plainly — What can be the reason ? " 
 
 A note for Mr Ormond was brought in, which 
 had been left by one of Sir Ulick O'Shane's servants 
 as they went by. 
 
 " My commission, after all," cried Harry. " I 
 always knew, I always said, that Sir Ulick was a good 
 friend." 
 
 "Has he purchased the commission?" said Dr 
 Cambray. 
 
 " He does not actually say so, but that must be what 
 his note means," said Ormond. 
 
 " Means : but what does it say ? — May I see it ?" 
 
 " It is written in such a hurry, and in pencil, 
 you'll not be able to make it out." 
 
 The doctor, however, read aloud — 
 
 " If Mr Harry Ormond will inquire at Castle 
 Hermitage, he will hear of something to his advantage. 
 
 «U. O'Shane." 
 
 " Go off this minute," said Mrs Cambray, " and 
 inquire at Castle Hermitage what Mr Harry Ormond 
 may hear to his advantage, and let us learn it as soon 
 as possible." 
 
 " Thank you, ma'am," said Harry ; and ere the 
 words were well uttered, a hundred steps were lost. 
 
 With more than his usual cordiality, Sir Ulick 
 O'Shane received him, came out into the hall to meet 
 his dear Harry, his own dear boy, to welcome him 
 again to Castle Hermitage.
 
 ORMOND. 197 
 
 '< We did not expect you, sir, till next week — this 
 is a most agreeable surprise. Did you not say " 
 
 " No matter what I said — you see what I have 
 done," interrupted Sir Ulick ; " and now I must 
 introduce you to a niece of mine, whom you have never 
 yet seen — Lady Norton, a charming, well-bred, 
 pleasant little widow, whose husband died, luckily for 
 her and me, just when they had run out all their large 
 fortune. She is delighted to come to me, and is just 
 the thing to do the honours of Castle Hermitage — 
 used to the style ; but observe, though she is to rule 
 my roast and my boiled, she is not to rule me or my 
 friends — that is a preliminary, and a special clause for 
 Harry Ormond's being a privileged ami de la maison. 
 Now, my dear fellow, you understand how the land 
 lies ; and depend upon it, you'll like her, and find her 
 eveiy way of great advantage to you." 
 
 So, thought Harry, is this all the advantage I am to 
 hear of? 
 
 Sir Ulick led on to the drawing-room, and presented 
 him to a fashionable-looking lady, neither young nor 
 old, nothing in any respect remarkable. 
 
 " Lady Norton, Harry Ormond — Harry Ormond, 
 my niece. Lady Norton, who will make this house as 
 pleasant to you, and to me, and to all my friends, as it 
 has been unpleasant ever since — in short, ever since you 
 were out of it, Harry." 
 
 Lady Norton, with gracious smile and well-bred 
 courtesy, received Harry in a manner that promised the 
 performance of all for which Sir Ulick had engaged. 
 Tea came ; and the conversation went on chiefly 
 between Sir Ulick and Lady Norton on their own 
 afl^airs, about invitations and engagements they had made, 
 before they left Dublin, with various persons who were 
 coming down to Castle Hermitage. Sir Ulick asked, 
 " When are the Bnidenells to come to us, my dear ? —
 
 igS ORMOND. 
 
 Did you settle with the Lascelles ? — and Lady Louisa, 
 she must be here with the viceregal party — arrange 
 that, my dear." 
 
 Lady Norton had settled everything ; she took out 
 an elegant memorandum-book, and read the arrange- 
 ments to Sir Ulick. Between whiles, Sir Ulick 
 turned to Ormond and noted the claims of those 
 persons to distinction, and as several ladies were 
 named, exclaimed, " Charming woman !— delightful 
 little creature ! — The Darrells ; Harry, you'll like 
 the Darrells too ! — The Lardners, all clever, pleasant, 
 and odd, will entertain you amazingly, Harry ! — But 
 Lady Millicent is the woman — nothing at all has been 
 seen in this country like her ! — most fascinating ! — 
 Harry, take care of your heart." 
 
 Then, as to the men — this man was clever — and the 
 other was quite a hero — and the next the pleasantest 
 fellow — and the best sportsman — and there were men 
 of political eminence — men who had distinguished 
 themselves on different occasions by celebrated speeches 
 — and particularly promising rising young men, with 
 whom he must make Ormond intimately acquainted. 
 Now Sir Ulick closed Lady Norton's book, and taking 
 it from her hand, said, " I am tiring you, my dear — 
 that's enough for to-night — we'll settle all the rest 
 to-morrow : you must be tired after your journey — I 
 whirled you down without mercy — you look fatigued 
 and sleepy." 
 
 Lady Norton said, " Indeed, she believed she was 
 a little tired, and rather sleepy." 
 
 Her uncle begged she would not sit up longer from 
 compliment ; accordingly, apologizing to Mr Ormond, 
 and " really much fatigued," she retired. Sir Ulick 
 walked up and down the room, meditating for some 
 moments, while Harry renewed his intimacy with an 
 old dog, who, at every pause in the conversation, jumping
 
 ORMOND. 199 
 
 up on him, and squealing with delight, had claimed 
 his notice. 
 
 " Well, my boy," exclaimed Sir Ulick, stopping 
 short, " aren't you a most extraordinary fellow ? Pray 
 did you get my note ? " 
 
 " Certainly, sir, and came instantly in consequence." 
 
 " And yet you have never inquired what it is that 
 you might hear to your advantage." 
 
 " I — I thought I had heard it, sir." 
 
 " Heard it, sir ! " repeated Sir Ulick : " what can 
 you mean ? " 
 
 " Simply, sir, that I thought the advantage you 
 alluded to was the introduction you did me just now 
 the favour to give me to Lady Norton ; you said, her 
 being here would be a great advantage to met ^nd that 
 led me to conclude " 
 
 <♦ Well, well ! you were always a simple good 
 fellow — confiding in my friendship — continue the same 
 — you will, I am confident. But had you no other 
 thought ? " 
 
 " I had," said Harry, " when first I read your note, 
 I had, I own, another thought.'* 
 
 " And what might it be ? " 
 
 " I thought of my commission, sir." 
 
 " What of your commission ? " 
 
 " That you had procured it for me, sir." 
 
 " Since you ask me, I tell you honestly, that if it 
 had been for your interest, I would have purchased 
 that commission long ago ; but there is a little secret, 
 a political secret, which I could not tell you before 
 — those who are behind the scenes cannot always 
 speak — I may tell it to you now confidentially, but 
 you must not repeat it, especially from me — that 
 peace is likely to continue ; so the army is out of the 
 question." 
 
 " Well, sir, if that be the case — you know best."
 
 200 ORMOND. 
 
 " I do — it is, trust me ; and as tilings have turned 
 out — though I could not possibly foresee what has 
 happened — everything is for the best : I have come 
 express from town to tell you news that will surprise 
 you beyond measure." 
 
 " What can you mean, sir ? " 
 
 " Simply, sir, that you are possessed, or soon will 
 
 be possessed of But come, sit down quietly, and 
 
 in good earnest let me explain to you. You know 
 your father's second wife, the Indian woman, the 
 governor's mahogany-coloured daughter^she had a 
 prodigious fortune, which my poor friend, your father, 
 chose, when dying, to settle upon her, and her Indian 
 son ; leaving you nothing but what he could not take 
 from you, the little paternal estate of three hundred 
 pounds a year. Well, it has pleased Heaven to take 
 your mahogany-coloured stepmother and your Indian 
 brother out of this world ; both carried off within a 
 few days of each other by a fever of the country — 
 much regretted, I dare say, in the Bombay Gazette, by 
 all who knew them. 
 
 " But as neither you nor I had that honour, we are 
 not, upon this occasion, called upon for any hypocrisy, 
 farther than a black coat, which I have ordered for 
 you at my tailor's. Have also noted and answered, in 
 conformity, the agent's letter of 26th July, received 
 yesterday, containing the melancholy intelligence : 
 farther, replied to that part of his last, which requested 
 to know how and where to transmit the property, 
 which, on the Indian mother and brother's demise, 
 falls, by the will of the late Captain Ormond, to his 
 European son, Harry Ormond, Esq., now under the 
 guardianship of Sir Ulick O'Shane, Castle Hermitage, 
 Ireland." 
 
 As he spoke. Sir Ulick produced the agent's letter, 
 and put it into his ward's hand, pointing to the " useful
 
 CRMOND. 20I 
 
 passages." Harry, glancing his eye over them, under- 
 stood just enough to be convinced that Sir UHck, 
 was in earnest, and that he was really heir to a very 
 considerable property. 
 
 " Well, Harry Ormond, Esq.," pursued Sir Ulick, 
 "was I wrong when I told you that if you would 
 inquire at Castle Hermitage you would hear of 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 
 prosperity." 
 
 " Your heart — Oh ! I'll answer for your heart, my 
 noble fellow," said Sir Ulick ; but I own you surprise 
 me by the coolness of head you show." 
 
 " If you'll excuse me," said Ormond, "I must run 
 this minute to tell Dr Cambray and all my friends at 
 Vicar's Dale." 
 
 " Certainly — quite right," said Sir Ulick — "I 
 won't detain you a moment," said he — but he still held 
 him fast. " I let you go to-night, but you must come 
 to me to-morrow." 
 
 " O sir, certainly." 
 
 " And you will bid adieu to Vicar's Dale, and take 
 up your quarters at Castle Hermitage with your old 
 guardian." 
 
 " Thank you, sir— delightful ! But I need not bid 
 adieu to Vicar's Dale — they are so near, I shall see 
 them every day." 
 
 " Of course," said Sir Ulick, biting his lip ; " but 
 I was thinking of something." 
 
 "Pray," continued Sir Ulick, "do you like a gig, 
 a curricle, or a phaeton best, or what carriage will you 
 have? there is Tom Darrell's in London now, who 
 can bring it over for you. Well, we can settle that 
 to-morrow."
 
 202 ORMOND. 
 
 " If you please — thank you, kind Sir Ulick — how 
 can you think so quickly of everything ? " 
 
 " Horses too — let me see," said Sir Ulick, drawing 
 Harry back to the fireplace — " Ay, George Beirne 
 is a judge of horses — he can choose for you, unless 
 you like to choose for yourself. What colour — black 
 or bay ? " 
 
 " I declare, sir, I don't knov/ yet — my poor head 
 is in such a state — and the horses happen not to be 
 uppermost." 
 
 "I protest, Harry, you perfectly astonish me, by 
 the sedateness of your mind and manner. You are 
 certainly wonderfully formed and improved since I 
 saw you last — but how, in the name of wonder, in the 
 Black Islands, hoiv I cannot conceive," said Sir Ulick. 
 
 "As to sedateness, you know, sir, since I saw you 
 last, I may well be sobered a little, for I have suffered 
 — not a little," said Harry. 
 
 " Suffered ! how ? " said Sir Ulick, leaning his arm 
 on the mantelpiece opposite to him, and listening 
 with an air of sympathy — " suffered ! I was not 
 aware " 
 
 " You know, sir, I have lost an excellent friend." 
 
 " Poor Corny — ay, my poor cousin, as far as he 
 could, I am sure, he wished to be a friend to you." 
 
 " He wished to be, and ivas," said Ormond. 
 
 " It would have been better for him and his daughter 
 too," resumed Sir Ulick, " if he had chosen you for 
 his son-in-law, instead of the coxcomb to whom Dora 
 is going to be married ; yet I own, as your guardian, I 
 am well pleased that Dora, though a very pretty girl, is 
 out of your way — you must look higher — she was no 
 match for you." 
 
 " I am perfectly sensible, sir, that we should never 
 have been happy together." 
 
 ** You are a very sensible young man, Ormond —
 
 ORMOND. 20 
 
 ^ 
 
 you make me admire you, seriously — I always foresaw 
 what you would be. Ah ! if Marcus — but we'll not 
 talk of that now. Terribly dissipated — has spent an 
 immensity of money already — but still, when he speaks 
 in Parliament, he will make a figure. But, good b'ye, 
 good night ; I see you are in a hurry to get away from 
 
 me." 
 
 " From you ! Oh ! no, sir, you cannot think me 
 so ungrateful. I have not expressed, because I have 
 not words — when I feel much, I never can say any- 
 thing ; yet believe me, sir, I do feel your kindness, 
 and all the warm, fatherly interest you have this night 
 shown that you have for me : — but I am in a hurry to 
 tell my good friends the Cambrays, who I know are 
 impatient for my return, and I fear I am keeping them 
 up beyond their usual hour." 
 
 " Not at all — besides — good heavens ! can't they 
 sit up a quarter of an hour, if they are so much in- 
 terested ? — Stay, you really hurry my slow wits — one 
 thing more I had to say — pray, may I ask to ivhich of 
 the Miss Cambrays is it that you are so impatient to 
 impart your good fortune ? " 
 
 «* To both, sir," said Orniond — " equally." 
 
 " Both ! — you unconscionable dog, polygamy is not 
 permitted in these countries — Both 1 no, try again for 
 a better answer, though that was no bad one at the fust 
 blush." 
 
 " I have no other answer to give than the plain 
 truth, sir : I am thinking neither of polygamy nor even 
 of marriage at present. These young ladies are both 
 very amiable, very handsome, and very agreeable ; but, 
 in short, we are not thinking of one another — indeed, 
 I believe they are engaged." 
 
 "Engaged! — Oh! then you have thought about 
 these young ladies enough to find that out. Well, this 
 saves your gallantry — good night."
 
 204 ORMOND. 
 
 Sir UUck 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 morning was to walk down un- 
 expectedly early to Vicar's Dale. He found Ormond 
 with Dr Cambray, very busy, examining a plan which 
 the doctor had sketched for a new cottage for Moriarty 
 — a mason was standing by, talking of sand, lime, and 
 stones. " But the young ladies, where are they ? " 
 Sir Ulick asked. 
 
 Ormond did not know. Mrs Cambray, who was 
 quietly reading, said she supposed they were in their 
 gardens ; and not in the least suspecting Sir Ulick's 
 suspicions, she was glad to see him, and gave credit 
 to his neighbourly good-will for the earliness of this 
 visit, without waiting even for the doctor to pay his 
 respects first, as he intended to do at Castle Hermitage. 
 
 " Oh ! as to that," Sir Ulick said, " he did not 
 intend to live on terms of ceremony with Dr Cambray 
 — he was impatient to take the first opportunity of 
 thanking the doctor for his attentions to his ward." 
 
 Sir Ulick's quick eye saw on the table in Harry's 
 handwriting the list of books to he read. He took it up, 
 looked it over, and with a smile asked, " Any thoughts 
 of the Church, Harry ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; it would be rather late for me to think of 
 the Church. I should never prepare myself properly." 
 
 " Besides," said Sir Ulick, '< I have no living in my 
 gift ; but if," continued he, in a tone of irony, " if, as
 
 ORMOND. 205 
 
 I should opine from the list I hold in my hand, you 
 look to a college living, my boy — if you are bent upon 
 reading for a fellowship — 1 don't doubt but with Dr 
 Cambray's assistance, and with some grinder and cram- 
 mer, 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 eter- 
 nally 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." 
 
 Harry, no way disconcerted, laughed good-hu- 
 mouredly with his guardian, and replied, "At pre- 
 sent, sir, my ambition reaches no farther than to escape 
 myself from the class of dunces and ignoramuses. I 
 am conscious that at present I am very deficient." 
 
 •' In what, my dear boy ? — To make your complaint 
 English, you must say deficient in something or other 
 — 'tis an Iricism to say in general that you are very 
 dejicient" 
 
 ** There is one of my particular deficiencies then, you 
 see, sir — I am deficient in English." 
 
 " You are not deficient in temper, I am sure," said 
 Sir Ulick : " come, come, you may be tolerably well 
 contented with yourself." 
 
 " Ignorant as I am ! No," said Ormond, " I will 
 never sit down content in ignorance. Now that I have 
 the fortune of a gentleman, it would be so much the 
 more conspicuous, more scandalous — now that I have 
 every way the means, I will, by the blessing of 
 Heaven, and with the help of kind friends, make 
 myself something more and something better than 
 I am."
 
 2o6 ORMOND. 
 
 " Gad ! you are a fine fellow, Harry Ormond," 
 cried Sir Ulick : " I remember having once, at your 
 age, such feelings and notions myself." 
 
 " Very unlike the first thoughts and feelings many 
 young men would have on coming into unexpected 
 possession of a fortune," said Dr Cambray. 
 
 " True," said Sir Ulick, " and we must keep his 
 counsel, that he may not be dubbed a quiz — not a 
 word of this sort, Harry, for the Darrells, the Lard- 
 ners, or the Dartfords." 
 
 " I don't care whether they dub me a quiz or not," 
 said Harry hastily : " what are Darrells, Lardners, or 
 Dartfords to me ? " 
 
 " They are something to /«;?," said Sir Ulick. 
 
 " Oh ! I beg pardon, sir — I didn't know that — that 
 makes it quite another affair." 
 
 " And Harry, as you are to meet these young men, 
 I thought it well to try how you could bear to be 
 laughed at — I have tried you in this very conversation, 
 and found you, to my infinite satisfaction, ridicule proof — 
 better than even bullet proof- — much better. No danger 
 that a young man of spirit should be bullied out of his 
 opinion and principles, but great danger that he might 
 be laughed out of them — and I rejoice, my dear ward, 
 to see that you are safe from this peril." 
 
 Benevolent pleasure shone in Dr Cambray's counte- 
 nance, when he heard Sir Ulick speak in this manner. 
 
 " You will dine with us, Dr Cambray ? " said Sir 
 Ulick. " Harry, you will not forget Castle Her- 
 mitage ? " 
 
 " Forget Castle Hermitage ! as if I could, where I 
 spent my happy childhood — that paradise, as it seemed 
 to me the first time — when, a poor little orphan boy, 
 I was brought from my smoky cabin. I remember 
 the day as well as if it was this moment — when you 
 took me by the hand, and led me in, and I clung to you."
 
 ORMOND. 207 
 
 " Cling to me still ! cling to me ever/' intermpted 
 Sir Ulick, " and I will never fail you — no, never" 
 repeated he, grasping Harry's hand, and looking upon 
 him with an emotion of affection, strongly felt, and 
 therefore strongly expressed. 
 
 " To be sure I will," said Harry. 
 
 " And I hope," added Sir Ulick, recovering the 
 gaiety of his tone, " that at Castle Hermitage a para- 
 dise will open for your youth as it opened for your 
 childhood." 
 
 Mrs Cambray put in a word of hope and fear about 
 Vicar's Dale. To which Ormond answered, *' Never 
 fear, Mrs Cambray — trust me — I know my own interest 
 too well." 
 
 Sir Ulick, turning again as he was leaving the room, 
 said with an air of frank liberalitj', " We'll settle that 
 at once — we'll divide Harry between us — or we'll divide 
 his day thus : the mornings I leave you to your friends 
 and studies for an hour or two, Harry, in this Vale of 
 Eden — the rest of the day we must have you — men 
 and books best mixed — see Bacon, and see every clever 
 man that ever wrote or spoke. So here," added Sir 
 Ulick, pointing to a map of history, which lay on the 
 table, " you will have The Stream of Time, and with us 
 Le C our ant du Jour." 
 
 Sir Ulick departed. During the whole of this 
 conversation, and of that of the preceding night, while 
 he seemed to be talking at random of different things, 
 unconnected and of opposite sorts, he had carefully 
 attended to one object. Going round the whole circle 
 of human motives — love, ambition, interest, ease, 
 pleasure — he had made accui"ate observation on his 
 ward's mind ; and reversing the order, he went round 
 another way, and repeated and corrected his obser- 
 vations. The points he had strongly noted tor practical 
 use were, that for retaining influence over his ward, he
 
 208 ORMOND. 
 
 must depend not upon interested motives of any kind, 
 nor upon the force of authority or precedent, nor yet 
 on the power of ridicule, but principally upon feelings 
 of honour, gratitude, and generosity. Harry now no 
 longer crossed any of his projects, but was become 
 himself the means of carrying many into execution. 
 The plan of a match for Marcus with Miss Annaly 
 was entirely at an end. That young lady had given a 
 decided refusal ; and some circumstances, which we 
 cannot here stop to explain, rendered Marcus and his 
 father easy under that disappointment. No jealousy or 
 competition existing, therefore, any longer between his 
 son and ward. Sir Ulick's affection for Ormond returned 
 in full tide ; nor did he reproach himself for having 
 banished Harry from Castle Hermitage, or for having 
 formerly neglected, and almost forgotten, him for two 
 or three years. Sir Ulick took the matter up just as 
 easily as he had laid it down — ^he now looked on 
 Harry not as the youth whom he had deserted, but as 
 the orphan boy whom he had cherished in adversity, 
 and whom he had a consequent right to produce and 
 patronize in prosperity. Beyond, or beneath all this, 
 there was another reason why Sir Ulick took so much 
 pains, and felt so much anxiety, to establish his influence 
 over his ward. This reason cannot yet be mentioned — 
 he had hardly revealed it to himself — it was deep down 
 in his soul — to be or not to be — ^as circumstances, time, 
 and the hour, should decide.
 
 ORMOND. 209 
 
 Cljnptfr yip. 
 
 AFTER having lived so long in retirement, our 
 ^ young hero, when he was to go into company 
 again, had many fears that his manners would 
 appear rustic and unfashioned. With all these appre- 
 hensions as to his manners, there was mixed a large 
 proportion of pride of character, which tended rather 
 to increase than to diminish his apparent timidity. He 
 dreaded that people would value him, or think that 
 he valued himself, for his newly acquired fortune, 
 instead of his good qualities : he feared that he should 
 be flattered ; and he feared that he should like flattery. 
 In the midst of all these various and contradictory 
 apprehensions, he would perhaps have been awkward 
 and miserable, had he been introduced into society by 
 one who had less knowledge of the world, or less 
 knowledge of the human heart, than Sir Ulick 
 O'Shane possessed. Sir Ulick treated him as if he had 
 always lived in good company. Without presupposing 
 any ignorance, he at the same time took care to warn 
 him of any etiquette, or modern fashion, so that no 
 one should perceive the warning but themselves. He 
 neither offended Ormond's pride by seeming to patro- 
 nize or produce him, nor did he let his timidity suffer 
 from uncertainty or neglect. Ormond's fortune was 
 never adverted to in any way that could hurt his 
 desire to be valued for his own sake ; but he was made 
 to feel tliat it was a part, and a very agreeable part, 
 of his personal merit. Managed in this kind and 
 skilful manner, he became perfectly at ease and happy. 
 His spirits rose, and he enjoyed everything with the 
 warmth of youth, and with the enthusiasm of his 
 natural character. 
 
 The first evening that *' the earthly paradise " of 
 
 o
 
 2 I O ORMOND. 
 
 Hermitage Castle reopened upon his view, he was 
 presented to all the well-dressed well-bred belles. 
 Black, brown, and fair, for the first hour appeared to 
 him all beautiful. His guardian standing apart, and 
 seeming to listen to a Castle secretary, who was whis- 
 pering to him of state affairs, observed all that was 
 passing. 
 
 Contrary to his guardian's expectations, however, 
 Ormond was the next morning faithful to his resolution, 
 and did not appear among the angels at the breakfast- 
 table at Castle Hermitage. " It won't last a good week," 
 said Sir Ulick to himself. But that good week and 
 the next it lasted. Harry's studies, to be sure, were 
 sometimes interrupted by floating visions of the Miss 
 Darrells, Dartfords, and Lardners. He every now and 
 then sung bits of their songs, repeated their bon-mots, 
 and from time to time laying down his book, started up 
 and practised quadrille steps, to refresh himself and 
 increase his attention. His representations of all he 
 saw and heard at Castle Hermitage, and his frank and 
 natural description of the impression that everything 
 and everybody made upon him, were amusing and 
 interesting to his friends at Vicar's Dale. It was not 
 by satire that he amused them, but by simplicity mixed 
 with humour and good sense — good sense sometimes 
 half opening his eyes, and humour describing what he 
 saw with those eyes, half open, half shut. 
 
 " Pray what sort of people are the Darrells and 
 Dartfords ? " said Mrs Cambray. 
 
 " Oh ! delightful — the girls especially — sing like 
 angels." 
 
 " Well, the ladies I know are all angels with you at 
 present — that you have told us several times." 
 
 " It's really true, I believe — at least as far as I can 
 see : but you know I have not had time to see farther 
 than the outside yet."
 
 ORMOND. 2 1 1 
 
 ** The gentlemen, however — I suppose you have seen 
 the inside of some of them ? " 
 
 " Certainly — those who have anything inside of them 
 — Dartford, for instance." 
 
 " Well, Mr Dartford, he is the man Sir Ulick said 
 was so clever." 
 
 *' Very clever — he is — I suppose, though I don't 
 really recollect anything remarkable that I have heard 
 him say. But the wit must be in him — and he lets out 
 a good deal of his opinions — of his opinion of himself 
 a little too much. But he is much admired." 
 
 " And Mr Darrell — what of him ? " 
 
 " Very fashionable. But indeed all I know about him 
 is, that his dress is guile the thing, and that he knows 
 more about dishes and cooks than I could have con- 
 ceived any man upon earth of his age could know — 
 but they say it's the fashion — he is very fashionable, I 
 hear." 
 
 " But is he conceited ? " 
 
 " Why, I do not know — his manner might appear 
 a little conceited — but in reality he must be wonder- 
 fully humble — for he certainly values his horses far 
 above himself — and then he is quite content if his boot- 
 tops are admired. By-the-bye, there is a famous 
 invaluable receipt he has for polishing those boot-tops, 
 which is to make quite another man of me — if I don't 
 forget to put him in mind about it." 
 
 " And Mr Lardncr ? " 
 
 " Oh ! a pleasant young man — has so many good 
 songs, and good stories, and is so good-natured in 
 repeating them. But I hope people won't make him 
 repeat them too often, for I can conceive one might be 
 tired — in time." 
 
 During the course of the first three weeks, Harry 
 was three times in imminent danger of falling in love 
 — first, with the beautiful, and beautifully dressed.
 
 212 ORMOND. 
 
 Miss Darrell, who danced, sung, played, rode, did 
 everything charmingly, and was universally admired. 
 She was remarkably good-humoured, even when some 
 of her companions were rather cross. Miss Darrell 
 reigned queen of the day, and queen of the ball, for 
 three days and three nights, unrivalled in our young 
 hero's eyes ; but on the foui"th night, Ormond chancing 
 to praise the fine shape of one of her very dear friends. 
 Miss Darrell v/hispcred, " She owes that fine shape to 
 a finely padded corset. Oh ! I am clear of what I tell 
 you — she is my intimate friend." 
 
 From that moment Ormond was cured of all desire 
 to be the intimate friend of this fair lady. The second 
 peerless damsel, whose praises he sounded to Dr Cam- 
 bray between the fits of reading Middleton's Cicero, 
 was Miss Eliza Darrell, the youngest of the three 
 sisters : she was not yet come out, though in the mean- 
 time allowed to appear at Castle Hermitage ; and she 
 was so naive, and so timid, and so very bashful, that Sir 
 Ulick was forced always to bring her into the room 
 leaning on his arm ; — she could really hardly walk into 
 a room — and if anybody looked at her, she was so much 
 distressed — and there were such pretty confusions and 
 retreatings, and such a manoeuvring to get to the side- 
 table every day, and " Sir Ulick so terribly determined 
 it should not be." It was all naturally acted, and by 
 a young pretty actress. Ormond, used only to the 
 gross affectation of Dora, did not suspect that there 
 was any affectation in the case. He pitied her so much, 
 that Sir Ulick was certain " love was in the next de- 
 gree." Of this the young lady herself was still more 
 secure ; and in her security she forgot some of her 
 graceful timidity. It happened that, in standing up for 
 country dances one night, some dispute about precedency 
 occurred. Miss Eliza Darrell was the Ilonouralle Miss 
 Iiliza Darrell ; and some yoimg lady, who was not
 
 ORMOND. 213 
 
 honourable, in contempt, defiance, neglect, or ignorance, 
 stood above her. The timid Eliza remonstrated in no 
 very gentle voice, and the colour came into her face — 
 "the eloquent blood spoke" too plainly. She! — the 
 gentle Eliza! — pushed for her place, and with her 
 honourable elbows made way for herself; for what will 
 not even well-bred belles do in a crowd ? Unfortunately, 
 well-bred beaux are bound to support them. Ormond 
 was on the point of being drawn into a quarrel with the 
 partner of the offending party, when Sir Ulick, appearing 
 in the midst, and not seeming to know that anything 
 was going wrong, broke up the intended set of country 
 dances, by insisting upon it that the Miss Darrells had 
 promised him a quadi'ille, and that they must dance it 
 then, as there was but just time before supper. Harry, 
 who had seen how little his safety was in the eye of the 
 gentle Eliza, in comparison with the most trifling point 
 of her offended pride, was determined in future not to 
 expose himself to similar danger. 
 
 The next young lady who took his fancy was of 
 course as unlike the last as possible : she was one of 
 the remarkably pleasant, sprightly, clever, most agreeable 
 Miss Lardners. She did not interest him much, but 
 she amused him exceedingly. Her sister had one day 
 said to her, " Anne, you can't be pretty, so you had 
 better be odd." Anne took the advice, set up for being 
 odd, and succeeded. She was a mimic, a wit, and very 
 satirical ; and as long as the satire touched only those 
 for whom he did not care, Ormond was extremely 
 diverted. He did not think it quite feminine or ami- 
 able, but still it was entertaining : there was also some- 
 thing flattering in being exempted from this general 
 reprobation and ridicule. Miss Lardner was intolerant 
 of all insipid people — -Jlats, as she called them. How 
 far Ormond might have been drawn on by this laughing, 
 talking, satirical, flattering wit, there is no saying ; but
 
 214 ORMOND. 
 
 luckily they fell out one evening about old Lady Annaly. 
 Miss Lardner was not aware that Ormond knew, much 
 less could she have conceived that he liked, her ladyship. 
 Miss Lardner was mimicking her, for the amusement of 
 a set of young ladies who were standing round the fire 
 after dinner, when Harry Ormond came in : he was not 
 quite as much diverted as she expected. 
 
 " Mr Ormond does not know the original — the 
 copy is lost upon him," said Miss Lardner; "and 
 happy it is for you," continued she, turning to him, 
 " that you do not know her, for Lady Annaly is as stiff 
 and tiresome an original as ever was seen or heard of; 
 — ^and the worst of it is, she is an original without 
 originality." 
 
 " Lady Annaly ! " cried Ormond, with surprise, 
 "surely not the Lady Annaly I know." 
 
 "There's but one that I know of — Heaven forbid 
 that there were two ! But I beg your pardon, Mr 
 Ormond, if she is a friend of yours — I humbly beg 
 your forgiveness — I did not know your taste was so 
 •very good ! — Lady Annaly is a fine old lady, certainly 
 — vastly respectable ; and I so far agree with Mr 
 Ormond, that of the two paragons, mother and 
 daughter, I prefer the mother. Paragons in their 
 teens are insufferable : — patterns of perfection are 
 good for nothing in society, except to be torn to 
 pieces." 
 
 Miss Lardner pursued this diversion of tearing 
 them to pieces, still flattering herself that her present 
 wit and drollery would prevail with Ormond, as she 
 had found it prevail with most people against an 
 absent iriend. But Ormond thought upon this occa- 
 sion she showed more flippancy than wit, and more 
 ill-nature than humour. He was shocked at the 
 want of feeling and reverence for age with which she, 
 a young girl just entering into the world, spoke of a
 
 ORMOND. 215 
 
 person of Lady Annaly's years and high character. In 
 the heat of attack, and in her eagerness to carry her 
 point against the Annalys, the young lady, according 
 to custom, proceeded from sarcasm to scandal. Every 
 ill-natured report she had ever heard against any of 
 the family she now repeated with exaggeration and 
 asseverations — vehement in proportion to the weak- 
 ness of proof. She asserted that Lady Annaly, with 
 all her high character, was very hard-hearted to some 
 of her nearest family connexions. Sweet Lady Milli- 
 cent ! — Oh! how barbarously she used her! — Miss 
 Annaly too she attacked, as a cold-blooded jilt. If 
 the truth must be told, she had actually broken the 
 heart of a young nobleman, who was fool enough to 
 be taken in by her sort of manner : and the son, the 
 famous Sir Herbert Annaly! he was an absolute 
 miser : Miss Lardner declared that she knew from 
 the best authority most shameful instances of his 
 shabbiness. 
 
 The instances were stated, but Ormond could not 
 believe these stories ; and what was more, he began 
 to doubt the good faith of the person by whom they 
 were related. He suspected that she uttered these 
 slanders knowing them to be false. 
 
 Miss Lardner observing that Ormond made no 
 farther defence, but now stood silent, and with down- 
 cast eyes, flattered herself that she had completely 
 triumphed. Changing the subject, she would have 
 resumed with him her familiar, playful tone ; but all 
 chance of her ever triumphing over Ormond's head 
 or heart was now at an end : so finished the third of 
 his three weeks' fancies. Such evanescent fancies 
 would not have been worth mentioning, but for the 
 effect produced on his mind ; though they left scarcely 
 any individual traces, they made a general and useful 
 impression. They produced a permanent contempt
 
 2l6 ORMOND, 
 
 for scandal, that common vice of idle society. He 
 detciinined to guard against it cautiously himself 5 and 
 ever after, when he saw a disposition to it in any 
 woman, however highly-bred, highly-accomplished, 
 or higldy-gifted, he considered her as a person of 
 mean mind, with whom he could never form any con- 
 nexion of friendship or love. 
 
 The Lardners, Darrells, Dartfords, vanished, and 
 new figures were to appear in the magic lantern at 
 Castle Hermitage. Sir Ulick thought a few prelimi- 
 nary observations necessary to his ward. His opinion 
 of Ormond's capacity and steadiness had considerably 
 diminished, in consequence of his various mistakes of 
 character, and sudden changes of opinion ; for Sir 
 Ulick, with all his abilities, did not discriminate 
 betv/een want of understanding and want of practice. 
 Besides, he did not see the whole : he saw the out- 
 ward boyish folly — he did not see the inward manly 
 sense ; he judged Ormond by a false standard, by com- 
 parison with the young men of the world of his own age. 
 He knew that none of these, even of moderate capacity, 
 could have been three times in three weeks so near 
 being taken In — not one would have made the sort of 
 blunders, much less would any one, having made them, 
 have acknowledged them as frankly as Ormond did. 
 It was this imprudent candour which lowered him most 
 in his guardian's estimation. From not having lived 
 in society, Harry was not aware of the signs and 
 tokens of folly or wisdom by which the world judge; 
 the opinion of the bystanders had not habitual power 
 over him. While the worldly young men guarded 
 themselves with circumspect self-love against every 
 external appearance of folly, Harry was completely 
 unguarded : they lived cheaply upon borrowed wis- 
 dom ; he profited dearly, but permanently, by his own 
 experience.
 
 ORMOND. 2 1 7 
 
 " My dear boy," said Sir Ulick, <' are you aware 
 that his excellency the Lord Lieutenant is coming to 
 Castle Hermitage to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; so I heard you say," replied Harry. 
 " What sort of a man is he ? " 
 
 " Man ! " repeated Sir Ulick, smiling. " In the 
 first place, he is a very great man, and may be of great 
 service to you." 
 
 " How so, sir ? I don't want anything from him. 
 Now I have a good fortune of my own, what can I 
 want from any man — or if I must not say man, any 
 great man : " 
 
 " My dear Harry, though a man's fortune is good, 
 it may be better for pushing it." 
 
 " And worse, may it not, sir ? Did not I hear you 
 speaking last night of Lord Somebody, who had been 
 pushing his fortune all his life, and died pennyless ? " 
 
 " True, because he pushed ill ; if he had pushed 
 well, he would have got into a good place." 
 
 " I thank Heaven, I can get that now without any 
 pushing." 
 
 " You can ! — yes, by my interest perhaps you mean." 
 
 " No ; by my own money, I mean." 
 
 " Bribery and corruption, Harry. Places are not 
 in this country to be bought — openly — these are tilings 
 one must not talk of: and pray, with your own money 
 — if you could — what place upon earth would you 
 pm-chase? " 
 
 " The only place in the world I should wish for, sir, 
 would be a place in the country." 
 
 Sir Ulick was surprised and alarmed ; but said not 
 a word that could betray his feelings. 
 
 " A place of my own," continued Ormond, " a 
 comfortable house and estate, on which I could live 
 independently and happily, with some charming amiable 
 woman."
 
 2l8 ORMOND. 
 
 " Darrell, Dartford, Lardncr, which ? " said Sir 
 Ulick, with a sarcastic smile. 
 
 ** I am cured of these foolish fancies, sir." 
 
 " Well, there is another more dangerous might seize 
 you, against which I must warn you, and I trust one 
 word of advice you will not take amiss." 
 
 " Sir, I am very much obliged to you : how could 
 I take advice from you as anything but a proof of 
 friendship ? " 
 
 " Then, my dear boy, I must tell you. In confidence, 
 what you will find out the first night you are in his 
 company, that his excellency drinks hard." 
 
 " No danger of my following his example," said 
 Harry. " Thank you, sir, for the warning ; but I am 
 sure enough of myself on this point, because I have 
 been tried — and when I would not drink to please my 
 own dear King Corny, there is not much danger of my 
 drinking to please a Lord Lieutenant, who, after all, is 
 nothing to me." 
 
 " After all," said Sir Ulick ; *' but you are not come 
 to after a// yet — you know nothing about his excellency 
 yet." 
 
 " Nothing but what you have told me, sir : if he 
 drinks hard, I think he sets no very good example as a 
 Lord Lieutenant of Ireland." 
 
 " What oft was thought, perhaps, but ne'er so bluntly 
 expressed," said Sir Ulick. 
 
 Sir Ulick was afterwards surprised to see the firm- 
 ness with which his ward, when in company with 
 persons of the first rank and fashion, resisted the com- 
 bined force of example, importunity, and ridicule. Dr 
 Cambray was pleased, but not surprised ; for he had 
 seen in his young friend other instances of this adherence 
 to whatever he had once been convinced was right. 
 Resolution is a quality or power of mind totally in- 
 dependent of knowledge of the world. The habit of
 
 ORMOND. 219 
 
 self-control can be acquiied by any individual, in any 
 situation. Ormond had practised and strengthened it 
 even in the retirement of the Black Islands. 
 
 Other and far more dangerous trials were now pre- 
 paring for him ; but before we go on to these, it may 
 be expected that we should not pass over in silence the 
 viceregal visit — and yet what can we say about it ? 
 All that Ormond could say was, that " he supposed it 
 was a great honour, but it was no great pleasure." The 
 mornings, two out of five, being rainy, hung very 
 heavily on hands in spite of the billiard-room. Fine 
 weather, riding, shooting, or boating, killed time well 
 enough till dinner ; and Harry said he liked this part of 
 the business exceedingly, till he found that some great 
 men were very cross if they did not shoot as many 
 little birds as he did. Then came dinner, the great 
 point of relief and reunion! — and there had been late 
 dinners, and long dinners, and great dinners, fine plate, 
 good dishes, and plenty of wine, but a dearth of 
 conversation — the natural topics chained up by etiquette. 
 One half of the people at table were too prudent, the 
 other half too stupid, to talk. Sir Ulick fcilked away 
 indeed ; but even he was not half so entertaining as 
 usual, because he was forced to bring down his wit and 
 humour to court quality. In short, till the company 
 had drank a certain quantity of wine, nothing was said 
 worth repeating, and afterwards nothing repeatable. 
 
 After the viceregal raree show was over, and that 
 the grand folk had been properly bowed into their 
 carriages, and had fairly diiven away, there was some 
 diversion to be had. People without yawning seemed 
 to recover from a dead sleep ; the state ot the atmos- 
 phere was changed ; there was a happy thaw ; the 
 frozen words and bits and ends of conversations were 
 repeated in delightful confusion. The men of wit, in 
 revenge for their prudent silence, were now happy and
 
 2 20 ORMOND, 
 
 noisy beyond measure. Ormond was much entertained : 
 he had an opportunity of being not only amused but 
 instructed by conversation, for all the great dealers in 
 information, who had hept up their goods while there 
 was no market, now that there was a demand, unpacked, 
 and brought them out in profusion. There was such a 
 rich supply, and such a quick and happy intercourse of 
 wit and knowledge, as quite delighted, almost dazzled, 
 his eyes ; but his eyes were strong. He had a mind 
 untainted with envy, highly capable of emulation. Much 
 was indeed beyond, or above, the reach of his present 
 powers ; but nothing was beyond his generous admira- 
 tion — nothing above his future hopes of attainment. 
 The effect, and more than the effect, which Sir Ulick 
 had foreseen, was produced on Ormond's mind by hear- 
 ing the conversation of some of those who had distin- 
 guished themselves in political life ; he caught their 
 spirit — their ambition : his wish was no longer merely 
 to see the world, but to distinguish himself in it. His 
 guardian saw the noble ambition rising in his mind. 
 Oh ! at that instant, how could he think of debasing it 
 to servile purposes — of working this great power only 
 for paltry party ends ? 
 
 NEW circumstances arose, which unexpectedly 
 changed the course of our hero's mind. There 
 was a certain Lady Millicent, whose name Lady 
 Norton had read from her memorandum-book among 
 the list of guests expected at Castle Hermitage. Sir 
 Ulick, as Ormond recollected, had pronounced her to 
 be a charming, elegant, fascinating creature. Sir Ulick's 
 praise was sometimes exaggerated, and often lavished
 
 ORJIOND. 221 
 
 from party motives, or given half in jest and halt in 
 earnest, against his conscience. But when he did 
 speak sincerely, no man's taste or judgment as to female 
 beauty, manners, and character, could be more safely 
 trusted. 
 
 He was sincere in all he said of Lady Millicent's 
 appearance and manners ; but as to the rest, he did not 
 think himself bound to tell all he knew about her. 
 
 Her ladyship arrived at Castle Hermitage. Or- 
 mond saw her, and thought that his guardian had not 
 in the least exaggerated as to her beauty, grace, or 
 elegance. 
 
 She was a very young widow, still in mourning for her 
 husband, a gallant officer, who had fallen the preceding 
 year at a siege in Flanders. 
 
 Lady Millicent, as Lady Norton said, had not 
 recovered, and she feared never would recover, from 
 the shock her health had received at the time of her 
 husband's death. This account interested Ormond 
 exceedingly for the young widow. 
 
 There v/as something peculiarly engaging in the 
 pensive softness and modesty of her manner. It 
 appeared free from affectation. Far from making any 
 display of her feelings, she seemed as much as possible 
 to repress them, and to endeavour to be cheerful, that 
 she might not damp the gaiety of others. Her natural 
 disposition. Lady Norton said, was very sprightly ; and 
 however passive and subdued she might appear at 
 present, she was of a high independent spirit, that 
 would, on any great occasion, think and act for itself. 
 Better and better — each trait suited Ormond's character 
 more and more: his own observation confirmed the 
 high opinion which the praises of her friend tended to 
 inspire. Ormond was particularly pleased with the 
 indulgent manner in which Lady Millicent spoke of 
 her own sex ; she was free from that propensity to
 
 222 ORMOND. 
 
 detraction which had so disgusted him in his last love, 
 Even of those by whom, as it had been hinted to him, she 
 had been hardly treated, she spoke with gentleness and 
 candour. Recollecting Miss Lardner's assertion, that 
 "Lady Annaly had used Lady Millicent barbarously," 
 he purposely mentioned Lady Annaly, to hear what 
 she would say. " Lady Annaly," said she, " is a most 
 respectable woman — she has her prejudices — who is 
 there that has not ? — It is unfortunate for me that she 
 has been prepossessed against me. She is one of my 
 nearest connexions by marriage — one to whom I might 
 have looked in difficulty and distress — one of the few 
 persons whose assistance and interference I would 
 willingly have accepted, and would even have stooped 
 
 to ask ; but unhappily 1 can tell you no more," 
 
 said she, checking herself: "It is every way an 
 unfortunate affair ; and," added she, after a deep 
 sigh, " the most unfortunate part of it is, that it is 
 my own fault." 
 
 That Ormond could hardly believe ; and whether 
 it were or not, whatever the unfortunate affair might 
 be, the candour, the gentleness, with which she 
 spoke, even when her feelings were obviously touched 
 and warm, interested him deeply in her favour. He 
 had heard that the Annalys were just returning to 
 Ireland, and he determined to go as soon as possible 
 to see them : he hoped they would come to Castle 
 Hermitage, and that this coolness might be made up. 
 Meantime the more he saw of Lady Millicent, the 
 more he was charmed with her. Sir Ulick was much 
 engaged with various business in the mornings, and 
 Lady Norton, Lady Millicent, and Ormond, spent their 
 time together : walking, driving in the sociable, or 
 boating on the lake, they were continually together. 
 Lady Norton, a very good kind of well-bred little 
 woman, was a nonentity in conversation ; but she
 
 ORMOND. 223 
 
 never interrupted it, nor laid the slightest restraint 
 on any one by her presence, which, indeed, was 
 usually forgotten by Ormond. His conversation with 
 Lady Miliicent generally took a sentimental turn. 
 She did not always speak sense, but she talked 
 elegant nonsense with a sweet persuasive voice and 
 eloquent eyes : hers was a kind of exalted sentimental 
 morality, referring everything to feeling, and to the 
 notion of sacrifice., rather than to a sense of duty, 
 principle, or reason. She was all for sensibility and 
 enthusiasm — enthusiasm in particular — with her there 
 was no virtue without it. Acting from the hope of 
 making yourself or others happy, or from any view of 
 utility, was acting merely from low selfish motives. 
 Her "point of virtue was so high, that ordinary mortals 
 might well console themselves by perceiving the im- 
 possibility of ever reaching it." Exalted to the clouds, 
 she managed matters as she pleased there, and made 
 charming confusion. When she condescended to 
 return to earth, and attempted to define — no, not to 
 define — definitions were death to her imagination! — but 
 to describe her notions, she was nearly unintelligible. 
 She declared, however, that she understood herself 
 perfectly well ; and Ormond, deceived by eloquence, 
 of which he was a passionate admirer, thought that he 
 understood, when he only felt. Her ideas of virtue 
 were carried to such extremes, that they touched the 
 opposite vices — in truth, there was nothing to prevent 
 them ; for the line between right and wrong, that line 
 which should be strongly marked, was effaced : so 
 delicately had sentiment shaded off its boundaries. 
 These female metaphysics, this character of exalted 
 imagination and sensitive softness, was not quite so 
 cheap and common some years ago as it has lately 
 become. The consequences to which it practically 
 leads were not then fully foreseen and understood. A.t
 
 2 24 ORMOND. 
 
 all times a man experienced in female character, who 
 had any knowledge of the world, even supposing he 
 had no skill in metaphysics, would easily have seen to 
 what all this tends, and where it usually terminates ; 
 and such a man would never have thought of marrying 
 Lady Millicent. But Ormond was inexperienced : the 
 whole, matter and manner, was new to him ; he was 
 struck with the delicacy and sensibility of the fair 
 sophist, and with all that was ingenious and plausible 
 in the doctrine, instead of being alarmed by its dan- 
 gerous tendency. It should be observed, in justice to 
 Lady Millicent, that she was perfectly sincere — if we 
 may use the expression of good faith in absurdities. She 
 did not use this sentimental sophistry, as it has since 
 been too often employed by many, to veil from them- 
 selves the criminality of passion, or to mark the de- 
 formity of vice : there was, perhaps, the more immediate 
 hazard of her erring from ignorance and rashness ; but 
 there was also in her youth and innocence a chance 
 that she might instinctively start back the moment she 
 should see the precipice. 
 
 One evening Sir Ulick v/as talking of Lord Chester- 
 field's Letters, a book at that time much in vogue, but 
 which the good sense and virtue of England soon cast 
 into disrepute ; and which, in spite of tlie charms of 
 wit and style, in spite of many sparkling and some 
 valuable observations mixed with its corruption, has 
 since sunk, fortunately for the nation, almost into 
 oblivion. But when these private letters were first 
 published, and wlien my lord, who now appears so stiff 
 and awkward, was in the fashion of the day, there 
 was no withstanding it. The book was a manual of 
 education — with the vain hope of getting cheaply 
 second-hand knowledge of the world, it was read 
 universally by every young man entering life, from the 
 noblem m's son, while his hair was powdering, to the
 
 ORMOND. 2 2^ 
 
 prentice thumbing it surreptitiously behind the counter. 
 Sir Ulick O' Shane, of course, recommended it to his 
 ward: to Lady Millicent's credit, she inveighed against 
 it with honest indignation. 
 
 " What ! " said Sir Ulick, smiling, " you are shocked 
 at the idea of Lord Chesterfield's advising his pupil at 
 Paris to prefer a reputable affair with a married woman, 
 to a disreputable intrigue with an opera-girl ! Well, I 
 believe you are right as an Englishwoman, my dear 
 Lady Millicent; and I am clear, at all events, that 
 you are right, as a luoman, to blush so eloquently with 
 virtuous indignation : — Lady Annaly herself could not 
 have spoken and looked the thing better." 
 
 " So I was just thinking," said Ormond. 
 
 " Only the difference, Harry, between a young and 
 an elderly woman," said Sir Ulick. " Truths divine 
 come mended from the lips of youth and beauty." 
 
 His compliment was lost upon Lady Millicent. At 
 the first mention of Lady Annaly's name, she had 
 sighed deeply, and had fallen into reverie — and 
 Ormond, as he looked at her, fell into raptures at 
 the tender expression of her countenance. Sir Ulick 
 tapped him on the shoulder, and drawing him a little 
 on one side, " Take care of your heart, young man," 
 whispered he : " no serious attachment here — remember, 
 I warn you." Lady Norton joined them, and nothing 
 more was said. 
 
 " Take care of my heart," thought Ormond : " why 
 should I guard it against such a woman ? — what better 
 can I do with it than offer it to such a woman ? " 
 
 A thought had crossed Ormond's mind which re- 
 curred at this instant. From the great admiration Sir 
 Ulick expressed for Lady Millicent, and the constant 
 attention — more than gallant — tender attention, which 
 Sir Ul;ck paid her, Ormond was persuaded that, but 
 for that half of the broken chain of matrimony which 
 
 p
 
 2 26 ORMOND, 
 
 Still encumbered him whom it could not bind, Sir Ulick 
 would be very glad to offer Lady Millicent not only 
 his heart but his hand. Suspecting this partiality, and 
 imagining a latent jealousy, Ormond did not quite like 
 to consult his guardian about his own sentiments and 
 proceedings. He wished previously to consult his 
 impartial and most safe friend, Dr Cambray. But 
 Dr Cambray had been absent from home ever since 
 the arrival of Lady Millicent. The doctor and his 
 family had been on a visit to a relation at a distance. 
 Ormond, impatient for their return, had every day 
 questioned the curate ; and at last, in reply to his 
 regular question of " When do you expect the doctor, 
 sir ? " he heard the glad tidings of " We expect him 
 to-morrow, or next day, sir, positively." 
 
 The next day, Ormond, who was now master of a 
 very elegant phaeton and beautiful gray horses, and, 
 having for some time been under the tuition of that 
 knowing whip Tom Darrell, could now drive to 
 admiration, prevailed upon Lady Millicent to trust 
 herself with him in his phaeton. Sir Ulick came up 
 just as Ormond had handed Lady Millicent into the 
 carriage, and, pressing on his ward's shoulder, said, 
 " Have you the reins safe ? " 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 " That's well — remember now, Harry Ormond," 
 said he, with a look which gave a double meaning to 
 his words, " remember, I charge you, the warning I 
 gave you last night — drive carefully ■ — pray, young 
 sir, look before you — no rashness ! — young horses 
 these," added he, patting the horses — " pray be care- 
 ful, Harry." 
 
 Ormond promised to be very careful, and drove 
 off. 
 
 " I suppose," thought he, " my guardian must have 
 some good reason for this reiterated caution ; I will
 
 ORMOND, 227 
 
 not let her see my sentiments till I know his reasons ; 
 besides, as Dr Cambray returns to-morrow, I can 
 wait another day." 
 
 Accordingly, though not without putting consider- 
 able restraint upon himself, Ormond talked of the 
 beauties of nature, and of indifferent matters. The 
 conversation rather flagged, and sometimes on her 
 ladyship's side as well as on his. He fancied that 
 she was more reserved than usual, and a little embar- 
 rassed. He exerted himself to entertain her — that 
 was but common civility ; he succeeded, was pleased 
 to see her spirits rise, and her embarrassment wear off. 
 When she revived, her manner was this day so 
 peculiarly engaging, and the tones of her voice so soft 
 and winning, that it required all Ormond's resolution 
 to refrain from declaring his passion. Now, for the 
 first time, he conceived a hope that he might make 
 himself agreeable to her ; that he might, in time, 
 soothe her grief, and restore her to happiness. Her 
 expressions were all delicately careful to imply nothing 
 but friendship — but a woman's friendship insensibly 
 leads to love. As they were returning home after a 
 delightful drive, they entered upon this subject, so 
 favourable to the nice casuistry of sentiment, and to 
 the enthusiastic eloquence of passion — when, at an 
 opening in the road, a carriage crossed them so 
 suddenly, that Ormond had but just time to pull up 
 his horses. 
 
 " Dr Cambray, I declare : the very man I wished 
 to see." 
 
 The doctor, whose countenance had been full of 
 aflfectionate pleasure at the first sight of his young 
 friend, changed when he saw who was in the phaeton 
 with him. The doctor looked panic-struck. 
 
 " Lady Mlllicent, Dr Cambray," Ormond began 
 the Introduction ; but each bowing, said, in a con-
 
 2 28 ORMOND. 
 
 Strained voice, " I have the honour of knowing " 
 
 " I have the pleasure of being acquainted " 
 
 The pleasui'e and honour seemed to be painful and 
 embarrassing to both. 
 
 "Don't let us detain you," said the doctor ; " but 
 I hope, Mr Ormond, you will let me see you as soon 
 as you can at Vicar's Dale." 
 
 " You would not doubt that, my dear doctor," said 
 Ormond, " if you knew how impatient I have been 
 for your return — I will be with you before you are all 
 out of the carriage." 
 
 " The sooner the better," said the doctor. 
 
 " The sooner the better," echoed the friendly voices 
 of Mrs Cambray and her daughter. 
 
 Ormond drove on ; but from this moment, till they 
 reached Castle Hermitage, no more agreeable conver- 
 sation passed between him and his fair companion. It 
 was all constrained. 
 
 *' I was not aware that Dr Cambray had the honour of 
 being acquainted with Lady Millicent," said Ormond. 
 
 *' O yes, I had the pleasure some time ago," replied 
 Lady Millicent, " when he was in Dublin— not lately 
 — I was a great favourite of his once." 
 
 " Once, and always, I should have thought." 
 
 " Dr Cambray's a most amiable, respectable man," 
 said her ladyship : " he must be a great acquisition 
 in this neighbourhood — a good clergyman is valuable 
 everywhere ; in Ireland most especially, where the 
 spirit of conciliation is much wanted. 'Tis unknown 
 how much a good clergyman m.ay do in Ireland." 
 
 "Very true — certainly." 
 
 So, with a repetition of truisms. Interspersed with 
 reflections on the state of Ireland, tithes, and the 
 education of the poor, they reached Castle Hermitage. 
 
 " Lady Millicent, you look pale," said Sir Ulick, as 
 he handed her out.
 
 ORMOND. 
 
 129 
 
 " O no, I have had a most delightful drive." 
 
 Harry just stayed to say that Dr Cambray was re- 
 turned, and that he must run to see him, and off he 
 went. He found the doctor in his study. 
 
 " Well, my dear doctor," said Ormond, in breathless 
 consternation, "what is the matter?" 
 
 " Nothing, I hope," said the doctor, looking ear- 
 nestly in Ormond's face; "and yet your countenance 
 tells me that my fears are well founded." 
 
 " What is it you fear, sir ?" 
 
 "The lady who was in the phaeton with you, Lady 
 Millicent, I fear " 
 
 " Why should you fear, sir ? — Oh ! tell me at once 
 — what do you know of her ? " 
 
 " At once, then, I know her to be a very imprudent, 
 though I hope she is still an innocent woman." 
 
 " Innocent ! " repeated Ormond. " Good heavens ! 
 is it possible that there can be any doubt ? Imprudent ! 
 My dear doctor, perhaps you have been misinformed." 
 
 " All I knov/ on the subject is this," said Dr 
 Cambray: "during Lord Millicent's absence on ser- 
 vice, a gentleman of high rank and gallantry paid 
 assiduous attention to Lady Millicent. Her rela- 
 tion and friend. Lady Annaly, advised her to break 
 off all intercourse with this gentleman in such a 
 decided manner as to silence scandal. Lady Millicent 
 followed but half the advice of her friend ; she dis- 
 countenanced the public attentions of her admirer, but 
 she took opportunities of meeting him at private parties : 
 Lady Annaly again interfered — Lady Millicent was 
 offended : but the death of her husband saved her from 
 farther danger, and opened her eyes to the views of a 
 man, who thought her no longer worthy his pursuit, 
 when he might have her for life." 
 
 Ormond saw that there was no resource for him, but 
 immediately to quit Castle Hermitage ; therefore, the
 
 230 ORMOND. 
 
 moment he returned, he informed Sir Ulick of his de- 
 termination, pointing out to him the impropriety of his 
 remaining in the society of Lady Millicent, when his 
 opinion of her character, and the sentiments which had 
 so strongly influenced his behaviour, were irrevocably 
 changed. This was an unexpected blow upon Sir 
 Ulick : he had his private reasons for wishing to detain 
 Ormond at Castle Hermitage till he was of age, to dis- 
 sipate his mind by amusement and variety, and to obtain 
 over it an habitual guidance. 
 
 Ormond proposed immediately to visit the Continent : 
 by the time he should arrive at Paris, Dora would 
 be settled there, and he should be introduced into the 
 best company. The subtle Sir Ulick, perceiving that 
 Ormond must change his quarters, advised him to see 
 something of his own country before he went abroad. 
 In the course of a few days, various letters of recom- 
 mendation were procured for him from Sir Ulick and 
 his connexions ; and, what was of still more consequence, 
 from Dr Cambray and his friends. 
 
 During this interval, Ormond once more visited the 
 Black Islands ; scenes which recalled a thousand tender, 
 and a few embittering recollections. He was greeted 
 with heartfelt affection by many of the inhabitants of the 
 island, with whom he had passed some of his boyish 
 days. Of some scenes he had to be ashamed, hut of 
 others he was justly proud ; and from every tongue he 
 heard the delightful praises of his departed friend and 
 benefactor. 
 
 His little farm had been well managed during his 
 absence ; the trees he had planted began to make 
 some appearance ; and, upon the whole, his visit to 
 the Black Islands revived his generous feelings, and 
 refreshed those traces of early virtue which had been 
 engraven on his heart. 
 
 At Castle Hermitage everything had been prepared
 
 ORMOND. 231 
 
 for his departure ; and, upon visiting his excellent friend 
 at the vicarage, he found the whole family heartily 
 interested in his welfare, and ready to assist him by 
 letters of introduction to the best people in every part 
 of Ireland which Ormond intended to visit. 
 
 DURING the course of Ormond's tour through 
 Ireland, he frequently found himself in company 
 with those who knew the history of public 
 affairs for years past, and were but too well acquainted 
 with the political profligacy and shameful jobbing of 
 Sir Ulick O'Shane. 
 
 Some of these gentlemen, knowing Mr Ormond to 
 be his ward, refrained, of course, from touching upon 
 any subject relative to Sir Ulick ; and when Ormond 
 mentioned him, evaded the conversation, or agreed in 
 general terms in praising his abilities, wit, and address. 
 But, after a day or two's journey from Castle Hermitage, 
 when he was beyond his own and the adjoining counties, 
 when he went into company with those who happened 
 to know nothing of his connexion with Sir Ulick 
 O'Shane, then he heard him spoken of in a very 
 different manner. He was quite astonished and dis- 
 mayed by the general abuse, as he thought it, which 
 was poured upon him. 
 
 " Well, every man of abilities excites envy — every 
 man who takes a part in politics, especially in times 
 when parties run high, must expect to be abused : they 
 must bear it ; and their friends must learn to bear it 
 for them." 
 
 Such were the reflections with which Ormond at 
 first comforted himself. As far as party abuse went.
 
 232 ORMOND. 
 
 this was quite satisfactory ; even facts, or what are 
 told as facts, are so altered by the manner of seeing 
 them by an opposite party, that, without meaning to 
 traduce, they calumniate. Ormond entrenched himself 
 in total disbelief, and cool assertion of his disbelief, of a 
 variety of anecdotes he continually heard discreditable 
 to Sir Ulick. Still he expected that, when he went 
 into other company, and met with men of Sir Ulick's 
 own party, he should obtain proofs of the falsehood of 
 these stories, and by that he might be able, not only to 
 contradict, but to confute them. People, however, 
 only smiled, and told him that he had better inquire no 
 farther, if he expected to find Sir Ulick an immaculaie 
 character. Those who liked him best laughed off the 
 notorious instances of his public defection of principle, 
 and of his private jobbing, as good jokes ; proofs of 
 his knowledge of the world — liis address, his frank- 
 ness, his being " not a bit of a hypocrite." But even 
 those who professed to like him best, and to be the 
 least scrupulous with regard to public virtue, still spoke 
 with a sort of facetious contempt of Sir Ulick, as a 
 thoroughgoing friend of the powers that be — as a hack 
 of administration — as a man who knew well enough 
 what he was about. Ormond was continually either 
 surprised or hurt by these insinuations. 
 
 The concurrent testimony of numbers who had no 
 interest to serve or prejudice to gratify operated upon 
 him by degrees so as to enforce conviction, and this 
 was still more painful. 
 
 Harry became so sore and irritable upon this subject, 
 that he was now every day in danger of entangling 
 himself in some quarrel in defence of his guardian- 
 Several times the master of the house prevented this, 
 and brought him to reason, by representing that the 
 persons who talked of Sir Ulick were quite ignorant of 
 his connexion v/ith him, and spoke only according to
 
 ORMOND, 233 
 
 general opinion, and to the best of their belief, of a 
 public character who was fair game. It was at that 
 time much the fashion among a certain set in Dublin to 
 try their wit upon each other in political and poetical 
 squibs — the more severe and bitter these were, the more 
 they were applauded : the talent for invective was in 
 the highest demand at this period in Ireland ; it was 
 considered as the unequivocal proof of intellectual 
 superiority. The display of it was the more admired, 
 as it could not be enjoyed without a double portion of 
 that personal promptitude to give the satisfaction of a 
 gentleman, on which the Irish pride themselves : the 
 taste of the nation, both for oratory and manners, has 
 become of late years so much more refined, tliat when 
 any of the lampoons of that day are now recollected, 
 people are surprised at the licence of abuse which was 
 then tolerated and even approved in fashionable society. 
 Sir Ulick O'Shane, as a well-known public character, 
 had been the subject of a variety of puns, bon-mots, 
 son"s, and epigrams, which had become so numerous as 
 to be collected under the title of Ulysseana. Upon 
 the late separation of Sir Ulick and his lady, a new 
 edition, with a caricature frontispiece, had been 
 published ; unfortunately for Ormond, this had just 
 worked its way from Dublin to this part of the 
 country. 
 
 It happened one day, at a gentleman's house where 
 this Ulysseana had not yet been seen, that a lady, a 
 visitor and a stranger, full of some of the lines which 
 she had learned by heart, began to repeat them for the 
 amusement of the tea-table. Ladies do not always 
 consider how much mischief they may do by such 
 imprudence ; nor how they may hazard valuable 
 lives for the sake of producing a sensation by the 
 repetition of a severe thing. Ormond came into the 
 room after dinner, and with some other gentlemen
 
 234 ORMOND. 
 
 gathered round the tea-table, while the lady was 
 repeating some extracts from the new edition of the 
 Ulysseana. The master and mistress of the house 
 made reiterated attempts to stop the lady ; but, too 
 intent upon herself and her second-hand wit to com- 
 prehend or take these hints, she went on reciting the 
 following lines : — 
 
 To serve in Parliament the nation, 
 
 Sir Ulick read his recantation : 
 
 At first he joined the patriot throng, 
 
 But soon perceiving he was wrong, 
 
 He ratted to the courtier tribe, 
 
 Bought by a title and a bribe ; 
 
 But how that new found friend to bind. 
 
 With any oath — of any kind, 
 
 Disturb'd the Premier's wary mind. 
 
 " Upon his faith. — Up07i his word." 
 
 Oh ! that, my friend, is too absurd. 
 
 " Upon his honour." — Quite a jest. 
 
 " Upon his conscience." — No such test. 
 
 " By all he has on earth." — 'Tis gone. 
 
 " By all his hopes of heaven." — They're none. 
 
 " How then secure him in our pay — 
 
 He can't be trusted for a day?" 
 
 How? — When you want the fellow's throat — 
 
 Pay by the job — you have his vote. 
 
 Sir Ulick himself, had he been present, would have 
 laughed off the epigram with the best grace imaginable, 
 and so, in good policy, ought Ormond to have taken it. 
 But he felt it too much, and was not in the habit of 
 laughing when he was vexed. Most of the company, 
 who knew anything of his connexion with Sir Ulick, 
 or who understood the agonizing looks of the master 
 and mistress of the house, politely refrained from smiles 
 or applause ; but a cousin of the lady who repeated the 
 lines, a young man who was one of the hateful tribe of 
 quiz%ers, on purpose to try Ormond, praised the verses 
 to the skies, and appealed to him for his opinion. 
 
 " I can't admire them, sir," replied Ormond.
 
 ORMOND. 235 
 
 " What fault cart you find with them ? " said the 
 young man, winking at the bystanders. 
 
 " I think, them incorrect, in the first place, sir," said 
 Ormond, '• and altogether indifferent." 
 
 " Well, at any rate they can't be called moderate" 
 said the gentleman ; " and as to incorrect, the substance, 
 I fancy, is correctly true." 
 
 " Fancy, sir ! — It would be hard if character were to 
 be at the mercy of fancy," cried Ormond hastily ; but 
 checking himself, he, in a mild tone, added, " Before we 
 go any farther, sir, I should inform you that I am a 
 ward of Sir Ulick O'Shane's." 
 
 " Oh ! mercy," exclaimed the lady who had re- 
 peated the verses ; " I am sure I did not know that, or 
 I would not have said a word — I declare I beg your 
 pardon, sir." 
 
 Ormond's bow and smile spoke his perfect satisfac- 
 tion with the lady's contrition, and his desire to relieve 
 her from farther anxiety. So the matter might have 
 happily ended ; but her cousin, though he had begun 
 merely with an intention to try Ormond's temper, now 
 felt piqued by his spirit, and thought it incumbent upon 
 him to persist. Having drank enough to be ill- 
 humoured, he replied, in an aggravating and ill-bred 
 manner, " Your being Sir Ulick O'Shane's ward may 
 make a difference in your feelings, sir, but I don't see 
 why it should make any in my opinion." 
 
 "In the expression of that opinion at least, sir, I 
 think it ought." 
 
 The master of the house now interfered, to explain 
 and pacify, and Ormond had presence of mind and 
 command enough over himself, to say no more while the 
 ladies were present : he sat down, and began talking 
 about some trifle in a gay tone ; but his flushed cheek, 
 and altered manner, showed that he was only repress- 
 ing other feelings. The carriages of the visitors were
 
 2x(i ORMOND. 
 
 •o 
 
 announced, and the strangers rose to dcp.irt. Oimond 
 accompanied the m;istcr of the house to hand the ladies 
 to their carriages. To mark his being in perfect charity 
 with the fair penitent, he showed her particular attention, 
 which quite touched her ; and as he put her into her 
 carriage, she, all the time, repeated her apologies, 
 declared it should be a lesson to her for life, and 
 cordially shook hands with him at parting. For her 
 sake, he wished that nothing more should be said on 
 the subject. But, on his return to the hall, he found 
 there the cousin, buttoning on his greatcoat, and seeming 
 loath to depart : still in ill-humour, the gentleman said, 
 " I hope you are satisfied with that lady's apologies, 
 Mr Ormond." 
 
 " I am, sir, perfectly." 
 
 " That's lucky : for apologies are easier had from 
 ladies than gentlemen, and become them better." 
 
 '* I think it becomes gentlemen as well as ladies 
 to make candid apologies, where they are conscious 
 of being wrong — if there was no intention to give 
 offence." 
 
 "//"is a great peace-maker, sir; but I scorn to take 
 advantage of an //." 
 
 " Am I to suppose then, sir," said Ormond, " that 
 it was your intention to offend me ? " 
 
 " Suppose what you please, sir — I am not in the 
 habit of explanation or apology." 
 
 " Then, sir, the sooner we meet the better," said 
 Ormond. 
 
 In consequence Ormond applied to an oflicer who 
 had been present during the altercation, to be his 
 second. Ormond felt that he had restrained his anger 
 sufficiently — he was now as firm as he had been tem- 
 perate. The parties met and fought : the man who 
 deserved to have suffered, by the chance of this rational 
 mode of deciding right and wrong, escaped unhurt ;
 
 ORMOND. 237 
 
 Oimond received a wound in his arm. It was only a 
 ilesh wound. He was at the house of a very hospi- 
 table gentleman, whose family were kind to him ; and 
 the inconvenience and pain were easily borne. In the 
 opinion of all, in that part of the world, who knew the 
 facts, he had conducted himself as well as the circum- 
 stances would permit ; and, as it was essential, not only 
 to the character of a hero, but of a gentleman at that 
 time in Ireland, to fight a duel, we may consider 
 Ormond as fortunate in not having been in the wrong. 
 He rose in favour with the ladies, and in credit with 
 the gentlemen, and he heard no more of the Ulysseana ; 
 but he was concerned to see paragraphs in all the Irish 
 papers, about the duel that had been fought between 
 M. N., Esq., jun., of , and H. O., Esq., in con- 
 sequence of a dispute that arose about some satirical 
 verses repeated by a lady on a certain well-known 
 character nearly related to one of the parties. 
 
 A flaming account of the duel followed, in which 
 there was the usual newspaper proportion of truth and 
 falsehood : Ormond knew and regretted that this para- 
 graph must meet the eyes of his guardian ; and still more 
 he was sorry that Dr Cambray should see it. He 
 knew the doctor's Christian abhorrence of the whole 
 system of duelling ; and, by the statement in the papers, 
 it appeared that that gallant youth, H. O., Esq., to 
 whom the news-writer evidently wished to do honour, 
 had been far more forward to provoke the fight than 
 he had been or than he ought to have been : — his own 
 plain statement of facts, which he wrote to Dr Cam- 
 bray, would have set everything to rights, but his 
 letter crossed the doctor's on the road. As he was 
 now in a remote place, which the delightful mail-coach 
 roads had not then reached — where the post came in 
 only three days in the week — and where the mail-cart 
 either broke down, lost a wheel, had a tired horse, was
 
 238 ORMOND. 
 
 overturned, or robbed, at an average once a fortnight — 
 our hero had no alternative but patience, and the amuse- 
 ment of calculating dates and chances upon his restless 
 sofa. His taste for reading enabled him to pass agree- 
 ably some of the hours of bodily confinement, which 
 men, and young men especially, accustomed to a great 
 deal of exercise, liberty, and locomotion, generally find 
 so intolerably irksome. At length his wound was well 
 enough for him to travel — letters for him arrived ; a 
 warm, affectionate one from his guardian ; and one 
 from Dr Cambray, which relieved his anxiety. 
 
 " I must tell you, my dear young friend," said Dr 
 Cambray, " that while you have been defending Sir 
 UlickO'Shane's public character (of which, by-the-bye, 
 you know nothing), I have been defending your private 
 character, of which I hope and believe I know some- 
 thing. The truth is always known in time, with regard 
 to every character ; and therefore, independently of 
 other motives, moral and religious, it is more prudent 
 to trust to time and truth for their defence than to 
 sword and pistol. I know you are impatient to hear 
 what were the reports to your disadvantage, and from 
 whom I had them. I had them from the Annalys ; 
 and they heard them in England, through various 
 circuitous channels of female correspondents in Ireland. 
 As far as we can trace them, we think that they 
 originated with your old friend Miss Black. The first 
 account Lady Annaly heard of you after she went to 
 England was, that you were living a most dissolute life 
 in the Black Islands with King Corny, who was 
 described to be a profligate rebel, and his companion 
 an excommunicated Catholic priest ; king, priest, and 
 Prince Harry, getting drunk together regularly every 
 night of their lives. The next account, which Lady 
 Annaly received some months afterwards, in reply to 
 inquiries she had made from her agent, was, that it was
 
 ORMOND. 239 
 
 impossible to know anything for certain of Mr Harry 
 Ormond, as he was always kept in the Black Islands. 
 The report was, that he had lately seduced a girl of 
 the name of Peggy Sheridan, a respectable gardener's 
 daughter, who was going to be married to a man of the 
 name of Moriarty Carroll, a person whom Mr Ormond 
 had formerly shot in some unfortunate drunken quarrel. 
 The match between her and Moriarty had been broken 
 off in consequence. The following year accounts were 
 worse and worse. This Harry Ormond had gained 
 the affections of his benefactor's daughter, though, as 
 he had been warned by her father, she v/as betrothed to 
 another man. The young lady was afterwards, by her 
 father's anger, and by Ormond's desertion of her, thrown 
 into the arms of a French adventurer, whom Ormond 
 brought into the house, under pretence of learning 
 French from him. Immediately after the daughter's 
 elopement with the French master, the poor father 
 died suddenly, in some extraordinary manner, when 
 out shooting with this Mr Ormond ; to whom a con- 
 siderable landed property, and a large legacy in money, 
 were, to everybody's surprise, found to be left in a 
 will which he produced, and which the family did 
 not think fit to dispute. There were strange circum- 
 stances told concerning the wake and burial, all tending 
 to prove that this Harry Ormond had lost all feeling. 
 Hints were farther given that he had renounced the 
 Protestant religion, and had turned Catholic for the 
 sake of absolution." 
 
 Many times during the perusal of this extravagant 
 tissue of falsehoods, Ormond laid down and resumed 
 the paper, unable to refrain from exclamations of rage 
 and contempt ; sometimes almost laughing at the 
 absurdity of the slander. "After this," thought he, 
 " who can mind common reports ? — and yet Dr Cam- 
 bray says that these excited some prejudice against
 
 ^40 ORMOND, 
 
 me in the mind of Lady Annaly. With such a woman 
 I should have thought it impossible. Could she be- 
 lieve me capable of such crimes ? — me, of whom she 
 had once a good opinion ? — vie, in whose fate she said 
 she was interested ? " 
 
 He took Dr Canibray's letter again, and read on : 
 he found that Lady Annaly had not credited these 
 reports as to the atrocious accusations ; but they had 
 so far operated as to excite doubts and suspicions. 
 In some of the circumstances there was sufficient 
 truth to colour the falsehood. For example, with 
 regard both to Peggy Sheridan and Dora, the truth 
 had been plausibly mixed with falsehood. The story 
 of Peggy Sheridan, Lady Annaly had some sus]jicion 
 might be true. Her ladyship, who had seen Mori- 
 arty's generous conduct to Ormond, was indignant 
 at his ingratitude. She was a woman prompt to feel 
 strong indignation against all that was base ; and, 
 when her indignation was excited, she was some- 
 times incapable of hearing what was said on the other 
 side of the question. Her daughter Florence, of a 
 calmer temper and cooler judgment, usually acted as 
 moderator on these occasions. She could not believe 
 that Harry Ormond had been guilty of faults that 
 were so opposite to those which they had seen in his 
 disposition : — violence, not treachery, was his tault. 
 Cut why, if there was nothing wrong, Lady Annaly 
 urged — why did not he write to her, as she had re- 
 quested he would, when his plans for his future life 
 were decided ? — She had told him that her son might 
 probably be able to assist him. Why could not he 
 write one line ? 
 
 Ormond had heard that her son was ill, and that 
 her mind was so absorbed with anxiety, that he could 
 not at first venture to intrude upon her with his selfish 
 concerns. This was his first and best reason ; but
 
 ORMOND. 241 
 
 afterwards, to be sure, when he heard that the son was 
 better, he might have written. He wrote at that time 
 such a sad scrawl of a hand — he was so little used to 
 letter-writing, that he was ashamed to write. Then 
 it was too late after so long a silence, &c. Foolish as 
 these reasons were, they had, as we have said before, 
 acted upon our young hero ; and have, perhaps, in as 
 important circumstances, prevented many young men 
 from writing to friends able and willing to serve them. 
 It was rather fortunate for Ormond, that slander did 
 not stop at the first plausible falsehoods : when the 
 more atrocious charges came against him, Miss Annaly, 
 who had never deserted his cause, declared her absolute 
 disbelief. The discussions that went on between her 
 and her mother kept alive their interest about this 
 young man. He was likely to have been forgotten 
 during their anxiety in the son's illness ; but fresh 
 reports had brought him to their recollection frequently ; 
 and when their friend Dr Cambray was appointed to 
 the living of Castle Hermitage, his evidence perfectly 
 reinstated Harry in Lady Annaly's good opinion. As 
 if to make amends for the injustice she had done him 
 by believing any part of the evil reports, she was now 
 anxious to see him again. A few days after Dr Cam- 
 bray wrote, Ormond received a very polite and grati- 
 fying letter from Lady Annaly, requesting that, as 
 " Annaly " lay in his route homewards, he would 
 spend a few days there, and give her an opportunity 
 of making hira acquainted with her son. It is scarcely 
 necessary to say that this invitation was eagerly ac- 
 cepted. 
 
 Q
 
 242 ORMOND. 
 
 UPON his arrival at Annaly, Ormond found that 
 Dr Cambray and all his family were there. 
 " Yes, all your friends," said Lady Annaly, 
 as Ormond looked round with pleasure, "all your 
 friends, Mr Ormond — you must allow me an old 
 right to be of that number — and here is my son, who is 
 as well inclined as I hope you feel to pass over the 
 intermediate formality of new acquaintanceship, and to 
 become intimate with you as soon as possible." 
 
 Sir Herbert Annaly confirmed, by the polite cor- 
 diality of his manner, all that his mother promised ; 
 adding that their mutual friend Dr Cambray had made 
 him already so fully acquainted with Mr Ormond, 
 that though he had never had the pleasure of seeing 
 him before, he could not consider him as a stranger. 
 
 Florence Annaly was beautiful, but not one of those 
 beauties who strike at first sight. Hers was a face 
 which neither challenged nor sued for admiration. 
 There was no expression thrown into the eyes or the 
 eyebrows, no habitual smile on the lips — the features 
 were all in natural repose ; the face never expressed 
 anything but what the mind really felt. But if any 
 just observation was made in Miss Annaly's company, 
 any stroke of genius, that countenance instantly kindled 
 into light and life : and if any noble sentiment was 
 expressed, if any generous action was related, then the 
 soul within illumined the countenance with a ray 
 divine. When once Ormond had seen this, his eye 
 returned in hopes of seeing it again — he had an 
 indescribable interest and pleasure in studying a 
 countenance, which seemed so true an index to a noble 
 and cultivated mind, to a heart of delicate but not 
 morbid sensibility. His manners and understanding
 
 ORMOND. 243 
 
 had been formed and improved, beyond what could 
 have been expected from the few opportunities of 
 improvement he had till lately enjoyed. He was 
 timid, however, in conversation with those of whose 
 information and abilities he had a high opinion, so that 
 at first he did not do himself justice ; but in his 
 timidity there was no awkwardness ; it was joined with 
 such firmness of principle, and such a resolute, manly 
 character, that he was peculiarly engaging to women. 
 
 During his first visit at Annaly he pleased much, 
 and was so much pleased with every individual of the 
 family, with their manners, their conversation, their 
 affection for each other, and altogether with their 
 mode of living, that he declared to Dr Cambray he 
 never had been so happy in his whole existence. It 
 was a remarkable fact, however, that he spoke much 
 more of Lady Annaly and Sir Herbert than of Miss 
 Annaly. 
 
 He had never before felt so very unwilling to leave 
 any place, or so exceedingly anxious to be invited to 
 repeat his visit. He did receive the wished-for invi- 
 tation ; and it was given in such a manner as left him 
 no doubt that he might indulge his own ardent desire 
 to return, and to cultivate the friendship of this family. 
 His ardour for foreign travel, his desire to see more 
 of the world, greatly abated ; and before he reached 
 Castle Hermitage, and by the time he saw his guardian, 
 he had almost forgotten that Sir Ulick had traced for 
 him a course of travels through the British Islands and 
 the most polished parts of the Continent. 
 
 He now told Sir Ulick that it was so far advanced 
 in the season, that he thought it better to spend the 
 winter in Ireland. 
 
 " In Dublin instead of London ? " said Sir Ulick, 
 smiling ; " very patriotic, and very kind to me, for I am 
 sure I am your first object ; and depend upon it few
 
 244 ORMOND. 
 
 people, ladies always excepted, will ever like your com- 
 pany better than I do." 
 
 Then Sir Ulick went rapidly over every subject, and 
 every person that could lead his ward farther to explain 
 his feelings ; but now, as usual, he wasted his address, 
 for the ingenuous young man directly opened his whole 
 heart to him. 
 
 " I am impatient to tell you, sir," said he, " how very 
 kindly I was received by Lady Annaly." 
 
 ** She is very kind," said Sir Ulick : " I suppose, in 
 general, you have found yourself pretty well received 
 wherever you have gone — not to flatter you too much on 
 your mental or personal qualifications, and no disparage- 
 ment to Dr Cambray's letters of introduction or my 
 own, five or six thousand a year are, I have generally 
 observed, a tolerably good passport into society, a suffi- 
 cient passe-partout." 
 
 " Passe-partout ! — not partout — not quite sufficient at 
 Annaly ; you cannot mean, sir " 
 
 " Oh ! I cannot mean anything, but that Annaly is 
 altogether the eighth wonder of the world," said Sir 
 Ulick, "and all the men and women in it absolutely 
 angels — perfect angels." 
 
 *' No, sir, if you please, not perfect ; for I have heard 
 — though I own I never saw it — that perfection is always 
 stupid : now ceitainly that the Annalys are not." 
 
 " Well, well, they shall be as imperfect as you like 
 — anything to please you." 
 
 " But, sir, you used to be so fond of the Annalys, I 
 remember." 
 
 " True, and did I tell you that I had changed my 
 opinion ? " 
 
 " Your manner, though not your words, tells me 
 so. 
 
 " You mistake ; the fact is — for I always treat you, 
 Harry, with perfect candoui" — I was hurt and vexed by
 
 ORMOND. 245 
 
 their refusal of my son. But, after all," added he, with 
 a deep sigh, " it was Marcus's own fault — he has been 
 very dissipated. Miss Annaly was right, and her mother 
 quite right, I own. Lady Annaly is one of the most 
 respectable women in Ireland — and Miss Annaly is a 
 charming girl — I never saw any girl I should have 
 liked so much for my daughter-in-law. But Marcus 
 and I don't always agree in our tastes — I don't think 
 the refusal there was half as great a mortification and 
 disappointment to him as it was to me." 
 
 " You delight me, dear sir," cried Ormond ; " for 
 then I may feel secure that if ever in future — I don't 
 mean in the least that I have any present thought — it 
 would be absurd — it would be ridiculous — it would be 
 quite improper — you know I was only there ten days ; but 
 I mean if, in future, I should ever have any thoughts — 
 any serious thoughts " 
 
 " Well, well," said Sir Ulick, laughing at Ormond's 
 hesitation and embarrassment, " I can suppose that you 
 will have thoughts of some kind or other, and serious 
 thoughts in due course ; but, as you justly observe, it 
 would be quite ridiculous at present." 
 
 ** I beg your pardon, sir," interrupted Harry, " but 
 it would even at present be an inexpressible satisfaction 
 to me to know, that if in future such a thing should 
 occur, I should be secure, in the first place, of your 
 approbation." 
 
 "As to that, my dear boy," said Sir Ulick, "you 
 know in a few days you will be at years of discretion 
 — then my control ceases." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; but not my anxiety for your approba- 
 tion, and my deference for your opinion." 
 
 " Then," said Sir Ulick, " and without circumlocu- 
 tion or nonsense, I tell you at once, Harry Ormond, 
 that Florence Annaly is the woman in the world I 
 should like best to see your wife."
 
 246 ORMOND. 
 
 "Thank you, sir, for this explicit answer — I am 
 sure towards me nothing can have been more candid 
 and kind than your whole conduct has ever been." 
 
 " That's true, Harry," exclaimed Sir Ulick. " Tell 
 me about this duel — you have fought a duel in defence 
 of my conduct and character, I understand, since I saw 
 you. But, my dear fellow, though I am excessively 
 obliged to you, I am exceedingly angry with you ; 
 how could you possibly be so hot-headed and silly as to 
 take up any man for relishing the Ulysseana ? Bless ye ! 
 I relish it myself — I only laugh at such things : believe 
 me, 'tis the best way." 
 
 " I am sure of it, sir, if one can ; and, indeed, I 
 have had pretty good proof that one should despise 
 reports and scandal of all kinds — easier for oneself 
 sometimes than for one's friends." 
 
 " Yes, my dear Ormond, by the time you have been 
 half as long living in the great and the political world 
 as I have been, you will be quite case-hardened, and 
 will hear your friends abused, without feeling it in the 
 least. Believe me, I once was troubled with a great 
 deal of susceptibility like yours — but after all, 'tis no 
 bad thing for you to have fought a duel — a feather in 
 your cap with the ladies, and a warning to all im- 
 pertinent fellows to let you alone. But you were 
 wounded, the newspaper said — I asked you where, 
 three times in my letters — you never condescended to 
 answer me — answer me now, I insist upon it." 
 
 " In my arm, sir — a slight scratch." 
 
 " Slight scratch or not, I must hear all about it — 
 come, tell me exactly how the thing began and ended 
 — tell me all the rascals said of me. — You won't ? — 
 then I'll tell you : they said, ' I am the greatest jobber 
 in Ireland — that I do not mind how I throw away 
 the public money — in short, that I am a sad political 
 profligate.' — Well ! well ! I am sure, after aJl, they
 
 ORMOND. 247 
 
 did me the justice to acknowledge, that in private life 
 no man's honour is more to be depended on." 
 
 " They did do you that justice, sir," said Ormond ; 
 " but pray ask me no farther questions — for, frankly, it 
 is disagreeable to me — and I will tell you no more." 
 
 " That's frank," said Sir Ulick, " and I as frankly 
 assuie you I am perfectly satisfied." 
 
 " Then to return to the Annalys," said Ormond, 
 " I never saw Sir Herbert till now — I like him — I 
 like his principles — his love of his country — and his 
 attachment to his family." 
 
 "He's a very fine fellow — no better fellow than 
 Herbert Annaly. But as for his attachment to his 
 family, who thanks him for that ? Who could help it, 
 with such a family ? And his love for his country — 
 everybody loves his country." 
 
 " More or less, I suppose," said Ormond. 
 
 " But, upon my word, I entirely agree with you 
 about Sir Herbert, though I know he is prejudiced 
 against me to the last degree." 
 
 " If he is, I don't know it, sir — I never found it out." 
 
 " He will let it out by-and-by — I only hope he will 
 not prejudice you against me." 
 
 " That is not very easily done, sir." 
 
 " As you have given some proof, my dear boy, and 
 I thank you for it. But the Annalys would go more 
 cautiously to work — I only put you on your guard — 
 Marcus and Sir Herbert never could hit it off together ; 
 and I am afraid the breach between us and the 
 Annalys must be widened, for Marcus must stand 
 against Sir Herbert at the next election, if he lives — 
 Pray how is he ? " 
 
 " Not strong, sir — he has a hectic colour — ^as I was 
 very sorry to see." 
 
 "Ay, poor fellow — he broke some blood-vessel, I 
 think Marcus told me, when they were in England."
 
 248 ORMOND. 
 
 ♦* Yes, sir, so Lady Annaly told me — it was in over- 
 exerting himself to extinguish a fire." 
 
 *' A very fine spirited fellow he is, no doubt," said 
 Sir Ulick ; " but, after all, that was rather a foolish 
 thing, in his state of health. By-the-bye, as your 
 guardian, it is my duty to explain the circumstances of 
 this family — in case you should hereafter have any 
 serious thoughts, as you say, you should know what 
 comforted Marcus in his disappointment there. There 
 is, then, some confounded flaw in that old father's will, 
 through which the great Herbert estate slips to an heir- 
 at-law, who has started up within this twelve-month. 
 Miss Annaly, who was to have been a nonpareil of an 
 heiress in case of the brother's death, will have but a 
 moderate fortune ; and the poor dowager will be but 
 scantily provided for, after all the magnificence which 
 she has been used to, unless he lives to make up some- 
 thing handsome for them. I don't know the parti- 
 culars, but I know that a vast deal depends on his 
 living till he has levied ceitain fines, which he ought 
 to have levied, instead of amusing himself putting out 
 other people's fires. But I am excessively anxious 
 about it, and now on your account as well as theirs ; 
 for it would make a great difference to you, if you 
 seriously have any thoughts of Miss Annaly." 
 
 Ormond declared this could make no difference to 
 him, since his own fortune would be sufficient for all 
 the wishes of such a woman as he supposed Miss 
 Annaly to be. 
 
 The next day Marcus O' Shane arrived from Eng- 
 land. This was the first time that Ormond and he 
 had met since the affair of Moriarty, and the banish- 
 ment from Castle Hermitage. The meeting was 
 awkward enough, notwithstanding Sir Ulick's attempts 
 to make it otherwise : Marcus laboured under the 
 double consciousness of having deserted Harry in past
 
 ORMOND. 249 
 
 adversity, and of being jealous of his present prosperity. 
 Ormond at first went forward to meet him more than 
 half way with great cordiality, but the cold politeness 
 of Marcus chilled him ; and the heartless congratula- 
 tions and frequent allusions in the course of the first 
 hour to Ormond's new fortune and consequence, 
 offended our young hero's pride. He grew more 
 reserved, the more complimentary Marcus became, 
 especially as in all his compliments there was a mixture 
 oi persiflage which Marcus supposed erroneously that 
 Ormond's untutored, unpractised ear would not per- 
 ceive. 
 
 Harry sat silent, proudly indignant. He valued 
 himself on being something, and somebody, inde- 
 pendently of his fortune — lie had worked hard to 
 become so — he had the consciousness about him of 
 tried integrity, resolution, and virtue ; and was it to 
 be implied that he was somebody, only in consequence 
 of his having chanced to become heir to so many thou- 
 sands a year I Sir Ulick, whose address was equal to 
 most occasions, was not able to manage so as to make 
 these young men like one another. Marcus had an old 
 jealousy of Harry's favour with his father, of his father's 
 affection for Harry ; and at the present moment he was 
 conscious that his father was with just cause much dis- 
 pleased with him. Of this Harry knew nothing, but 
 Marcus suspected that his father had told Ormond 
 everything, and this increased the awkwardness and ill- 
 humour that Marcus felt ; and notwithstanding all his 
 knowledge of the world, and conventional politeness, 
 he showed his vexation in no very well-bred manner. 
 He was now in particularly bad humour, in consequence 
 of a scrape, as he called it, which he had got into, 
 during his last winter in London, respecting an intrigue 
 with a married lady of rank. Marcus, by some in- 
 temperate expressions, had brought on the discovery,
 
 25Q ORMOND. 
 
 of which, when it was too late, he repented. A public 
 trial was likely to be the consequence — the damages 
 would doubtless be laid at the least at ten thousand 
 pounds. Marcus, however, counting, as sons some- 
 times do in calculating their father's fortune, all the 
 credit, and knowing nothing of the debtor side of the 
 account, conceived his father's wealth to be inexhaust- 
 ible. Lady O'Shane's large fortune had cleared oflr 
 all debts, and had set Sir Ulick up in a bank, which 
 was in high credit ; then he had shares in a canal and 
 in a silver mine — he held two lucrative sinecure places 
 — and had bought estates in three counties : but the 
 son did not know, that for the borrowed purchase- 
 money of two of the estates Sir Ulick was now paying 
 high and accumulating interest ; so that the prospect 
 of being called upon for ten thousand pounds was most 
 alarming. In this exigency Sir Ulick, who had long 
 foreseen how the affair was likely to terminate, had his 
 eye upon his ward's ready money. It was for this he 
 had been at such peculiar pains to ingratiate himself 
 with Ormond. Affection, nevertheless, made him 
 hesitate ; he was unwilling to injure or to hazard his 
 property — very unwilling to prey upon his generosity — 
 still more so after the late handsome manner in which 
 Ormond had hazarded his life in defence of his guar- 
 dian's honour. 
 
 Sir Ulick, who perceived the first evening that 
 Marcus and Ormond met, that the former was not 
 going the way to assist these views, pointed out to him 
 how much it was for his interest to conciliate Ormond, 
 and to establish himself in his good opinion ; but Marcus, 
 though he saw and acknowledged this, could not submit 
 his pride and temper to the necessary restraint. For a 
 few hours he would display his hereditary talents, and 
 all his acquired graces ; but the next hour his ill-humour 
 would break out towards his inferiors, his father's
 
 ORMOND. 251 
 
 tenants and dependants, In a way which Oimond's 
 generous spirit could not bear. Before he went to 
 England, even from his boyish days, his manners had 
 been habitually haughty and tyrannical to the lower 
 class of people. Ormond and he had always differed 
 and often quarrelled on this subject. Ormond hoped 
 to find his manners altered in this respect by his resi- 
 dence in a more polished country. But the external 
 polish he had acquired had not reached the mind: 
 high-bred society had taught him only to be polite to 
 his equals ; he was now still more disposed to be inso- 
 lent to his inferiors, especially to his Irish Inferiors. 
 He affected to consider himself as more than half an 
 Englishman ; and returning from London In all the 
 distress and ^disgrace to which he had reduced himself 
 by criminal indulgence in the vices of fashionable, and 
 what he called rejined, society, he vented his ill-humour 
 on the poor Irish peasants — the natives, as he termed 
 them in derision. He spoke to them as if they were 
 slaves — he considered them as savages. Marcus had, 
 early In life, almost before he knew the real distinctions, 
 or more than the names of the different parties In Ire- 
 land, been a strong party man. He called himself a 
 Government man ; but he was one of those partisans 
 whom every wise and good administration In Ireland 
 has discountenanced and disclaimed. He was, in 
 short, one of those who make their politics an 
 excuse to their conscience for the indulgence of a 
 violent temper. 
 
 Ormond was Indignant at the inveterate prejudice 
 that Marcus showed against a poor man, whom he had 
 injured, but who had never injured him. The moment 
 Marcus saw Morlarty Carroll again, and heard his name 
 mentioned, he exclaimed and reiterated, " That's a bad 
 fellow — I know him of old — all those Carrolls are 
 rascals and rebels."
 
 2^a ORMOND. 
 
 Marcus looked with a sort of disdainful spleen at the 
 house which Ormond had fitted up for Moriarty. 
 
 " So, you stick to this fellow still ! — What a dupe, 
 Ormond, this Moriarty has made of you ! " said 
 Marcus ; *' but that's not my affair. I only wonder 
 how you wheedled my father out of the ground for 
 the garden here." 
 
 *< There was no wheedling in the case," said 
 Ormond : " your father gave it freely, or I should 
 not have accepted it." 
 
 " You were very good to accept it, no doubt," said 
 Marcus, in an ironical tone : " I know I have asked 
 my father for a garden to a cottage before now, and 
 have been refused." 
 
 Sir Ulick came up just as this was said, and, alarmed 
 at the tone of voice, used all his addi-ess to bring his son 
 back to good temper ; and he might have succeeded, but 
 that Peggy Carroll chanced to appear at that instant. 
 
 " Who is that ? " cried Marcus — " Peggy Sheridan, 
 as I live ! is it not ? " 
 
 *' No, please your honour, but Peggy Sheridan that 
 was — Peggy Carroll that is," said Peggy, curtsying, 
 with a slight blush, and an arch smile. 
 
 " So, you have married that Moriarty at last." 
 
 " I have, please your honour — he is a very honest 
 boy — and I'm very happy — if your honour's pleased." 
 
 " Who persuaded your father to this, pray, contrary 
 to my advice ? " 
 
 "Nobody at all, plase your honour," said Peggy, 
 looking frightened. 
 
 " Why do you say that, Peggy," said Ormond, 
 " when you know it was I who persuaded your father to 
 give his consent to your marriage with Moriarty ? " 
 
 "You! Mr Ormond! — Oh! I comprehend it all 
 now," said Marcus, with his sneering look and tone : 
 " no doubt you had good reasons."
 
 ORMOND. 253 
 
 Poor Peggy blushed the deepest crimson. 
 
 " I understand It all now," said Marcus — "I under- 
 stand you now, Harry." 
 
 Ormond's anger rose, and with a look of high dis- 
 dain, he replied, " You understand m^, now ! No, nor 
 ever will, nor ever can. Our minds are unintelligible 
 to each other." 
 
 Then turning from him, Ormond walked away with 
 indignant speed. 
 
 " P^ggy> don't I see something like a cow yonder, 
 getting her bread at my expence i " said Sir Ulick, 
 directing Peggy's eye to a gap in the hedge by the 
 roadside. " Whose cow is that at the top of the 
 ditch, half through my hedge ? " 
 
 " I can't say, please your honour," said Peggy, " if it 
 
 wouldn't be Paddy M'Grath's Betty M'Greggor ! " 
 
 cried she, calling to a barefooted girl, " whose cow is 
 yonder ? " 
 
 " Oh, marcy ! but if it isn't our own red rogue — 
 and when I tied her legs three times myself, the day ! " 
 said the girl, running to drive away the cow. 
 
 " Oh ! she strays and trespasses strangely, the red 
 cow, for want of the little spot your honour promised 
 her," said Peggy. 
 
 *' Well, run and save my hedge from her now, my 
 pretty Peggy, and I will find the little spot for her 
 to-morrow," said Sir Ulick. 
 
 Away ran Peggy after the cow — while lowering 
 Marcus cursed them all three. Pretty Peg he swore 
 ought to be banished the estate — the cow ought to be 
 hamstrung, instead of having a spot promised her ; 
 *' but this is the way, sir, you ruin the country and the 
 people," said he to his father. 
 
 " Be that as it may, I do not ruin myself as you do, 
 Marcus," replied the cool Sir Ulick. " Never mind 
 the cow — nonsense ! I am not thinking of a cow."
 
 254 ORMOND. 
 
 " Nor I neither, sir." 
 
 " Then follow Harry Ormond directly, and make 
 him understand that he misunderstood you," said Sir 
 Ulick. 
 
 " Excuse me, sir — I cannot bend to him," said 
 Marcus. 
 
 " And you expect that he will lend you ten thousand 
 pounds at your utmost need ? " 
 
 " The money, with your estate, can be easily raised 
 elsewhere, sir," said Marcus. 
 
 " I tell you it cannot, sir," said the father. 
 
 " I cannot bend to Ormond, sir : to anybody but 
 him — anything but that — my pride cannot stoop to that." 
 
 " Your pride ! — ' pride that licks the dust,' " thought 
 Sir Ulick. It was in vain for the politic father to 
 remonstrate with the headstrong son. The whole 
 train which Sir Ulick had laid with so much skill was, 
 he feared, at the moment when his own delicate hand 
 was just preparing to give the effective touch, blown up 
 by the rude impatience of his son. Sir Ulick, how- 
 ever, never lost time or opportunity in vain regret for the 
 past. Even in the moment of disappointment he looked 
 to the future. He saw the danger of keeping two 
 young men together, who had such incompatible tempers 
 and characters. He was, therefore, glad when he met 
 Ormond again, to hear him propose his returning to 
 Annaly, and he instantly acceded to the proposal. 
 
 " Castle Hermitage, I know, my dear boy, cannot 
 be as pleasant to you just now as I could wish to make 
 it : we have nobody here now, and Marcus is not all 
 I could wish him," said Sir Ulick, with a sigh. " He 
 had always a jealousy of my affection for you, Harry 
 • — it cannot be helped — we do not choose our own 
 children — but we must abide by them — you must per- 
 ceive that things are not going on quite rightly between 
 my son and me."
 
 ORMOND. 255 
 
 " I am sorry for it, sir ; especially as I am convinced 
 I can do no good, and therefore wish not to interfere." 
 
 " I believe you are right — though I part from you 
 with regret." 
 
 " I shall be within your reach, sir, you know i 
 whenever you wish for me, if ever I can be of the least 
 use to you, summon me, and I am at your orders." 
 
 " Thank you ! but stay one moment," said Sir 
 Ulick, with a sudden look of recollection : " you will 
 be of age in a few days, Harry — we ought to settle 
 accounts, should not we ? " 
 
 " Whenever you please, sir — no hurry on my part 
 ■ — but you have advanced me a great deal of money 
 lately — I ought to settle that." 
 
 " Oh, as to that — a mere trifle. If you are in no 
 hurry, I am in none ; for I shall have business enough 
 on my hands during these few days, before Lady 
 Norton fills the house again with company — I am 
 certainly a little hurried now." 
 
 " Then, sir, do not think of my business — I cannot 
 be better off, you know, than I am — I assure you I 
 am sensible of that. Never mind the accounts — only 
 send for me whenever I can be of any use or pleasure 
 to you. I need not make speeches : I trust, my dear 
 guardian — my father, when I was left fatherless — I 
 trust you believe I have some gratitude in me." 
 
 " I do," cried Sir Ulick, much moved ; " and, by 
 Heaven, it is impossible to — I mean — in short, it is 
 impossible not to love you, Harry Ormond."
 
 256 ORMOND. 
 
 THERE are people who can go on very smoothly 
 with those whose principles and characters they 
 despise and dislike. There are people who, 
 provided they live in company, are happy, and care but 
 little of what the company is composed. But our 
 young hero certainly was not one of these contented 
 people. He was perhaps too much in the other ex- 
 treme. He could not, without overt words, or looks 
 of indignation, endure the presence of those whose 
 characters or principles he despised — he could not, 
 even without manifest symptoms of restlessness or 
 ennui, submit long to live with mere companions ; he 
 required to have friends ; nor could he make a friend 
 from ordinary materials, however smooth the grain, or 
 however fine the polish they might take. Even when 
 the gay world at Castle Hermitage v/as new to him — ■ 
 amused and enchanted as he was at first with that 
 brilliant society, he could not have been content or 
 happy without his friends at Vicar's Dale, to whom, 
 once at least in the four-and-twenty hours, he found it 
 necessary to open his heart. We may then judge how 
 happy he now felt in returning to Annaly : after the 
 sort of moral constraint which he had endured in the 
 company of Marcus O'Shane, we may guess what an 
 expansion of heart took place. 
 
 The family union and domestic happiness which he 
 saw at Annaly certainly struck him at this time more 
 forcibly, from the contrast with what he had just seen 
 at Castle Hermitage. The effect of contrast, however, 
 is but transient. It is powerful as a dramatic resource, 
 but in real life it is of no permanent consequence. 
 There was here a charm which operates with as great 
 certainty, and with a power secure of increasing instead
 
 ORMOND. 257 
 
 of diminishing from habit — the charm of domestic polite- 
 ness, in the everyday manners of this mother, son, and 
 daughter, towards each other, as well as towards their 
 guests. Ormond saw and felt it irresistibly. He saw 
 the most delicate attentions combined with entire sin- 
 cerity, perfect ease, and constant respect ; the result of 
 the early habits cf good-breeding acting upon the 
 feelings of genuine affection. The external polish, 
 which Ormond now admired, was very different from 
 that varnish which often is hastily applied to hide im- 
 perfections. This polish was of the substance itself, 
 to be obtained only by long use ; but, once acquired, 
 lasting for ever : not only beautiful but serviceable, 
 preserving from the injuries of time and from the 
 dangers of familiarity. 
 
 What influence the sister's charms might have to 
 increase Ormond's admiration of the brother we shall 
 not presume to determine ; but certainly he liked Sir 
 Herbert Annaly better than any young man he had 
 ever seen. Sir Herbert was some years older than 
 Ormond ; he was in his twenty- seventh year : but at 
 this age he had done more good in life than many men 
 accomplish during their whole existence. Sir Herbert's 
 principal estates were in another part of Ireland. Dr 
 Cambray had visited them. The account he gave 
 Ormond of what had been done there to improve the 
 people and to make them happy ; of the prosperous 
 state of the peasantry ; their industry and independence ; 
 their grateful, not servile, attachment to Sir Herbert 
 Annaly and his mother ; the veneration in which the 
 name of Annaly was held ; all delighted the enthusi- 
 astic Ormond. 
 
 The name of Annaly was growing wonderfully dear 
 to him ; and, all of a sudden, the interest he felt in the 
 details of a country gentleman's life was amazingly in- 
 creased. At times, when the ladies were engaged, he
 
 258 ORMOND. 
 
 accompanied Sir Herbert in visiting his estate. Sir 
 Herbert had never till lately resided at Annaly, which 
 had, within but a short time, reverted to his possession, 
 in consequence of the death of the person to whom it 
 had been let. He found much that wanted improve- 
 ment in the land, and more in the people. 
 
 This estate stretched along the sea-shore : the 
 tenants whom he found living near the coast were an 
 idle, profligate, desperate set of people ; who during the 
 time of the late middle landlord had been in the habit 
 of making their rents by nefarious practices. The best 
 of the set were merely idle fishermen, whose habits of 
 trusting to their luck incapacitated them from industiy : 
 the others were illicit distillers — smugglers — and mis- 
 creants who lived by ivaifs and strays ; in fact, by the 
 pillage of vessels on the coast. The coast was dangerous 
 — there happened frequent shipwrecks ; owing partly, 
 as was supposed, to the false lights hung out by these 
 people, whose interest it was that vessels should be 
 wrecked. Shocked at these practices. Sir Herbert 
 Annaly had, from the moment he came into possession 
 of the estate, exerted himself to put a stop to them, 
 and to punish where he could not reform the oflrnders. 
 The people at first pleaded a sort of tenant's rights 
 which they thought a landlord could scarcely resist. 
 They protested that they could not make the rent, if 
 they were not allowed to make it in their own way ; 
 and showed, beyond a doubt, that Sir Herbert could 
 not get half as much for his land in those parts, if he 
 looked too scrupulously into the means by which it was 
 made. They brought, in corroboration of their argu- 
 ments or assertions, the example and constant practice 
 of " many as good a jantlcman as any in Ireland, who 
 had his rent made up for him that ways, very ready 
 and punctual. There was his honour, Mr Such-a-one, 
 and so on ; and there was Sir Ulick O'Shane, sure !
 
 ORMOND. 259 
 
 Oh ! he was the man to live under — he was the man 
 that knew when to wink and when to blink ; and if he 
 shut his eyes properly, sure his tenants filled his fist. 
 Oh ! Sir Ulick was the great man for favour and pur - 
 teciion, none like him at all ! — He is the good landlord, 
 that will fight the way clear for his own tenants through 
 thick and thin — none dare touch them. Oh ! Sir 
 Ulick's the kind jantleman that understands the law 
 for the poor, and could bring them off at every turn, 
 and show them the way through the holes in an Act of 
 Parliament, asy as through a ridd/e ! Oh, and if he 
 could but afford to be half as good as his promises, Sir 
 Ulick O'Shane would be too good entirely ! " 
 
 Now Sir Ulick O'Shane had purchased a tract of 
 ground adjoining to Sir Herbert's, on this coast ; and 
 he had bought it on the speculation that he could let 
 it at a very high rent to these people, of whose ivays 
 and means of paying it he chose to remain in igno- 
 rance. All the tenants whom Sir Herbert banished 
 from his estate flocked to Sir Ulick's. 
 
 By the sacrifice of his own immediate interest, and 
 by great personal exertion, strict justice, and a generous 
 and well-secured system of reward. Sir Herbert already 
 had produced a considerable change for the better in 
 the morals and habits of the people. He was employing 
 some of his tenants on the coast, in building a lighthouse, 
 for which he had a grant from Parliament ; and he was 
 endeavouring to establish a manufacture of sail-cloth, 
 for which there was sufficient demand. But almost at 
 every step of his progress, he was impeded by the effects 
 of the bad example of his neighbours on Sir Ulick's 
 estate ; and by the continual quarrels between the idle, 
 discarded tenants and their industrious and now pros- 
 pering successors. 
 
 Whenever a vessel in distress was seen off the coast, 
 there was a constant struggle between the two parties
 
 2 6o ORMOND. 
 
 who had opposite interests ; the one to save, the other 
 to destroy. In this state of things, causes of complaint 
 perpetually occurred ; and Ormond, who was present, 
 when the accusers and the accused appealed to their 
 landlord, sometimes as lord of the manor, sometimes as 
 magistrate, had frequent opportunities of seeing both Sir 
 Herbert's principles and temper put to the test. He 
 Jiked to compare the different modes in which King 
 Corny, his guardian, and Sir Herbert Annaly managed 
 these things. Sir Herbert governed neither by threats, 
 punishments, abuse, nor tyranny ; nor yet did he govern 
 by promises nor bribery, favour and protection, like Sir 
 Ulick. He neither cajoled nor bullied — neither held it 
 as a principle, as Marcus did, that the people must be 
 kept down, nor that the people must be deceived. He 
 treated them neither as slaves, subject to his will ; nor 
 as dupes, or objects on which to exercise his wit or his 
 cunning. He treated them as reasonable beings, and 
 as his fellow-creatures, whom he wished to improve, 
 that he might make them and himself happy. He spoke 
 sense to them ; and he mixed that sense with wit and 
 humour, in the proportion necessary to make it palatable 
 to an Irishman. 
 
 In generosity there was a resemblance between the 
 temper of Sir Herbert and of Corny ; but to Ormond's 
 surprise, and at first to his disappointment, Sir Herbert 
 valued justice more than generosity. Ormond's heart 
 on this point was often with King Corny, when his head 
 was forced to be with Sir Herbert ; but, by degrees, 
 head and heart came together. He became practically 
 convinced that justice is the virtue that works best for 
 a constancy, and best serves everybody's interest in time 
 and in turn. Ormond now often said to himself, "Sir 
 Herbert Annaly is but a few years older than I am ; by 
 the time I am his age, why should not I become as 
 useful, and make as many human beings happy as he
 
 ORMOND. 261 
 
 does ? " In the meantime, the idea of marrying and 
 settling in Ireland became every day more agreeable to 
 Ormond ; and France and Italy, which he had been 
 so eager to visit, faded from his imagination. Sir 
 Herbert and Lady Annaly, who had understood from 
 Dr Cambray that Ormond was going to commence his 
 grand tour immediately, and who heard him make a 
 number of preparatory inquiries when he had been first 
 at Annaly, naturally turned the conversation often to 
 the subject. They had looked out maps and prints, 
 and they had taken down from their shelves the different 
 books of travels, which might be most useful to him, 
 with guides, and post-road books, and all that could 
 speed the parting guest. But the guest had no mind to 
 part — everything, everybody at Annaly, he found so 
 agreeable and so excellent. 
 
 It must be a great satisfaction to a young man who 
 has a grain of sense, and who feels that he is falling 
 inevitably and desperately in love, to see that all the 
 lady's family, as well as the object of his passion, are 
 exactly the people whom he should wish of all others 
 to make his friends for life. Here was everything that 
 could be desired, suitability of age, of fortune, of 
 character, of temper, of tastes — everything that could 
 make a marriage happy, could Ormond but win the 
 heart of Florence Annaly. Was that heart disengaged ? 
 — He resolved to inquire first from his dear friend, 
 Dr Cambray, who was much in the confidence of this 
 family, a great favourite with Florence, and consequently 
 dearer than ever to Ormond. He went directly to 
 Vicar's Dale to see and consult him, and Ormond thought 
 he was confiding a profound secret to the doctor, when 
 first he spoke to him of his passion for Miss Annaly ; 
 but to his surprise, the doctor told him he had seen it 
 long ago, and his wife and daughters had all discovered 
 it, even when they were first with him at Annaly.
 
 262 ORMOND. 
 
 " Is it possible ? — and what do you all think ? " 
 
 "We think that you would be a perfectly happy 
 man, if you could win Miss Annaly ; and we wish you 
 success most sincerely. But " 
 
 " But — O my dear doctor, you alarm me beyond 
 measure." 
 
 " What ! by wishing you success ? " 
 
 " No, but by something in your look and manner, 
 and by that terrible hut : you think that I shall never 
 succeed — you think that her heart is engaged. If that 
 be the case, tell me so at once, and I will set off for 
 France to-morrow." 
 
 " My good sir, you are always for desperate measures 
 — you are in too great a hurry to come to a conclusion, 
 before you have the means of forming a just conclusion. 
 Remember, I tell you, this precipitate temper will some 
 time or other bring some great evil upon you." 
 
 " I will be patient all my life afterwards, if you will 
 only this instant tell me whether she is engaged." 
 
 " I do not know whether Miss Annaly's heart be 
 disengaged or not — I can tell you only that she has 
 had a number of brilliant offers, and that she has 
 refused them all." 
 
 " That proves that she had not found one amongst 
 them that she liked," said Ormond. 
 
 " Or that she liked some one better than all those 
 whom she refused," said Dr Cambray. 
 
 " That is true — that is possible — that is a dreadful 
 possibility," said Ormond. " But do you think there 
 is any probability of that ? " 
 
 " There is, I am sorry to tell you, my dear Ormond, 
 a probability against you — but I can only state the 
 facts in general. I can form no opinion, for I have 
 had no opportunity of judging — I have never seen the 
 two young people together. But there is a gentleman 
 of great merit, of suitable family and fortune, who is
 
 ORMOND. 263 
 
 deeply in love with Miss Annaly, and who I presume has 
 not been refused, for I understand he is soon to be here." 
 
 " To be here ! " cried Ormond : " a man of great 
 merit ! — I hope he is not an agreeable man." 
 
 *< That's a vain hope," said Dr Cambray ; " he is a 
 very agreeable man." 
 
 " Very agreeable ! — What sort of person — grave or 
 gay ? — Like anybody that I ever saw i" " 
 
 " Yes, like a person that you have seen, and a person 
 for whom I believe you have a regard — like his own 
 father, your dear King Corny's friend, General Albe- 
 marle." 
 
 " How extraordinary ! how unlucky ! " said Ormond. 
 " I would rather my rival was any one else than the son 
 of a man I am obliged to ; and a most dangerous rival 
 he must be, if he have his father's merit, and his father's 
 manners. Oh ! my dear Dr Cambray, I am sure she 
 likes him — and yet she could not be so cheerful in his 
 absence, if she were much in love — I defy her ; and it 
 is impossible that he can be as much in love with her as 
 I am, else nothing could keep him from her." 
 
 " Nothing but his duty, I suppose you mean ? " 
 
 "Duty!— What duty?" 
 
 " Why, there really are duties in this world to be 
 performed, though a man in love is apt to forget it. 
 Colonel Albemarle, being an officer, cannot quit his 
 regiment till he has obtained leave of absence." 
 
 " I am heartily glad of it," cried Ormond — <' I will 
 make the best use of my time before he comes. But, 
 my dear doctor, do you think Lady Annaly — do you 
 think Sir Herbert wishes it to be ? " 
 
 " I really cannot tell : — I know only that he is a 
 particular friend of Sir Herbert, and that I have heard 
 Lady Annaly speak of him as being a young man of 
 excellent character and high honour, for whom she has 
 a great regard."
 
 264 ORMOND. 
 
 Oimond sighed. 
 
 " Heaven forgive me that sigh ! " said he : "I 
 thought I never should be brought so low as to sigh at 
 hearing of any man's, excellent character and high 
 honour : but I certainly wish Colonel Albemarle had 
 never been born. Heaven preserve me from envy and 
 jealousy ! " 
 
 Our young hero had need to repeat this prayer the 
 next morning at breakfast, when Sir Herbert, on 
 opening his letters, exclaimed, " My friend, Colonel 
 Albemarle " 
 
 And Lady Annaly, in a tone of joy, " Colonel 
 Albemarle ! — I hope he will soon be here." 
 
 Sir Herbert proceeded : " Cannot obtain leave of 
 absence yet — but lives in hopes," said Sir Herbert, 
 reading the letter and handing it to his mother. 
 
 Ormond did not dare, did not think, it honourable, 
 to make use of his eyes, though there now might have 
 been a decisive moment for observation. No sound 
 reached his ear from Miss Annaly's voice ; but Lady 
 Annaly spoke freely and decidedly in praise of Colonel 
 Albemarle. As she read the letter. Sir Herbert, after 
 asking Ormond three times whether he was not ac- 
 quainted with General Albemarle, obtained tor answer 
 that he " really did not know." In tinith, Ormond 
 did not know anything at that moment. Sir Herbert, 
 surprised, and imagining that Ormond had not yet heard 
 him, was going to repeat his question — but a look from 
 his mother stopped him. A sudden light struck Lady 
 Annaly. Mothers arc remarkably quick-sighted upon 
 these occasions. Tiicre was a silence of a few minutes, 
 which appeared to poor Ormond to be a silence that 
 would never be broken ; it was broken by some slight 
 observation which the brother and sister made to each 
 other upon a paragraph in the newspaper, which they 
 were reading together. Ormond took breath.
 
 ORMOND. 265 
 
 " She cannot love him, or she could not be thinking 
 of a paragraph in the newspaper at this moment." 
 
 From this time forward Orniond was in a continual 
 state of agitation, reasoning, as the passions reason, as 
 ill as possible, upon even the slightest circumstances 
 that occurred, from whence he might draw favourable 
 or unfavourable omens. He was resolved — and that 
 was prudent — not to speak of his own sentiments, till 
 he was clear how matters stood about Colonel Albe- 
 marle : he was determined not to expose himself to 
 the useless mortification of a refusal. While in this 
 agony of uncertainty, he went out one morning to 
 take a solitary walk, that he might reflect at leisure. 
 Just as he was turning from the avenue to the path 
 that led to the wood, a car full of morning visitors 
 appeared. Ormond endeavoured to avoid them, but 
 not before he had been seen. A servant rode after 
 him to beg to know " If he was Mr Harry Ormond 
 — if he was, one of the ladies on the car, Mrs 
 M'Crule, sent her compliments to him, and requested 
 he would be so good as to let her speak with him at the 
 house, as she had a few words of consequence to say." 
 
 " Mrs M'Crule ! " Ormond did not immediately 
 recollect that he had the honour of knowing any such 
 person, till the servant said, " Miss Black, sir, that was 
 — formerly at Castle Hermitage." 
 
 His old enemy. Miss Black, he recollected well. 
 He obeyed the lady's summons, and returned to the 
 house. 
 
 Mrs M'Crule had not altered in disposition, though 
 her objects had been changed by marriage. Having 
 no longer Lady O'Shane's quarrels with her husband 
 to talk about, she had become the pest of the village 
 of Castle Hermitage and of the neighbourhood — the 
 Lady Bluemantle of the parish. Had Miss Black 
 remained in England, married or single, she would
 
 i66 ORMOND, 
 
 only have been one of a numerous species too well 
 known to need any description ; but transplanted to 
 a new soil and a new situation, she proved to be a variety 
 of the old species, with peculiarly noxious qualities, 
 which it may be useful to describe, as a warning to the 
 unwary. It is unknown how much mischief the Lady 
 Bluemantle class may do in Ireland, where parties in 
 religion and politics run high ; and where it often 
 happens that individuals of the different sects and parties 
 actually hate without knowing each other, watch without 
 mixing with one another, and consequently are prone 
 reciprocally to believe any stories or reports, however 
 false or absurd, which tend to gratify their antipathies. 
 In this situation it is scarcely possible to get at the exact 
 truth as to the words, actions, and intentions, of the 
 nearest neighbours, who happen to be of opposite parties 
 or persuasions. What a fine field is here for a mischief- 
 maker ! Mrs M'Crule had in her parish done her 
 part ; she had gone from rich to poor, from poor to rich, 
 from Catholic to Protestant, from Churchman to Dis- 
 senter, and from Dissenter to Methodist, reporting every 
 idle story, and repeating every ill-natured thing that she 
 heard said — things often more bitterly expressed than 
 thought, and always exaggerated or distorted in the 
 repetition. No two people in the parish could have 
 continued on speaking terms at the end of the year, but 
 that happily there were in this parish both a good 
 clergyman and a good priest ; and still more happily, 
 they both agreed in labouring for the good of their 
 parishioners. Dr Cambray and Mr M'Cormuck made 
 it their business continually to follow after Mrs M'Crule, 
 healing the wounds which she inflicted, and pouring into 
 the festering heart the balm of Christian charity : they 
 were beloved and revered by their parishioners ; Mrs 
 M'Crule was soon detected, and universally avoided. 
 Enraged, she attacked by turns both the clergyman and
 
 ORMOND. 267 
 
 the pilcst ; and when she could not separate them, she 
 found out that it was very wrong that they should agree. 
 She discovered that she was a much better Protestant, 
 and a much better Christian, than Dr Cambray, because 
 she hated her Catholic neighbours. 
 
 Dr Cambray had taken pains to secure the co- 
 bperation of the Catholic clergyman in all his attempts 
 to improve the lower classes of the people. His vil- 
 lage school was open to Catholics as well as Protestants ; 
 and Father M'Cormuck, having been assured that their 
 religion would not be tampered with, allowed and 
 encouraged his flock to send their children to the same 
 seminary. 
 
 Mrs M'Crule was, or affected to be, much alarmed 
 and scandalized at seeing Catholic and Protestant 
 children mixing so much together ; she knew that 
 opinions were divided among some families in the 
 neighbourhood upon the propriety of this mixture, and 
 Mrs M'Crule thought it a fine opportunity of making 
 herself of consequence, by stirring up the matter into a 
 party question. This bright idea had occurred to her 
 just about the time that Ormond brought over little 
 Tommy from the Black Islands. During Ormond's 
 absence upon his tour, Sheclah and Moriarty had 
 regularly sent the boy to the village school ; exhorting 
 him to mind his book and his fgures, that he might 
 surprise Mr Ormond with his larn'ing when he should 
 come back. Tommy, with this excitation, and being 
 a quick, clever little fellow, soon got to the head of his 
 class, and kept there ; and won all the school-prizes, 
 and canied them home in triumph to his grandame, and 
 to his dear Moriarty, to be treasured up, that he might 
 show them to Mr Ormond at his return home. Dr 
 Cambray was pleased with the boy, and so was every- 
 body, except Mrs M'Crule. She often visited the 
 school for the pleasure of finding fault; and she
 
 268 ORMOND. 
 
 •wondered to see this little Tommy, who was a Catholic!, 
 carrying away the prizes from all the others. Slie 
 thought it her duty to inquire farther about him ; and 
 as soon as she discovered that he came from the Black 
 Islands, that he lived with Moriarty, and that Mr 
 Ormond was interested about him, she said she knew 
 there was something wrong — therefore, she set her face 
 against the child, and against the shameful partiality 
 that some people showed. 
 
 Dr Cambray puisued his course without at^nding 
 to her; and little Tommy pursued his course, improving 
 rapidly in his laming. 
 
 Now there was in that county an excellent charitable 
 institution for the education of children from seven to 
 twelve years old ; an apprentice fee was given with the 
 children when they left the school, and they had 
 several other advantages, which made parents of the 
 lower classes extremely desirous to get their sons into 
 this establishment. 
 
 Before they could be admitted, it was necessary that 
 they should have a certificate from their parish minister 
 and Catholic clergyman, stating that they could read 
 and write, and that they were well-behaved children. 
 On a certain day, every year, a number of candidates 
 were presented. The certificates from the clergyman and 
 priest of their respective parishes were much attended 
 to by the lady patronesses, and by these the choice 
 of the candidate to be admitted was usually decided. 
 Little Tommy had an excellent certificate both from 
 Father M'Cormuck and from Dr Cambray. Sheelah 
 and Moriarty were in great joy, and had " all the hopes 
 in life " for him ; and Sheelah, who was very fond of 
 surprises, had cautioned Moriarty, and begged the doctor 
 not to tell Mr Harry a word about it, //// all luasjixed, 
 "for if the boy should not Ivive the luck to be chose at 
 last, it would only be breaking his little heart the worse,
 
 ORMOND. 269 
 
 that Mr Harry should know anything at all about it, 
 
 sure." 
 
 Meantime Mrs M'Crule was working against little 
 Tommy with all her might. 
 
 Some of the lady patronesses were of opinion that 
 it would be expedient in future to confine their bounty 
 to the children of Protestants only. 
 
 Mrs M'Crule, who had been deputed by one of the 
 absent ladies to act for her, was amazingly busy, visiting 
 all the patronesses, and talking, and fearing, and " hoping 
 to heaven ! " and prophesying, canvassing, and collect- 
 ing opinions and votes, as for a matter of life and 
 death. She hinted that she knew that the greatest in- 
 terest was making to get in this year a Catholic child, 
 and there was no knowing, if this went on, what the 
 consequence might be. In short, Ireland would be 
 ruined, if little Tommy should prove the successful 
 candidate. Mrs M'Crule did not find it difficult to stir 
 up the prejudices and passions of several ladies, whose 
 education and whose means of information might have 
 secured them from such contemptible influence. 
 
 Her present business at Annaly was to try what im- 
 pression she could make on Lady and Miss Annaly, 
 who were both patronesses of the school. As to Or- 
 mond, whom she never had liked, she was glad of this 
 opportunity of revenging herself upon his little protege : 
 and of making Mr Ormond sensible that she was now a 
 person of rather more consequence than she had been, 
 when he used formerly to defy her at Castle Hermitage. 
 She little thought that, while she was thus pursuing the 
 dictates of her own hate, she might serve the interests 
 of Ormond's love.
 
 270 ORMOND. 
 
 WHEN Ormond returned, In obedience to Mrs 
 M'CruIe's summons, he found in the room 
 an unusual assemblage of persons — a party of 
 morning visitors, the unmuffled contents of the car. As 
 he entered, he bowed as courteously as possible to the 
 whole circle, and advanced towards Mrs M'Crule, whose 
 portentous visage he could not fail to recognise. That 
 visage was nearly half a yard long, thin out of all pro- 
 portion, and dismal beyond all imagination ; the corners 
 of the mouth drawn down, the whites or yellows of the 
 eyes upturned, while with hands outspread she was de- 
 claiming, and in a lamentable tone deploring, as Ormond 
 thought, some great public calamity ; for the concluding 
 words were " The danger, my dear Lady Annaly — the 
 danger, my dear Miss Annaly — oh ! the danger is im- 
 minent. We shall all be positively undone, ma'am ; 
 and Ireland — oh ! I wish I was once safe in England 
 again— Ireland positively will be ruined ! " 
 
 Ormond, looking to Lady Annaly and Miss Annaly 
 for explanation, was somewhat reassured in this immi- 
 nent danger, by seeing that Lady Annaly's counte- 
 nance was perfectly tranquil, and that a slight smile 
 played on the lips of Florence. 
 
 " Mr Ormond," said Lady Annaly, " I am sorry to 
 hear that Ireland is in danger of being ruined by your 
 means." 
 
 " By my means ! " said Ormond in great surprise ; 
 " I beg your ladyship's pardon for repeating your 
 words, but I really cannot understand them." 
 
 *' Nor I neither ; but by the time you have lived as 
 long as I have in the world," said Lady Annaly, " you 
 will not be so much surprised as you now seem, my 
 good sir, at hearing people say what you do not under-
 
 ORMOND. 2 7 I 
 
 Stand. I am told that Ireland will be undone by 
 means of a protege of yours, of the name of Tommy 
 Dun — not Dun Scotus." 
 
 " Dunshaughlin, perhaps," srld Ormond, laughing, 
 " Tommy Dunshaughlm ! that little urchin ! What 
 harm can little Tommy do to Ireland, or to any 
 mortal ? " 
 
 Without condescending to turn her eyes upon 
 Ormond, whose propensity to laughter had of old been 
 offensive to her nature, Mrs M'Crule continued to 
 Lady Annaly, " It is not of this insignificant child as 
 an individual that I am speaking. Lady Annaly ; but 
 your ladyship, who has lived so long in the world, 
 must know that there is no person or thing, however 
 insignificant, that cannot, in the hands of a certain 
 description of people, be made an engine of mischief." 
 
 " Very true, indeed," said Lady Annaly. 
 
 "And there is no telling or conceiving," pursued 
 Mrs M'Crule, " how in the hands of a certain party, 
 you know, ma'am, anything now, even the least and 
 the most innocent child (not that I take upon me to 
 say that this child is so very innocent, though, to be 
 sure, he is very little) — but innocent or not, there is 
 positively nothing. Lady Annaly, ma'am, which a 
 certain party, certain evil-disposed persons, cannot turn 
 to their purposes." 
 
 *' I cannot contradict that — I wish I could," said 
 Lady Annaly. 
 
 " But I see your ladyship and Miss Annaly do not 
 consider this matter as seriously as I could wish. 'Tis 
 an infatuation," said Mrs M'Crule, uttering a sigh, 
 almost a groan, for her ladyship's and her daughter's 
 infatuation. " But if people, ladies especially, knew 
 but half as much as I have learnt, since I married Mr 
 M'Crule, of the real state of Ireland ; or if they had 
 but half a quarter as many means as I have of obtaining
 
 272 ORMOND. 
 
 information, Mr M'Crule being one of his Majesty's 
 very active justices of the peace, riding about, and up 
 and down, ma'am, scouring the country, sir, you know, 
 and having informers, high and low, bringing us every 
 sort of intelligence ; I say, my dear Lady Annaly, 
 ma'am, you would, if you only heard a hundredth part 
 of what I hear daily, tremble — your ladyship would 
 tremble from morning till night." 
 
 " Then I am heartily glad I do not hear it ; for I 
 should dislike very much to tremble from morning till 
 night, especially as my trembling could do nobody any 
 good." 
 
 " But, Lady Annaly, ma'am, you can do good by 
 exerting yourself to prevent the danger in this emer- 
 gency ; you can do good, and it becomes your station 
 and your character ; you can do good, my dear Lady 
 Annaly, ma'am, to thousands in existence, and thou- 
 sands yet unborn." 
 
 " My benevolence having but a limited appetite for 
 thousands," said Lady Annaly, " I should rather, if it 
 be equal to you, Mrs M'Crule, begin with the thou- 
 sands already in existence ; and of those thousands, 
 why not begin with little Tommy ? " 
 
 *' It is no use ! " cried Mrs M'Crule, rising from 
 her seat in the indignation of disappointed zeal : 
 "Jenny, pull the bell for the car — Mrs M'Greggor, 
 if you've no objection, I'm at your service, for 'tis no 
 use I see for me to speak here — nor should I have 
 done so, but that I positively thought it my duty ; 
 and also a becoming attention to your ladyship and 
 Miss Annaly, as lady patronesses, to let you know 
 beforehand our sentiments, as I have collected the 
 opinions of so many of the leading ladies, and appre- 
 hended your ladyship might, before it came to a public 
 push, like to have an inkling or inuendo of how matters 
 arc likely to be carried at the general meeting of the
 
 ORMOND. 273 
 
 patronesses on Satuiday next, when we are determined 
 to put it to the vote and poll. Jenny, do you see 
 Jack, and the car ? Good morning to your ladyship ; 
 good day. Miss Annaly." 
 
 Orniond put in a detainer : " I am here in obedience 
 to your summons, Mrs M'Crule — you sent to inform 
 me that you had a few words of consequence to say 
 to me." 
 
 "True, sir, I did wrap myself up this winter 
 morning, and came out, as Mrs M'Greggor can testify, 
 in spite of my poor face, in hopes of doing some little 
 good, and giving a friendly hint, before an explosion 
 should publicly take place. But you will excuse me, 
 since I find I gain so little credit, and so waste my 
 breath ; I can only leave gentlemen and ladies in this 
 emergency, if they will be blind to the danger at this 
 crisis, to follow their own opinions." 
 
 Ormond still remonstrating on the cruelty of leaving 
 him in utter darkness, and calling it blindness, and 
 assuring Mrs M'Crule that he had not the slightest 
 conception of what the danger or the emergency to 
 which she alluded might be, or what little Tommy 
 could have to do with it, the lady condescended, in 
 compliance with Mrs M'Greggor's twitch behind, 
 to stay and recommence her statement. He could not 
 forbear smiling, even more than Lady Annaly had 
 done, when he was made to understand that the 
 emergency and crisis meant nothing but this child's 
 being admitted or not admitted into a charity school. 
 While Ormond was incapable of speaking in reply 
 with becoming seriousness, Florence, who saw his 
 condition, had the kindness to draw off Mrs M'Crule's 
 attention, by asking her to partake of some excellent 
 goose-pie, which just then made its entrance. This 
 promised, for a time, to suspend the discussion, and to 
 unite all parties in one common sympathy. Wlicn 
 
 s
 
 2 74 ORMOND. 
 
 Florence saw that the consomme, to which she delicately 
 helped her, was not thrown away upon Mrs M'Crule, 
 and that the union of goose and turkey in this Christ- 
 mas dainty was much admired by this good lady, she 
 attempted playfully to pass to a reflection on the happy 
 effect that might to some tastes result from unions 
 in party matters. 
 
 But no — " too serious matters these to be jested 
 with," even with a glass of Barsac at the lips. Mrs 
 M'Crule stopped to say so, and to sigh. Per favour 
 of the Barsac, however, Florence ventured to try what 
 a little raillery might do. It was possible, that, if 
 Mrs M'Greggor and the choms of young ladies could 
 be made to laugh, Mrs M'Crule might be brought 
 to see the whole thing in a less gloomy point of view ; 
 and might perhaps be, just in time, made sensible 
 of the ridicule to which she would expose her- 
 self, by persisting in sounding so pompously a false 
 alarm. 
 
 *' But can there really be so much danger," said 
 Florence, "in letting little children, Protestant and 
 Catholic, come together to the same school — sit on the 
 same bench — learn the same alphabet from the same 
 hornbook ? " 
 
 "O my dear Miss Annaly," cried Mrs M'Crule, 
 " I do wonder to hear you treat this matter so lightly 
 — you, from whom I confess I did expect better prin- 
 ciples. * Sit on the same bench ! ' easily said ; but, my 
 dear young lady, you do not consider that some errors 
 of Popery — since there is no Catholic in the room, 
 I suppose I may say it — the errors of Popery are 
 wonderfully infectious." 
 
 "I remember," said Lady Annaly, "when I was 
 a child, being present once, when an honest Tuan, that is, 
 a Protestant (for in those days no man but a Protestant 
 could be called an honest man), came to my uncle in a
 
 ORMOND. 275 
 
 great passion to complain of the priest : ' My lord,' 
 said he, ' what do you think the priest is going to do ? 
 he is going to bury a Catholic corpse, not only in the 
 churchyard, but, my lord, near to the grave of my 
 father, who died a stanch Dissenter.' ' My dear sir,' 
 said my uncle, to the angry honest man, ' the clergyman 
 of the parish is using me worse still, for he is going to 
 bury a man, who died last Wednesday of the small-pox, 
 near to my grandmother, who never had the small-pox 
 in her lite." 
 
 Mrs M'Crule pursed up her mouth very close at this 
 story. She thought Lady Annaly and her uncle were 
 equally wicked, but she did not choose exactly to say 
 so, as her ladyship's uncle was a person of rank, and of 
 character too solidly established for Mrs M'Crule to 
 shake. She therefore only gave one of her sighs for 
 the sins of the whole generation, and after a recording 
 look at Mrs M'Greggor, she returned to the charge 
 about the schools and the children. 
 
 " It can do no possible good," she said, " to admit 
 Catholic children to our schools, because, do what you 
 will, you can never make them good Protestants." 
 
 "Well," said Lady Annaly, "as my friend, the 
 excellent Bishop of ***** * said in Parliament, ' If 
 you cannot make them good Protestants, make them 
 good Catholics, make them good anythings.' " 
 
 Giving up Lady Annaly altogether, Mrs M'Cmle 
 now desired to have Mr Ormond's ultimatum — she 
 wished to know whether he had made up his mind as 
 to the affair in question ; but she begged leave to 
 observe, " that since the child had, to use the gentlest 
 expression, the misfortune to be born and bred a 
 Catholic, it would be most prudent and gentlemanlike in 
 Mr Ormond not to make him a bone of contention, bat 
 to withdraw the poor child from the contest altogether, 
 and strike his name out of the list of candidates, till the
 
 276 ORMOND. 
 
 general question of admittance to those of his persuasion 
 should have been decided by the lady patronesses." 
 
 Ormond declared, with or without submission to 
 Mrs M'Crule, that he could not think it becoming or 
 gentlemanlike to desert a child whom he had under- 
 taken to befriend — that, whatever the child had the 
 misfortune to be born, he would abide by him ; and 
 would not add to his misfortunes by depriving him of 
 the reward of his own industry and application, and of 
 the only chance he had of continuing his good educa- 
 tion, and of getting forward in life. 
 
 Mrs M'Crule sighed and groaned. 
 
 But Ormond persisted : " The child," he said, 
 " should have fair play — the lady patronesses would 
 decide as they thought proper." 
 
 It had been said that the boy had Dr Cambray's 
 certificate, which Ormond was certain would not have 
 been given undeservedly ; he had also the certificate 
 of his own priest. 
 
 " Oh ! what signifies the certificate of his priest," 
 interrupted Mrs M'Crule ; " and as for Dr Cambray's, 
 though he is a most respectable man (too liberal, 
 perhaps), yet without meaning to insinuate anything 
 derogatory — but we all know how things are managed, 
 and Dr Cambray's great regard for Mr Ormond might 
 naturally influence him a little in favour of this little 
 protege." 
 
 Florence was very busy in replenishing Mrs 
 M'Greggor's plate, and Ormond haughtily told Mrs 
 M'Crule, "that as to Dr Cambray's character for 
 impartiality, he should leave that securely to speak for 
 itself; and that as to the rest, she was at liberty to say 
 or hint whatever she pleased, as far as he was con- 
 cerned ; but that for her own sake, he would recom- 
 mend it to her to be sure of her facts — for that slander 
 was apt to hurt in the recoil."
 
 ORMOND. 277 
 
 Alarmed by the tone of confident innocence and 
 determination with which Ormond spoke, Mrs M'Crule, 
 who like all other bullies was a coward, lowered her 
 voice, and protested she meant nothing — " certainly no 
 offence to Mr Ormond ; and as to slander, there was 
 nothing she detested so much — she was quite glad to 
 be set right — for people did talk — and she had endea- 
 voured to silence them, and now could from the best 
 authority." 
 
 Ormond looked as if he wished that any authority 
 could silence her — but no hopes of that. " She was 
 sorry to find, however, that Mr Ormond was positively 
 determined to encourage the boy, whoever he was, to 
 persist as candidate on this occasion, because she 
 should be concerned to do anything that looked like 
 opposing him ; yet she must, and she knew others were 
 determined, and in short he would be mortified to no 
 purpose." 
 
 " Well," Ormond said, " he could only do his best, 
 and bear to be mortified, if necessary, or when necessary." 
 
 A smile of approbation from Florence made his 
 heart beat, and for some moments Mrs M'Crule spoke 
 without his knowing one syllable she said. 
 
 Mrs M'Crule saw the smile, and perceived the effect. 
 As she rose to depart, she turned to Miss Annaly, and 
 whispered, but loud enough for all to hear, " Miss 
 Annaly must excuse me if 1 warn her, that if she takes 
 the part I am inclined to fear she will on Saturday, 
 people I know ivill draw inferences." 
 
 Florence coloured, but with calm dignity and spirit, 
 which Mrs M'Crule did not expect from her usual 
 gentleness and softness of manners, she replied, that 
 " no inference which might be drawn from her conduct 
 by any persons should prevent her from acting as she 
 thought right, and taking that part which she believed 
 to be just."
 
 2^8 ORMOND. 
 
 So ended the visit, or the visitation. The next day 
 Lady Annaly, Miss Annaly, Sir Herbert, and Ormond, 
 went to Vicar's Dale, and thence with the good doctor 
 to the village school, on purpose that they might see 
 and form an impartial judgment of die little boy. On 
 one day in the week, the parents and friends of the 
 children were admitted, if they chose it, to the school- 
 room, to hear the lessons, and to witness the adjudg- 
 ing of the week's premiums. This was pr'fz.e day as 
 they called it, and Sheelah and Moriarty were among 
 the spectators. Their presence, and the presence of 
 Mr Ormond, so excited — so over-excited Tommy, that 
 when he first stood up to read, his face flushed, his voice 
 faltered, his little hands trembled so much that he could 
 hardly hold the book ; he could by no means turn over 
 the leaf, and he was upon the point of disgracing him- 
 self by bursting into tears. 
 
 " Oh ! ho ! " cried an ill-natured voice of triumph 
 from one of the spectators. Ormond and the Annalys 
 turned, and saw behind them Mrs M'Cmle. 
 
 "Murder!" whispered Sheelah to Moriarty, "if 
 she fixes him with that evil eye, and he gets the 
 stroke of it, Moriarty, 'tis all over with him for 
 life." 
 
 " Tut, woman, dear — what can hurt him ? is not the 
 good doctor in person standing betwixt him and harm ? 
 and see ! he is recovering upon it fast — quite come to ! 
 — Hark! — he is himself again — Tommy, voice and 
 all I — success to him ! " 
 
 He had success, and he deserved it — the prizes were 
 Jiis ; and when they were given to him, the congratulat- 
 ing smiles of his companions showed that Dr Cambray's 
 justice was unimpeachcd by those whom it most con- 
 cerned ; that notwithstanding all that had been said and 
 done directly and indirectly, to counteract his benevolent 
 efforts, he had succeeded in preventing envy and party
 
 ORMOND. 279 
 
 spirit from spreading discord among these innocent 
 children. 
 
 Mrs M'Crule withdrew, and nobody saw when or 
 how. 
 
 " It is clear," said Lady Annaly, " that this boy is 
 no favourite, for he has friends." 
 
 "Or if he be a favourite, and have friends, it is a 
 proof that he has extraordinary merit," said Sir Herbert. 
 
 " He is coming to us," said Florence, who had been 
 excessively interested for the child, and whose eyes had 
 followed him wherever he went : " Brother," whispered 
 she, " will you let him pass you ? he wants to say some- 
 thing to Mr Ormond." 
 
 The boy brought to Ormond all the prizes which he 
 had won since the time he first came to school : his 
 grandame, Sheelah, had kept them safe in a litle basket, 
 which he now put into Ormond's hands, with honest 
 pride and pleasure. 
 
 " I got 'em, and granny said you'd like to see them, 
 so she did — and here's what will please you — see my 
 certificates — see, signed by the doctor himself's own 
 hand, and Father M'Cormuck, that's his name, with his 
 blessing by the same token he gave me." 
 
 Ormond looked with great satisfaction at Tommy's 
 treasures, and Miss Annaly looked at them too with no 
 small delight. 
 
 " Well, my boy, have you anything more to say ? " said 
 Ormond to the child, who looked as if he was anxious 
 to say something more. 
 
 " I have, sir ; it's what I'd be glad to speak a word 
 with you, Mr Harry." 
 
 " Speak it, then — you are not afraid of this lady ? " 
 
 " O no — that I am not," said the boy, with a very 
 expressive smile and emphasis. 
 
 But as the child seemed to wish that no one else 
 should hear, Ormond retired a step or two with him
 
 28o ORMOND. 
 
 behind the crowd. Tommy would not let go Miss 
 Annaly's hand, so she heard all that passed. 
 
 " I am afeard I am too troublesome to you, sir," 
 said the boy. 
 
 " To me — not the least," said Ormond : " speak on 
 — say all you have in your mind." 
 
 "Why, then," said the child, "I have something 
 greatly on my mind, because I heard granny talking to 
 Moriarty about it last night, over the fire, and I in the 
 bed. Then I know all about Mrs M'Crule, and how 
 if I don't give out, and wouldn't give up about the 
 grand school, on Saturday, I should, may be, be 
 bringing you, Mr Harry, into great trouble : so that 
 being the case I'll give up entirely — and I'll go back 
 to the Black Islands to-morrow," said Tommy, 
 stoutly ; yet swelling so in the chest that he could not 
 say another word. He turned away. 
 
 As they were walking home together from the 
 school, Moriarty said to Sheclah, " I'll engage, Sheelah, 
 you did not see all that passed the day." 
 
 " I'll engage I did though," said Sheelah. 
 
 " Why, then, Sheelah, you've quick eyes still." 
 
 " Oh ! I'm not so blind but what I could see that 
 with half an eye — ay, and saw how it was with them 
 before you did, Moriarty. From the first minute they 
 comed into the room together, said I to myself, ' There's 
 a pair of angels well matched, if ever there was a pair 
 on earth.' These things is all laid out above, unknownst 
 to us, from the first minute we are born, 'voho we are to 
 have in marriage," added Sheelah. 
 
 " No ; not fixed from the first minute we are born, 
 Sheelah : it is not" said Moriarty. 
 
 " And how should you know, Moriarty," said 
 Sheelah ; "whether or not?" 
 
 " And why not as well as you, Sheelah, dear," 
 replied Moriarty, " if you go to that ? "
 
 OR.MOND. 281 
 
 I 
 
 " Well, In the name of fortune, have it your own 
 way," said Sheelah ; "and how do you think it is 
 then ? " 
 
 "Why it is partly fixed for us," said Moriarty ; 
 *' but the choice is still in us, always " 
 
 " Oh ! burn me if I understand that," said 
 Sheelah. 
 
 " Then you ai'e mighty hard of understanding this 
 morning, Sheelah. See now, with reg;ird to master 
 Harry and Peggy Sheridan : it's my opinion, 'twas 
 laid out from the first, that in case he did not do that 
 wrong about Peggy — then see. Heaven had this lady, 
 this angel, from that time forward in view for him, by 
 way of compensation for not doing the wrong he might 
 have chose to do. Now, don't you think, Sheelah, 
 that's the way it was ? be a rasonable woman." 
 
 The rasonable woman was puzzled and silent, 
 Sheelah and Moriarty having got, without knowing it, 
 to the dark depths of metaphysics. There was some 
 danger of their knocking their heads against each 
 other there, as wiser heads have done on similar 
 occasions. 
 
 It was an auspicious circumstance for Ormond's 
 love that Florence had now a daily object of thought 
 and feeling in common with him. Mrs M'Ciiile's 
 having piqued Florence was in Ormond's favour : it 
 awakened her pride, and conquered her timidity ; she 
 ventured to trust her own motives. To be sure, the 
 interest she felt for this child was uncommonly vivid ; 
 but she might safely avow this interest — it was in the 
 cause of one who was innocent, and who had been 
 oppressed. 
 
 As Mrs M'Crule was so vindictively busy, going 
 about daily among the lady patronesses, preparing for 
 the great battle that was to be decided on the famous 
 Saturday, it was necessary that Lady and Miss Annaly
 
 282 ORMOND. 
 
 should exert themselves at least to make the truth 
 known to their friends, to take them to see Dr Cam- 
 bray's school, and to judge of the little candidate im- 
 partially. The day for decision came, and Florence 
 felt an anxiety, an eagerness, which made her infinitely 
 more amiable and more interesting in Ormond's eyes. 
 The election was decidedly in favour of humanity and 
 justice. Florence was deputed to tell the decision to 
 the successful little candidate, who was waiting, with 
 his companions, to hear his fate. Radiant with 
 benevolent pleasure, she went to announce the glad 
 tidings. 
 
 " Oh ! if she is not beautiful ! " cried Sheelah, 
 clasping her hands. 
 
 Ormond felt it so warmly, and his looks expressed 
 his feelings so strongly, that Florence, suddenly abashed, 
 could scarcely finish her speech. 
 
 If Mrs M'Crule had been present, she might again 
 have cried " Oh ! ho ! " but she had retreated, too 
 much discomfited by the disappointments of hatred to 
 stay even to embarrass the progress of love. Love had 
 made of late rapid progress. Joining in the cause of 
 justice and humanity, mixing with all the virtues, he 
 had taken possession of the heart happily, safely — un- 
 consciously at first, yet triumphantly at last. 
 
 Where was Colonel Albemarle all this time ? Or- 
 mond neither knew nor cared ; he thought but little of 
 him at this moment. However, said he to himself, 
 Colonel Albemarle will be here in a few days — it is 
 better for me to see how things are there before I 
 speak — I am sure Florence could not give me a decisive 
 answer, till her brother has disentangled that business 
 for her. Lady Annaly said as much to me the other 
 day, if I understood her rightly — and I am sure this is 
 the state of the case, from the pains Florence takes 
 now to avoid giving me an opportunity of speaking to
 
 ORMOND. 283 
 
 her alone, which I have been watching for so anxiously. 
 So reasoned Ormond ; but his reasonings, whether wise 
 or foolisli, were set at nought by unforeseen events. 
 
 ONE evening Ormond walked with Sir Herbert 
 Annaly to the sea-shore, to look, at the light- 
 house which was building. He was struck with 
 all that had been done here in the course of a few months, 
 and especially with the alteration in the appearance of the 
 people. Their countenances had changed from the look 
 of desponding idleness and cunning, to the air of busy, 
 hopeful independence. He could not help congratulating 
 Sir Herbert, and warmly expressing a wish that he might 
 himself in the whole course of his life do half as much 
 good as Sir Herbert had already effected. 
 
 " You will do a great deal more," said Sir Herbert : 
 " you will have a great deal more time. I must make 
 the best of the little — probably the very little time I 
 shall have : while I yet live, let me not live in vain." 
 
 " Tel live," said Ormond ; " I hope — I trust — you 
 will live many years to be happy, and to make others 
 so : your strength seems quite re-established — you have 
 all the appearance of health." 
 
 Sir Herbert smiled, but shook his head. 
 
 " My dear Ormond, do not trust to outward appear- 
 ances too much. Do not let my friends entirely de- 
 ceive themselves. I inozu that my life cannot be long — 
 I wish, before I die, to do as much good as I can." 
 
 The manner in which these words were said, and 
 the look with which tliey were accompanied, impressed 
 Ormond at once with a conviction of the danger, for- 
 titude, and magnanimity, of the person who spoke to
 
 2 84 ORMOND. 
 
 him. The hectic colour, the brilliant eye, the vivid- 
 ness of fancy, the superiority of intellectual powers, 
 the warmth of the affections, and the amiable gentle- 
 ness of the disposition of this young man, were, alas ! 
 but so many fatal indications of his disease. The 
 energy with which, with decreasing bodily and increas- 
 ing mental strength, he pursued his daily occupations, 
 and performed more than every duty of his station ; 
 the never-failing temper and spirits with which he sus- 
 tained the hopes of many of his friends ; were but so 
 many additional causes of alarm to the too experienced 
 mother. Florence, with less experience, and with a 
 temper happily prone to hope, was more easily de- 
 ceived. She could not believe that a being, whom she 
 saw so full of life, could be immediately in danger of 
 dying. Her brother had now but a very slight cough 
 — he had, to all appearance, recovered from the acci- 
 dent by which they had been so much alarmed when 
 they were in England. The physicians had pro- 
 nounced, that with care to avoid cold and all violent 
 exertion he might do well and last long. 
 
 To fulfil the conditions was difficult ; especially 
 that which required him to refrain from any great 
 exertion. Whenever he could be of service to his 
 friends, or could do any good to his fellow-creatures, 
 he spared neither mental nor bodily exertion. Under 
 the influence of benevolent enthusiasm, he continually 
 forgot the precarious tenure by which he held his 
 life. 
 
 It was now the middle of winter, and one stormy 
 night a vessel was wrecked on the coast near Annaly. 
 The house was at such a distance from that part of 
 the shore where the vessel struck, that Sir Herbert 
 knew nothing of it till the next morning, when it was 
 all over. No lives were lost. It was a small trading 
 vessel, richly laden. Knowing the vile habits of some
 
 ORMOND. 285 
 
 of the people who lived on the coast, Sir Herbert, the 
 moment he heard that there was a wreck, went down 
 to see that the property of the sufferers was protected 
 from those depredators, who on such occasions were 
 astonishingly alert. Ormond accompanied him, and 
 by their joint exertions much of the property was 
 placed in safety under a military guard. Some had 
 been seized and carried off before their arrival, but not 
 by any of Sir Herbert's tenants. It became pretty 
 clear that the neighbours on Sir Ulick O'Shane's estate 
 were the offenders. They had grown bold from im- 
 punity, and from the belief that no jantleman " would 
 choose to interfere with them, on account of their 
 landlord." 
 
 Sir Herbert's indignation rose. Ormond pledged 
 himself that Sir Ulick O'Shane would never protect 
 such wretches ; and eager to assist public justice, to 
 defend his guardian, and, above all, to calm Sir Her- 
 bert and prevent him from over-exerting himself, he 
 insisted upon being allowed to go in his stead with 
 the party of military who were to search the sus- 
 pected houses. It was with some difficulty that he 
 prevailed. He parted with Sir Herbert ; and, struck 
 at the moment with his highly-raised colour, and the 
 violent heat and state of excitation he was in, Ormond 
 again urged him to remember his own health, and his 
 mother and sister. 
 
 "I will — I do," said Sir Herbert; "but it is my 
 duty to think of public justice before I think of myself." 
 
 The apprehension Ormond felt in quitting Sir Herbert 
 recurred frequently as he rode on in silence ; but he was 
 called into action, and it was dissipated. Ormond 
 spent nearly three hours searching a number of wretched 
 cabins, from which the male inhabitants fled at the 
 approach of the military, leaving the women and children 
 to make what excuses and tell what lies they could.
 
 286 ORMOND. 
 
 This the women and children executed with great 
 readiness and ability, and in the most pity-moving tones 
 imaginable. 
 
 The inside of an Irish cabin appears very difFerent to 
 those who come to claim hospitality and to those who 
 come to detect offenders. 
 
 Ormond having never before entered a cabin with a 
 search warrant, constable, or with the military, he was 
 " not up to the thing " — as both the serjeant and 
 constable remarked to each other. While he listened 
 to the piteous story of a woman about a husband who 
 had broken his leg from a ladder, sarving the masons at 
 Sir Herbert's lighthouse, and was lying at the hospital, 
 not expected* the husband was lying all the time with 
 both his legs safe and sound in a potato furrow within 
 a few yards of the house. And the child of another 
 eloquent matron was running off with a pair of silver- 
 mounted pistols taken from the wreck, which he was 
 instructed to hide in a bog-hole, snug — the bog-water 
 never rusting. In one hovel — for the houses of these 
 wretches who lived by pillage, after all their ill-gotten 
 gains, were no better than hovels — in one of them, in 
 which, as the information stated, some valuable plunder 
 was concealed, they found nothing but a poor woman 
 groaning in bed, and two little children ; one crying as 
 if its heart would break, and the other sitting up behind 
 the mother's bolster supporting her. After the soldiers 
 had searched every place in vain, even the thatch of the 
 house, the woman showing no concern all the while, but 
 groaning on, seeming scarce able to answer Mr Ormond's 
 questions — the constable, an old hand, roughly bade her 
 get up, that they might search the bed ; this Ormond 
 would not permit : — she lay still, thanking his honour 
 laintly, and they quitted the house. The goods which 
 had been carried off were valuable, and were hid in 
 * Not expected to live.
 
 ORMOND. 28 7 
 
 the straw of the very bed on which the woman was 
 lying. 
 
 As they were returning homewards after their fruit- 
 less search, when they had passed the boundary of Sir 
 Ulick's and had reached Sir Herbert's territory, they 
 were overtaken by a man, who whispered something to 
 the Serjeant which made him halt, and burst out a-laugh- 
 ing ; the laugh ran through the whole Serjeant's guard, 
 and reached Ormond's ears ; who, asking the cause of 
 it, was told how the woman had cheated them, and 
 how she was now risen from her bed, and was dividing 
 the prize among the la'wful oivners, " share and share 
 alike." These lawful owners, all risen out of the 
 potato furrows, and returning from the bogs, were now 
 assembled, holding their bed of justice. At the 
 moment the Serjeant's information came off, their 
 captain, with a bottle of whiskey in his hand, was 
 drinking " To the health of Sir Ulick O'Shane, our 
 worthy landlord — seldom comes a better. The same 
 to his ward, Harry Ormond, Esq., and may his eyesight 
 never be better nor worse." 
 
 Harry Ormond instantly turned his horse's head, 
 much provoked at having been duped, and resolved 
 that the plunderers should not now escape. By the 
 advice of Serjeants and constables, he dismounted, that 
 no sound of horses' hoofs might give notice from a 
 distance ; though, indeed, on the sands of the sea-shore, 
 no horses' tread, he thought, could be heard. He 
 looked round for some one with whom he could leave 
 his horse, but not a creature, except the men who were 
 with him, was in sight. 
 
 " What can have become of all the people ? " said 
 Ormond : " it is not the workmen's dinner-hour, and 
 they are all gone from the work at the lighthouse ; and 
 the horses and cars are left without any one with them." 
 He went on a few paces, and saw a boy v/ho seemed
 
 288 ORMOND. 
 
 to be left to watch the horses, and who looked 
 very melancholy. The boy did not speak as Ormond 
 came up. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " said Ormond : " something 
 dreadful has happened — speak ! " 
 
 " Did not you hear it, sir ? " said the boy : " I'd be 
 loath to tell it you." 
 
 *' Has anything happened to " 
 
 " Sir Herbert — ay — the worst that could. Running 
 to stop one of them villains that was making off with 
 something from the wreck, he dropped sudden as if he 
 
 was shot, and — when they went to lift him up 
 
 But you'll drop yourself, sir," said the boy. 
 
 " Give him some of the water out of the bucket, 
 can't ye ? " 
 
 " Here's my cap," said the serjeant. Ormond was 
 made to swallow the water, and, recovering his senses, 
 heard one of the soldiers near him say, " "Twas only a 
 faint Sir Herbert took, I'll engage." 
 
 The thought was new life to Ormond : he started up, 
 mounted his horse, and galloped off — saw no creature 
 on the road — found a crowd at the gate of the avenue 
 — the crowd opened to let him pass, many voices 
 calling as he passed to beg him to send out <word. 
 This gave him fresh hopes, since nothing certain was 
 known : he spurred on his horse ; but when he reached 
 the house, as he was going to Sir Herbert's room he 
 was met by Sir Herbert's own man, O'Reilly. The 
 moment he saw O'Reilly's face, he knew there was no 
 hope — he asked no question : the surgeon came out, 
 and told him that in consequence of having broke a 
 blood-vessel, which bled internally. Sir Herbert had 
 just expired — his mother and sister were with him. 
 Ormond retired — he begged the servants would write 
 to him at Dr Cambray's — and he immediately went 
 away.
 
 ORMOND. 289 
 
 Two days after he had a note from O'Reilly, written 
 in haste, at a very early hour in the morning, to say that 
 he was just setting out with the hearse to the family 
 burial-place at Herbert — it having been thought best 
 that the funeral should not be in this neighbourhood, 
 on account of the poor people at Annaly being so ex- 
 asperated against those who were thought to be the 
 immediate occasion of his death. Sir Herbert's last 
 orders to O'Reilly were to this effect — " to take care, 
 and to have everything done as privately as possible." 
 
 No pomp of funeral was, indeed, necessary for such 
 a person. The great may need it — the good need it 
 not : they are mourned in the heart, and they are 
 remembered without vain pageantry. If public sorrow 
 can soothe private grief — and surely in some measure it 
 must — the family and friends of this young man had 
 this consolation ; but they had another and a better. 
 
 It is the triumph of religion and of its ministers to 
 be able to support the human heart, when all other 
 resources are of little avail. Time, it is true, at length 
 effaces the recollection of misfortune, and age deadens 
 the sense of sorrow. But that pow^er to console is surely 
 far superior in its effect, more worthy of a rational and 
 a social being, which operates — not by contracting or 
 benumbing our feelings and faculties, but by expanding 
 and ennobling them — inspiring us, not with stoic indif- 
 ference to the pains and pleasures of humanity, but with 
 pious submission to the will of Heaven — to the order 
 and orderer of the uni\'erse. 

 
 290 ORMOND. 
 
 THOUGH Sir Ulick O' Shane contrived to laugh 
 on most occasions where other people would 
 have wept, and though he had pretty well case- 
 hardened his heart, yet he was shocked by the first news 
 of the death of Sir Herbert Annaly. He knew the 
 man must die, he said — so must we all, sooner or later — 
 but for the manner of his death, Sir Ulick could not 
 help feeling a secret pang. He felt conscious of having 
 encoui'aged, or at least connived at, the practices of those 
 wretches who had roused the generous and just indigna- 
 tion of Sir Herbert, and in pursuit of whom this fine 
 young man had fallen a sacrifice. 
 
 Not only " the still small voice," but the cry of the 
 country, was against Sir Ulick on this occasion. He 
 saw that he must give up the offenders, and show 
 decidedly that he desired to have them punished. 
 Decidedly, then, and easily as ever prince abandoned 
 secretary or chancellor to save his own popularity, 
 quickly as ever grand seignior gave up grand vizier or 
 chief baker to appease the people, Sir Ulick gave up his 
 " honest rascals" his " rare rapparees," and even his 
 '■^ ivrecher royal" Sir Ulick set his magistrate, Mr 
 M'Crule, at work for once on the side both of justice 
 and law ; warrants, committals, and constables cleared 
 the land. Many fled — a few were seized, escorted 
 ostentatiously by a Serjeant and t<wehe of Sir Ulick's 
 corps, and lodged in the county jail to stand their trial, 
 bereft of all Javour and purtection, bona fide delivered 
 up to justice. 
 
 A considerable tract of Sir Ulick's coast estate, in 
 consequence of this, remained untenanted. Some person 
 in whom he could confide must be selected to inhabit 
 the fishing-lodge, and to take care of the cabins and
 
 ORMOND. 2gi 
 
 land till they should be relet. Sir Ulick pitched upon 
 Moriarty Carroll for this purpose, and promised him 
 such liberal reward, that all Moriarty's friends con- 
 gratulated him upon his "great luck in getting the 
 appointment, against the man, too, that Mr Marcus 
 had proposed and favoured." 
 
 Marcus, who was jealous in tlie extreme of power, 
 and who made every trifle a matter of party competition, 
 was vexed at the preference given against an hottest man 
 and Si friend oi his own, in favour of Moriarty, a Catholic ; 
 a fellow he had always disliked, and a protege of Mr 
 Oimond. Ormond, though obliged to Sir Ulick for 
 this kindness to Moriarty, was too intent on other things 
 to think much about the matter. When he should see 
 Florence Annaly again seemed to him the only question 
 in the universe of great importance. 
 
 Just at this time arrived letters for Mr Ormond, 
 from Paris, from M. and Mad. de Connal ; very kind 
 letters, with pressing invitations to him to pay them a 
 visit. M. de Connal informed him, "that the five 
 hundred pounds, King Corny's legacy, was ready wait- 
 ing his orders. M. de Connal hoped to put it into Mr 
 Ormond's hands in Paris in his own hotel, where he 
 trusted that Mr Ormond would do him the pleasure of 
 soon occupying the apartments which were preparing 
 for him." It did not clearly appear whether they had 
 or had not heard of his accession of fortune. Dora's 
 letter was not from Dora — it was from Mad. de Connal. 
 It was on green paper, with a border of Cupids and 
 roses, and store of sentimental devices in the corners. 
 The turn of every phrase, the style, as far as Ormond 
 could judge, was quite French — aiming evidently at 
 being perfectly Parisian. Yet it was a letter so flatter- 
 ing to the vanity of man as might well incline him 
 to excuse the vanity of woman. " Besides," as Sir 
 Ulick O'Shane observed, "after making due deduc-
 
 292 ORMOND. 
 
 tions for French sentiment, there remains enough to 
 satisfy an honest English heart that the lady really 
 desires to see you, Ormond ; and that now, in the 
 midst of her Parisian prosperity, she has the grace to 
 wish to show kindness to her father's adopted son, and 
 to the companion and friend of her childhood." Sir 
 Ulick was of opinion that Ormond could not do better 
 than accept the invitation. Ormond was surprised, for 
 he well recollected the manner in which his guardian 
 had formerly, and not many months ago, written and 
 spoken of Connal as a coxcomb and something worse. 
 
 " That is true," said Sir Ulick ; " but that was 
 when I was angry about your legacy, which was of 
 great consequence to us then, though of none now — 
 I certainly did suspect the man of a design to cheat 
 you ; but it is clear that I was wrong — I am ready 
 candidly to acknowledge that I did him injustice. 
 Your money is at your order — and I have nothing 
 to say but to beg M. de Connal ten thousand French 
 pardons. Observe, I do not beg pardon for calling 
 him a coxcomb, for a coxcomb he certainly is." 
 
 " An insufferable coxcomb 1 " cried Ormond. 
 
 " But a coxcomb in fashion," said Sir Ulick ; "and 
 a coxcomb in fashion is a useful connexion. He did 
 not fable about Versailles — I have made particular 
 inquiries from our ambassador at Paris, and he writes 
 me word that Connal is often at court — en bonne odeur 
 at Versailles. The ambassador says he meets the 
 Connals everywhere in the first circles — how they 
 came there I don't know." 
 
 " I am glad to hear that, for Dora's sake," said 
 Ormond. 
 
 " I always thought her a sweet, pretty little crea- 
 ture," said Sir Uhck, " and no doubt she has been 
 polished up ; and dress and fashion make such a dif- 
 ference in a woman — I suppose she is now ten times
 
 ORMOND. 293 
 
 better — that is, prettier : she will introduce you at 
 Paris, and your own merit — that is, manners, and 
 figure, and fortune — will make your way everywhere. 
 By-the-bye, I do not see a word about poor made- 
 moiselle — O yes ! here is a line squeezed in at the 
 edge — < Mille tendres souvenirs de la part de Mdlle. 
 O'Faley.'" 
 
 "Poor mademoiselle !" 
 
 "Poor mademoiselle!" repeated Sir Ulick. 
 
 "Do you mean that thing half Irisht half French^ 
 half mud, half tinsel ? " said Ormond. 
 
 " Very good memory ! very sly, Harry ! But still 
 in the Irish half of her I dare say there is a heart ; and 
 we must allow her the tinsel, in pure gratitude for 
 having taught you to speak French so well — that will 
 be a real advantage to you in Paris." 
 
 " Whenever I go there, sir," said Ormond coldly. 
 
 Sir Ulick was very much disappointed at perceiving 
 that Ormond had no mind to go to Paris ; but dropping 
 the subject, he turned the conversation upon the Annalys ; 
 he praised Florence to the skies, hoped that Ormond 
 would be more fortunate than Marcus had been, for 
 somehow or other he should never live or die in peace 
 till Florence Annaly was more nearly connected with 
 him. He regretted, however, that poor Sir Herbert was 
 carried off before he had completed the levying of those 
 fines, which would have cut off the entail, and barred 
 the heir-at-law from the Herbert estates. Florence 
 was not now the great heiress it was once expected she 
 should be ; indeed she had but a moderate gentlewoman's 
 fortune — not even what at Smithfield a man of Ormond's 
 fortune might expect ; but Sir Ulick knew, he said, that 
 this would make no difference to his ward, unless to 
 make him in greater impatience to propose for her. 
 
 It was impossible to be in greater impatience to 
 propose for her than Ormond was. Sir Ulick did
 
 294 ORMOND. 
 
 not wonder at it ; but he thought that Miss Annaly 
 would not, could not, listen to him yet. Time, the 
 comforter, must come first ; and while time was doing 
 his business, love could not decently be admitted. 
 
 " That was the reason," said Sir Ulick, returning by 
 another road to the charge, " why I advised a trip to 
 Paris ; but you know best." 
 
 " I cannot bear this suspense — I must and will know 
 my fate — I will write instantly, and obtain an answer." 
 
 " Do so ; and to save time, I can tell what your fate 
 and your answer will be : from Florence Annaly, assur- 
 ance of perfect esteem and regard, as far as friendship, 
 perhaps ; but she will tell you that she cannot think of 
 love at present. Lady Annaly, prudent Lady Annaly, 
 will say that she hopes Mr Ormond will not think of 
 settling for life till he has seen something more of the 
 world. Well, you don't believe me," said Sir Ulick, 
 intermpting himself just at the moment when he saw 
 that Ormond began to think there was some sense in 
 what he was saying. 
 
 " If you don't believe me, Harry," continued he, 
 " consult your oracle, Dr Cambray : he has just returned 
 from Annaly, and he can tell you how the land lies." 
 
 Dr Cambray agreed with Sir Ulick that both Lady 
 Annaly and her daughter would desire that Ormond 
 should see more of the world before he settled for life ; 
 but as to going off to Paris, without waiting to see or 
 write to them, Dr Cambray agreed with Ormond that 
 it would be the worst thing he could do — that so far 
 from appearing a proof of his respect to their grief, it 
 would only seem a proof of indifference, or a sign 
 of impatience : they would conclude that he was in 
 haste to leave his friends in adversity to go to those in 
 prosperity, and to enjoy the gaiety and dissipation of 
 Paris. Dr Cambray advised that he should remain 
 quietly where he was, and wait till Miss Annaly should
 
 ORMOND. 295 
 
 be disposed to see him. This was most prudent, 
 Ormond allowed. " But then the delay !" To con- 
 quer by delay we must begin by conquering our im- 
 patience : now that was what our hero could not possibly 
 do — therefore he jumped hastily to this conclusion, that 
 " in love affairs no man should follow any mortal's 
 opinion but his own." 
 
 Accordingly he sat down and wrote to Miss Annaly 
 a most passionate letter, enclosed in a most dutiful one 
 to Lady Annaly, as full of respectful attachment and 
 entire obedience as a son-in-law expectant could devise — 
 beginning very properly and very sincerely, with anxiety 
 and hopes about her ladyship's health, and ending, as 
 properly, and as sincerely, with hopes that her ladyship 
 would permit him, as soon as possible, to take from her 
 the greatest, the only remaining source of happiness she 
 had in life — her daughter. 
 
 Having worded this very plausibly — for he had now 
 learned how to write a letter — our hero despatched a 
 servant of Sir Ulick's with his epistle ; ordering him 
 to wait certainly for an answer, but above all things to 
 make haste back. Accordingly the man took a cross 
 road — a short cut, and coming to a bridge, which he 
 did not know was broken down till he was close upon it, 
 he was obliged to return and to go round, and did not 
 get home till long after dark — and the only answer he 
 brought was, that there was no answer — only Lady 
 Annaly's compliments. 
 
 Ormond could scarcely believe that no answer had 
 been sent ; but the man took all the saints in heaven or 
 in the calendar to witness that he would not tell his 
 honour, or a.ny J ant/eman, a lie. 
 
 Upon a cross-examination, the man gave proof that 
 he had actually seen both the ladies. They were sitting 
 so and so, and dressed so and so, in mourning. Fartlier, 
 he gave undeniable proof that he had delivered the
 
 296 ORMOND. 
 
 letters, and that they had been opened and read ; for — 
 by the same token — he was summoned up to my lady 
 on account of one of Mr Ormond's letters, he did not 
 know ivhlch, or to luho, being dated Monday, whereas 
 it was Wednesday ; and he had to clear himself of 
 having been three days on the road. 
 
 Ormond, inordinately impatient, could not rest a 
 moment. The next morning he set off full speed 
 for Annaly, determined to find out what was the 
 matter. 
 
 Arrived there, a new footman came to the door with 
 " Not at home, sir." Ormond could have knocked him 
 down, but he contented himself with striking his own 
 forehead — however, in a genteel proper voice, he desired 
 to see Sir Herbert's own man, O'Reilly. 
 
 "Mr O'Reilly is not here, sir — absent on busi- 
 ness. 
 
 Everything was adverse. Ormond had one hope 
 that this new fellow, not knowing him, might by 
 mistake have included him in a general order against 
 morning visitors. 
 
 " My name is Ormond, sir." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "And I beg you will let Lady Annaly and Miss 
 Annaly know that Mr Ormond is come to pay his 
 respects to them." 
 
 The man seemed very unwilling to carry any message 
 to his ladies. *' He was sure," he said, " that the ladies 
 would not see anybody." 
 
 " Was Lady Annaly ill ? " 
 
 " Her ladyship had been but poorly, but was better 
 within the last two days." 
 
 "And Miss Annaly?" 
 
 " Wonderful better, too, sir ; has got up her spirits 
 greatly to-day." 
 
 " I am very glad to hear it," said Ormond. " Pray,
 
 ORMOND. 297 
 
 sir, can you tell me whether a servant from Mr Ormond 
 brought a letter here yesterday ? " 
 
 " He did, sir," 
 
 " And was there any answer sent ? " 
 
 " I really can't say, sir." 
 
 " Be so good to take my name to your lady," re- 
 peated Ormond. 
 
 " Indeed, sir, I don't like to go in, for I know my 
 lady — both my ladies is engaged, very particularly 
 engaged. However, if you very positively desire it, 
 sir " 
 
 Ormond did very positively desire it, and the foot- 
 man obeyed. While Ormond was waiting impatiently 
 for the answer, his horse, as impatient as himself, 
 would not stand still. A groom, who was sauntering 
 about, saw the uneasiness of the horse, and observing 
 that it was occasioned by a peacock, who, with spread 
 tail, was strutting in the sunshine, he ran and chased 
 the bird away. Ormond thanked the groom, and 
 threw him a luck token ; but not recollecting his face, 
 asked how long he had been at Annaly. " I think 
 you were not here when I was here last?" said 
 Ormond. 
 
 " No, sir," said the man, looking a little puzzled ; 
 " I never was here till the day before yesterday in my 
 born days. We l>ees from England." 
 
 "We!" 
 
 " That is, I and master — that is, master and I." 
 
 Ormond grew pale ; but the groom saw nothing of 
 it — his eyes had fixed upon Ormond's horse. 
 
 " A very fine horse this of yours, sir, for sartain, if 
 he could but stand, sir ; he's main restless at a door. 
 My master's horse is just his match for that." 
 
 " And pray who is your master, sir ? " said Ormond^ 
 in a voice which he forced to be calm. 
 
 « My master, sir, is one Colonel Albemarle, son of
 
 298 ORMOND. 
 
 the famous General Albemarle, as lost his arm, sir, 
 you might have heard talk of, time back," said the 
 groom. 
 
 At this moment a window-blind was flapped aside, 
 and before the wind blew it back to its place again, 
 Ormond saw Florence Annaly sitting on a sofa, and 
 a gentleman, in regimentals, kneeling at her feet. 
 
 " Bless my eyes ! " cried the groom, " what made 
 you let go his bridle, sir ? Only you sat him well, 
 sir, he would ha' thrown you that minute — Curse 
 the blind ! that flapped in his eyes." 
 
 The footman reappeared on the steps. " Sir, it 
 is just as I said — I could not be let in. Mrs Spencer, 
 my lady's woman, says the ladies is engaged — you 
 can't see them." 
 
 Ormond had seen enough. 
 
 " Very well, sir," said he — *' Mr Ormond's com- 
 pliments — he called, that's all." 
 
 Ormond put spurs to his horse and galloped off; 
 and fast as he went, he urged his horse still faster. 
 
 In the agony of disappointed love and jealousy, he 
 railed bitterly against the whole sex, and against 
 Florence Annaly in particular. Many were the rash 
 vows he made that he would never think of her more 
 — that he would tear her from his heart — that he 
 would show her that he was no whining lover, no 
 easy dupe, to be whiffled off and on, the sport of a 
 coquette." 
 
 "A coquette! — is it possible, Florence Annaly? — 
 Tou — and after all 1 " 
 
 Certain tender recollections obtruded ; but he re- 
 pelled them — ^he would not allow one of them to 
 mitigate his rage. His naturally violent passion of 
 anger, now that it broke again from the control of his 
 reason, seemed the more ungovernable from the sense 
 of past and the dread of future restraint.
 
 ORMOND. 299 
 
 So, when a horse naturally violent, and half trained 
 to the curb, takes fright, or takes offence, and, starting, 
 throws his master, away he gallops ; enraged the more 
 by the fallen bridle, he rears, plunges, curvets, and 
 lashes out behind at broken girth or imaginary pursuer. 
 
 " Good heavens ! what is the matter with you, 
 my dear boy ? — what has happened ? " cried Sir Ulick, 
 the moment he saw him ; for the disorder of Ormond's 
 mind appeared strongly in his face and gestures — 
 still more strongly in his words. 
 
 When he attempted to give an account of what had 
 happened, it was so broken, so exclamatory, that it 
 was wonderful how Sir Ulick made out the plain 
 fact. Sir Ulick, however, well understood the short- 
 hand language of the passions : he listened with eager 
 interest — he sympathized so fully with Ormond's 
 feelings — expressed such astonishment, such indig- 
 nation, that Harry, feeling him to be his warm 
 friend, loved him as heartily as in the days of his 
 childliood. 
 
 Sir Ulick saw and seized the advantage : he had 
 almost despaired of accomplishing his purpose — now 
 was the critical instant. 
 
 " Harry Ormond," said he, " would you make 
 Florence Annaly feel to the quick — would you make 
 her repent in sackcloth and ashes — would you make 
 her pine for you, ay ! till her very heart is sick ? " 
 
 "Would I? to be sure — show me how! — only 
 show me how ! " cried Ormond. 
 
 " Look ye, Harry ! to have and to hold a woman — 
 trust me, for I have had and held many — to have and 
 to hold a woman, you must first show her that you 
 can, if you will, fling her from you — ay ! and leave 
 her there : set off for Paris to-morrow morning — my 
 life upon it, the moment she hears you are gone, she 
 will wish you back again ! "
 
 300 ORMOND. 
 
 " I'll set off to-night," said Ormond, ringing the 
 bell to give orders to his servant to prepare immediately 
 for his departure. 
 
 Thus Sir Uiick, seizing precisely the moment when 
 Ormond's mind was at the right heat, aiming with 
 dexterity and striking with force, bent and moulded 
 him to his purpose. 
 
 While preparations for Ormond's journey were 
 making, Sir Ulick said that there was one thing he 
 must insist upon his doing before he quitted Castle 
 Hermitage — he must look over and settle his guardian- 
 ship accounts. 
 
 Ormond, whose head was far from business at this 
 moment, was very reluctant : he said that the accounts 
 could wait till he should return from France ; but Sir 
 Ulick observed that if he, or if Ormond, were to die, 
 leaving the thing unsettled, it would be loss of property 
 to the one, and loss of credit to the other. Ormond 
 then begged that the accounts might be sent after him 
 to Paris ; he would look over them there at leisure, 
 and sign them. No, Sir Ulick said, they ought to be 
 signed by some forthcoming witness in this country. 
 He urged it so much, and put it upon the footing of 
 his own credit and honour in such a manner, that 
 Ormond could not refuse. He seized the papers, and 
 took a pen to sign them ; but Sir Ulick snatched the 
 pen from his hand, and absolutely insisted upon his first 
 knowing what he was going to sign. 
 
 " The whole account could have been looked over 
 while we have been talking about it," said Sir Ulick. 
 
 Ormond sat down and looked it over, examined all 
 the vouchers, saw that everything was perfectly right 
 and fair, signed the accounts, and esteemed Sir Ulick 
 the more for having insisted upon showing, and prov- 
 ing that all was exact. 
 
 Sir Ulick offered to manage his affairs for him while
 
 ORMOND. 301 
 
 he was away, particularly a large sum which Ormond 
 had in the English funds. Sir Ulick had a banker and 
 a broker in London, on whom he could depend, and 
 he had, from his place and connexions, Sec, means of 
 obtaining good information in public affairs ; he had 
 made a great deal himself by speculations in the funds, 
 and he could buy in and sell out to great advantage, he 
 said, for Ormond. But for this purpose a Idler of 
 attorney was necessary to be given by Ormond to 
 Sir Ulick. 
 
 There was scarcely time to draw one up, nor was 
 Sir Ulick sure that there was a printed form in the 
 house. Luckily, however, a proper power was found, 
 and filled up, and Ormond had just time to sign it 
 before he stepped into the carriage : he embraced his 
 guardian, and thanked him heartily for his care of the 
 interests of his purse, and still more for the sympathy 
 he had shown in the interests of his heart. Sir Ulick 
 was moved at parting with him, and this struck Harry 
 the more, because he certainly struggled to suppress his 
 feelings. Ormond stopped at Vicar's Dale to tell 
 Dr Cambray all that had happened, to thank him and 
 his family for their kindness, and to take leave ot them. 
 
 They were indeed astonished when he entered, 
 saying, " Any commands, my good friends, for London 
 or Paris ? I am on my way there — carriage at the 
 door." 
 
 At first they could not believe him to be serious ; 
 but when they heard his story, and saw by the agitation 
 of his manner that he was in earnest, they were still 
 more surprised at the suddenness ot his determination. 
 They all believed and represented to him that there 
 must be some mistake, and that he was not cool enough 
 to judge sanely at this moment. 
 
 Dr Cambray observed that Miss Annaly could not 
 prevent any man from kneeling to her. Ormond
 
 302 ORMOND. 
 
 haughtily said, " He did not know what she could 
 prevent, he only knew what she did. She had not 
 vouchsafed an answer to his letter — she had not 
 admitted him. These he thought were sufficient 
 indications that the person at her feet was accepted. 
 Whether he were or not, Ormond would inquire no 
 farther. She might now accept or refuse, as she 
 pleased — he would go to Paris." 
 
 His friends had nothing more to say or to do, but 
 to sigh, and to wish him a good journey, and much 
 pleasure at Paris.. 
 
 Ormond now requested that Dr Cambray would 
 have the goodness to write to him from time to time, 
 to inform him of whatever he might wish to know 
 during his absence. He was much mortified to hear 
 from the doctor that he was obliged to proceed, with 
 his family, for some months, to a distant part of the 
 north of England ; and that, as to the Annalys, they 
 were immediately removing to the sea-coast of Devon- 
 shire, for the benefit of a mild climate and of sea- 
 bathing. Ormond, therefore, had no resource but in his 
 guardian. Sir Ulick's affairs, however, were to take 
 him over to London, from whence Ormond could not 
 expect much satisfactory intelligence with respect to 
 Ireland. 
 
 Ormond flew to Dublin, crossed the channel in an 
 express boat, travelled night and day in the mail to 
 London, from thence to Dover — crossed the water in 
 a storm, and travelled with the utmost expedition to 
 Paris, though there was no one reason why he should 
 be in haste ; and for so much, his travelling was as 
 little profitable or amusing as possible. He saw, heard, 
 and understood nothing, till he reached Paris. 
 
 It has been said that the traveller without sensibility 
 may travel from Dan to Becrsheba without finding 
 anything worth seeing. The traveller who has too
 
 ORMOND. 303 
 
 much sensibility often observes as little — of this all 
 persons must be sensible who have ever travelled when 
 their minds were engrossed with painful feelings, or 
 possessed by any strong passion. 
 
 ORMOND had written to M. and Mad. de Connal 
 to announce his intentions of spending some 
 time in Paris, and to thank them for the invi- 
 tation to their house ; an invitation which, however, he 
 declined accepting ; but he requested M. de Connal to 
 secure apartments for him in some hotel near them. 
 
 Upon his arrival he found everything prepared for 
 a Milord Anglois : handsome apartments, fashionable 
 carriage, well-powdered laquais, and a valet-de-chambre, 
 waited the orders of monsieur. 
 
 Connal was with him a few minutes after his arrival 
 — welcomed him to Paris with cordial gaiety — was 
 more glad and more sorry, and said more in five minutes, 
 and above all made more protestations of regard than an 
 Englishman would make in a year. 
 
 He was rejoiced — delighted — enchanted to see Mr 
 Ormond. Mad. de Connal was absolutely transported 
 with joy when she heard he was on his road to Paris. 
 Madame was now at Versailles ; but she would return 
 in a few days : she would be in despair at Mr Ormond's 
 not accepting the apartments in the Hotel de Connal, 
 which were actually prepared for him ; but in fact it 
 was nearly the same thing, within two doors of them. 
 He hoped Mr Ormond liked his apartments — but in 
 truth that was of little consequence, for he would never 
 be in them, except when he was asleep or dressing. 
 Ormond thought the apartments quite superb, and
 
 304 ORMOND. 
 
 was going to have thanked M. de Connal for the trouble 
 he had taken ; but at the word superbe, Connal ran on 
 again with French vivacity of imagination. 
 
 "Certainly, Mr Orniond ought," he said, "to have 
 everything now in the first style." He congratulated 
 our hero on his accession of fortune, " of wliich Mad. 
 de Connal and he had heard with inexpressible joy. 
 And Mdlle. O'Faley, too, she who had always 
 prophesied that they should meet in happiness at Paris, 
 was now absolutely in ccstacy." 
 
 " You have no idea, in short, my dear Ormond, of 
 what a strong impression you left on all our minds — no 
 conception of the lively interest you always inspired." 
 
 It was a lively interest v.hich had slumbered quietly 
 for a considerable time, but now it wakened with 
 perfectly good grace. Ormond set little value on these 
 sudden protestations, and his pride felt a sort of fear that 
 it should be supposed lie was deceived by them ; yet, 
 altogether, the manner was agreeable, and Connal was 
 essentially useful at this moment : as Sir Ulick had 
 justly observed, a coxcomb in fashion may, in certain 
 circumstances, be a useful friend. 
 
 " But, my dear fellow," cried Connal, " what savage 
 cut your hair last : — It is a sin to trust your fine head 
 to the barbarians — my hairdresser shall be with you in 
 the twinkling of an eye : I will send my tailor — allow 
 me to choose your embroidery, and see your lace, before 
 you decide — I am said to have a tolerable taste — the 
 ladies say so, and they are always the best judges. The 
 French di'ess will become you prodigiously, I foresee — 
 but, just Heaven! — what buckles! — those must have 
 been made before the flood ! no disparagement to your 
 taste, but what could you do better in the Black Islands ? 
 Paris is the only place for bijouterie — except in steel, 
 Paris surpasses the universe — your eyes will be dazzled 
 by the Palais Royal. But this hat ! — you know it can't
 
 ORMOXD. 305 
 
 appear — it would destroy you : my chapcl'ur shall be 
 with you instantly. It will all be done in {\sq minutes — 
 you have no idea of the celerity with which you may 
 command everything at Paris. But I am so sorry 
 that madame is at Versailles, and that I am under a 
 necessity of being there myself to-morrow for the rest 
 of this week ; but I have a friend, a little abbe, who will 
 be delighted in the meantime to show you Paris." 
 
 From the moment of his arrival at Paris, Ormond 
 resolved to put Florence Annaly completely out of his 
 thoughts, and to drown in gaiety and dissipation the too 
 painful recollection of her duplicity towards him. He 
 was glad to have a few days to look about him, and to 
 see something of Paris. 
 
 He should like, as he told M. de Connal, to go to 
 the play, to accustom himself to the language. He 
 must wear off his English or Irish awkwardness a little, 
 before he should be presented to Mad. de Connal, or 
 appear in French society. 
 
 A profusion of compliments followed from M. de 
 Connal ; but Ormond persisting, it was settled that he 
 should go incog, this night to the Theatre Francois. 
 
 Connal called upon him in the evening, and took him 
 to the theatre. 
 
 They were in une petite loge, where they could see 
 without being seen. In the box with them was the 
 young abbe, and a pretty little French actress, Mdlle. 
 Adrienne. At the first coup-d'oeil, the French ladies 
 did not strike him as handsome ; they looked, as he said, 
 like dolls, all eyes and rouge ; and rouge, as he thought, 
 very unbecomingly put on, in one frightful red patch or 
 plaster, high upon the cheek, without any pretence to 
 the imitation of natural colour. 
 
 " Eh fi done ! " said the abbe, " what you call the 
 natural colour, that would be rouge coquette, which no 
 woman of quality can permit herself." 
 
 u
 
 3o6 ORMOND. 
 
 " No, Dieu merci," said the actress, " tliat is for us : 
 'tis very fair we should have some advantages in the com- 
 petition, they have so many — by birth — if not by nature." 
 
 M. de Connal explained to Ormond that the frightful 
 red patch which offended his eye, was the mark of a 
 woman of quality : *' Women only of a certain rank have 
 the privilege of wearing their rouge in that manner — 
 your eye will soon grow accustomed to it, and you will 
 like it as a sign of rank and fashion." 
 
 The actress shrugged her shoulders, said something 
 about " la belle nature" and the good taste of Monsieur 
 I'Anglois. The moment the curtain drew up, she told 
 him the names of all the actors and actresses as they 
 appeared — noting the value and celebrity of each. 
 The play was, unfortunately for Ormond, a tragedy ; 
 and Le Kain was at Versailles. Ormond thought he 
 understood French pretty well, but he did not com- 
 prehend what was going on. The French tone of 
 tragic declamation, so unnatural to his ear, distracted 
 his attention so much, that he could not make out the 
 sense of what any of the actors said. 
 
 " 'Tis like the quality rouge," said Connal ; " your 
 taste must be formed to it. But your eye and your 
 ear will accommodate themselves to both. You will 
 like it in a month." 
 
 M. de Connal said this was always the first feeling 
 of foreigners. " But have patience," said he ; " go 
 on listening, and in a night or two, perhaps in an hour 
 or two, the sense will break in upon you all at once. 
 You will never find yourself at a loss in society. Talk, 
 at all events, whether you speak ill or well, talk : don't 
 aim at correctness — we don't expect it. Besides, as 
 they will tell you, we like to see how a stranger ' plays 
 with our language.' " 
 
 M. de Connal's manner was infinitely more agreeable 
 towards Ormond now than in former days.
 
 ORMOND. 307 
 
 There was }>erhaps still at the bottom of his mind 
 the same fund of self-conceit, but he did not take the 
 same arrogant tone. It was the tone not of a superior 
 to an inferior, but of a friend, in a new society, and a 
 country to which he is a stranger. There was as little 
 of the protector in his manner as possible, considering 
 his natural presumption and acquired habits ; considering 
 that he had made his own way in Paris, and that he 
 thought to be the first man in a certain circle there was 
 to be nearly the first man In the universe. The next 
 morning, the little abba called to pay his compliments, 
 and to oifer his services. 
 
 M. de Connal being obliged to go to Versailles, in 
 his absence the abbe would be very happy, he said, to 
 attend Mr Ormond, and to show him Paris : he be- 
 lieved, he humbly said, that he had the means of 
 showing him everything that was worth his attention. 
 
 Away they drove. 
 
 " Gare ! gare ! " cried the coachman, chasing away 
 the droves of walkers before him. There beina no 
 footpaths in the streets of Paris, they were continually 
 driven up close to the walls. 
 
 Ormond at first shrunk at the sight of their peril 
 and narrow escapes. 
 
 "Monsieur apparemment is nervous after his voyage ? " 
 said the abbe. 
 
 " No, but I am afraid the people will be run over. 
 I will make the coachman drive more quietly." 
 
 "Du tout! — not at all," said the little abbe, who 
 was of a noble family, and had all the airs of it. 
 " Leave him to settle it with the people — they are used 
 to it. And, after all, what have they to think of, but 
 to take care of themselves — !a canaille ? " 
 
 " La canaille^ synonymous with the sivhush nmUitmley 
 an expression of contempt for which the Parisian nobility 
 Live since paid terribly dear.
 
 308 ORMOND. 
 
 Oimond, who was not used to it, found it difficult 
 to abstract his sympathy from his fcllow-creaturcs, by 
 whatever name they were called ; and he could not 
 exclusively command his attention, to admire the houses 
 and churches, which his abbe continually pointed out 
 to his notice. 
 
 He admired, however, the fine fagade of the Louvre, 
 the Place de Louis XV., the astonishingly brilliant 
 spectacle of the Palais Royal, Notre Dame, a few 
 handsome bridges, and the drives on the Boulevards. 
 
 But in fact there was at that time much more to be 
 heard, and less to be seen, than at present in Paris. 
 Paris was not then as fine a city as it now is. 
 Ormond, in his secret soul, preferred the bay of Dublin 
 to all he then saw on the banks of the Seine. 
 
 The little abbe was not satisfied with the paucity of 
 his exclamations, and would have given him up, as tin 
 fro'id Jlnglois, but that, fortunately, our young hero had 
 each night an opportunity of redeeming his credit. 
 They went to the play — he saw French comedy! — 
 he saw and heard Molet, and Mad. de la Ruette : the 
 abbe was charmed with his delight, his enthusiasm, his 
 genuine enjoyment of high comedy, and his quick 
 feeling of dramatic excellence. It was indeed perfec- 
 tion — beyond anything of which Ormond could have 
 formed an idea. Every part well performed — nothing 
 to break the illusion ! 
 
 This first fit of dramatic enthusiasm was the third 
 day at its height, when Connal returned from Ver- 
 sailles ; and it was so strong upon him, and he was so 
 full of Molet and Mad. de la Ruette, that he could 
 scarcely listen to what Connal said of Versailles, the 
 king's supper, and Mad. la Dauphine. 
 
 " No doubt — he should like to see all that — but at 
 all events he was positively determined to see Mo'ct, 
 and Mad. dc la Ruette, every night they acted."
 
 ORMOND. 309 
 
 Connal smiled, and only answered, " Of course he 
 would do as he pleased." But in the meantime, it 
 was now Mad. de Connal's night for seeing company, 
 and he was to make his debut in a French assembly. 
 
 Connal called for him early, that they might have a 
 few minutes to themselves before the company should 
 arrive. 
 
 Ormond felt some curiosity, a little anxiety, a slight 
 flutter at the heart, at the thought of seeing Dora 
 again. 
 
 The arrival of her husband interrupted these 
 thoughts. 
 
 Connal took the light from the hands of Crepin, 
 the valet, and reviewed Ormond from head to foot. 
 
 «< Very well, Crepin : you have done your part, and 
 Nature has done hers, for monsieur." 
 
 " Yes, truly," said Crepin, " Nature had done wonders 
 for monsieur ; and monsieur, now he is dressed, has 
 really all the air of a Frenchman." 
 
 "Quite I'air comme il faut! I'air noble!" added 
 Connal ; and he agreed with Crepin in opinion that 
 French dress made an astonishing difference in Mr 
 Ormond. 
 
 " Mad. de Connal, I am sure, will think so," con- 
 tinued Connal, " will see it with admiration — for she 
 really has good taste. I will pledge myself for your 
 success. With that figure, with that air, you will turn 
 many heads in Paris — if you will but talk enough. 
 Say everything that comes into your head — don't be 
 like an Englishman, always thinking about the sense — 
 the more nonsense the better — trust me — livrez vous — 
 let yourself out — follow me, and fear nothing," cried 
 he, running downstairs, delighted with Ormond and 
 with himself. 
 
 He foresaw that he should gain credit by producing 
 such a man. . He really wished that Ormond should
 
 310 ORMOND. 
 
 succeed in French society, and that he should pass his 
 time agreeably at Paris. 
 
 No man could feel better disposed towards another. 
 Even if he should take a fancy to madame, it was to 
 the polite French husband a matter of indifference, 
 except so far as the arrangement might, or might not, 
 interfere with his own views. 
 
 And these views — what were they ? — Only to win 
 all the young man's fortune at play. A cela pr^s — 
 excepting this, he was sincerely Ormond's friend, ready 
 to do everything possible — de faire I'impossible — to 
 oblige and entertain him. 
 
 Connal enjoyed Ormond's surprise at the magnifi- 
 cence of his hotel. After ascending a spacious stair- 
 case, and passing through antechamber after antechamber, 
 they reached the splendid salon, blazing with lights, 
 reflected on all sides in mirrois, that reached from the 
 painted ceiling to the inlaid floor. 
 
 " Not a creature here yet — happily." 
 
 " Madame begs," said the servant, " that monsieur 
 will pass on into the boudoir." 
 
 " Anybody with madame?" 
 
 " No one but Mad. de Clair ville." 
 
 "Only ramie tnt'ims^'' said Connal, "the bosom 
 friend." 
 
 " How will Dora feel ? How will it be with us 
 both ? " thought Ormond, as he followed the light step 
 of the husband. 
 
 " Entrez ! — Entrez toujours." 
 
 Ormond stopped at the threshold, absolutely dazzled 
 by the brilliancy of Dora's beauty, her face, her figure, 
 her air, so infinitely improved, so fashioned ! 
 
 " Dora ! — Ah ! Mad. de Connal," cried Ormond. 
 
 No French actor could have done it better than 
 Nature did it for him. 
 
 Dora gave one glance at Ormond — pleasure, joy,
 
 ORMOND. 3 1 1 
 
 sparkled in her eyes ; then leaning on the lady who 
 stood beside her, almost sinking, Dora sighed, and 
 exclaimed, " Ah ! Harry Ormond ! " 
 
 The husband vanished. 
 
 " Ah ciel ! " said I'amie intime, looking towards 
 Ormond. 
 
 " Help me to support her, monsieur — while I seek 
 I'eau de Cologne." 
 
 Ormond, seized with sudden tremor, could scarcely 
 advance. 
 
 Dora sunk on the sofa, clasping her beautiful hands, 
 and exclaiming, " The companion of my earliest 
 days ! " 
 
 Then Ormond, excused to himself, sprang forward — 
 " Friend of my childhood ! " cried he : " yes, my 
 sister : your father promised me this friendship — this 
 happiness," said he, supporting her, as she raised 
 herself from the sofa. 
 
 " Ou est-il ? oci est-il ? — Where is he. Monsieur 
 Ormond ? " cried mademoiselle, throwing open the 
 door. " Ah ciel, comme il est beau ! A perfect 
 Frenchman already ! And how much embellished 
 by di-ess ! — Ah ! Paris for that. Did I not prophesy ? 
 
 — Dora, my darling, do me the justice. But — 
 
 comme vous voila saisie ! — here's I'amie with I'eau de 
 Cologne. Ah ! my child, recover yourself, for here 
 is some one — the Comte de Jarillac it is, entering the 
 salon." 
 
 The promptitude of Dora's recovery was a new 
 surprise to our hero. " Follow me," said she to him, 
 and with Parisian ease and grace she glided into the 
 salon to receive M. de Jarillac — presented Ormond to 
 M. le Comte — " Anglois — Irlandois — ^an English, an 
 Irish gentleman — the companion of her childhood," 
 with the slightest, lightest tone of sentiment imagin- 
 able ; and another count and another came, and a
 
 3 I 2 ORMOND. 
 
 baron, and a marquis, and a duke, and Mad. la 
 
 Comtesse de , and Mad. la Duchesse ; and 
 
 all were received with ease, respect, vivacity, or senti- 
 ment, as the occasion required — now advancing a step 
 or two to mark, empress ement where requisite ; — regain- 
 ing always, imperceptibly, the most advantageous 
 situation and attitude for herself; — presenting Ormond 
 to every one — quite intent upon him, yet appearing 
 entirely occupied with everybody else ; and, in short, 
 never forgetting them, him, or herself for an instant. 
 
 " Can this be Dora ? " thought Ormond, in admira- 
 tion, yet in astonishment that divided his feelings. It 
 was indeed wonderful to see how quickly, how com- 
 pletely, the Irish country girl had been metamorphosed 
 into a French woman of fashion. 
 
 And now, surrounded by admirers, by adorers in 
 embroidery, and blazing with crosses and stars, she 
 received les hommages — enjoyed le su:ces — accepted the 
 incense, without bending too low or holding herself too 
 high — not too sober, nor too obviously intoxicated. 
 Vanity in all her heart, yet vanity not quite turning her 
 head, not more than was agreeable and becoming — 
 extending her smiles to all, and hoping all the time 
 that Harry Ormond envied each. Charmed with him 
 — for her early passion for him had revived in an 
 instant — the first sight of his figure and air, the first 
 glance in the boudoir, had been sufficient. She knew, 
 too, how well he would succeed at Paris — how many 
 rivals she would have in a week : these perceptions, 
 sensations, and conclusions, requiring so much time in 
 slow words to express, had darted through Dora's 
 head in one instant, had exalted her imagination, and 
 touched her heart — as much as that heart could be 
 touched. 
 
 Ormond meantime breathed more freely, and reco- 
 vered from his tremors. Mad. de Connal, surrounded
 
 ORMOND. 313 
 
 by adorers, and shining in the salon, was not so 
 dangerous as Dora, half fainting, in the boudoir ; nor 
 had any words that wit or sentiment could devise power 
 to please or touch him so much as the ^^ Harry 
 Ormond I " which had burst naturally from Dora's lips. 
 Now he began almost to doubt whether nature or art 
 prevailed. Now he felt himself safe at least, since he 
 saw that it was only the coquette of the Black. Islands 
 transformed into the coquette of the Hotel de Connal. 
 The transformation was curious, was admirable ; 
 Ormond thought he could admire without danger, and, 
 in due time, perhaps gallant, with the best of them, 
 without feeling — without scruple. 
 
 The tables were now arranging for play. The 
 conversation he heard everywhere round him related 
 to the good or bad fortune of the preceding nights. 
 Ormond perceived that it was the custom of the house 
 to play every evening, and the expressions that reached 
 him about bets and debts confirmed the hint which his 
 guardian had given him, that Connal played high. 
 
 At present, however, he did not seem to have any 
 design upon Ormond — he was engaged at the farther 
 end of the room. He left him quite to himself, and to 
 madamc, and never once even asked him to play. 
 
 There seemed more danger of his being left out, than 
 of his being taken In. 
 
 " Donnez-moi le bras — Come witli me, Monsieur 
 Ormond," said mademoiselle, "and you shall lose 
 nothing — while they are settling about their parties, we 
 can get one little moment's chat." 
 
 She took him back to the boudoir. 
 
 " I want to make you know our Paris," said she : 
 " here we can see the whole world pass in review, and 
 I shall tell you everything most necessary for you to 
 know ; for example — who is who — and still more it 
 imports you to know who and who are together."
 
 314 ORMOND. 
 
 " Look at that lady, beautiful as the day, in 
 diamonds." 
 
 " Mad. de Connal, do you mean ? " said Ormond. 
 
 " Ah ! no ; not her always," said mademoiselle : 
 " though she has the apple here, without contradiction," 
 continued mademoiselle, still speaking in English, which 
 it was always her pride to speak to whoever could 
 understand her. " Absolutely, without vanity, though 
 my niece, I may say it, she is a perfect creature — and 
 mise a ravir ! — Did you ever see such a change for the 
 best in one season ? — Ah ! Paris ! — Did I not tell you 
 well ? — And you felt it well yourself — you lost your 
 head, I saw that, at first sight of her a la Frangoise — 
 the best proof of your taste and sensibilite — she has 
 infinite sensibility too ! — interesting, and at the height, 
 what you English call the tip-top, of the fashion here.'* 
 
 " So it appears, indeed," said Ormond, " by the 
 crowd of admirers I see round Mad. de Connal." 
 
 " Admirers ! yes, adorers, you may say — encore, if 
 you added lovers, you would not be much wrong ; 
 dying for love — eperdument epris ! See, there, he 
 who is bowing now — Monsieur le Marquis de Beaulieu 
 — homme de cour — plein d' esprit — homme marquant — 
 very remarkable man. But — Ah ! voila que entre — of 
 the court. Did you ever see finer entree made by man 
 into a room, so full of grace ? Ah ! le Comte de Belle 
 Chasse — How many women already he has lost! — It 
 is a real triumph to Mad. de Connal to have him in 
 her chains. What a smile ! C'est lui qui est aimable 
 pour nous autres — d'une soumission pour les femmes — 
 d'une fierte pour les hommes. As the lamb gentle for 
 the pretty woman ; as the lion terrible for the man. 
 It is that Comte de Belle Chasse who is absolutely 
 irresistible." 
 
 " Absolutely irresistible," Ormond repeated, smiling ; 
 " not absolutely, I hope."
 
 ORMOND. 3 I 5 
 
 " Oh ! that is understood — you do not doubt !a 
 sagesse de madame ? Besides, hcureusement, there is an 
 infinite safety for her in the number, as you see, of her 
 adorers. Wait till I name tliem to you — I shall give 
 you a catalogue raisonnec." 
 
 With rapid enunciation mademoiselle went through 
 the names and rank of the circle of adorers, noting with 
 complacency the number of ladies to whom each man 
 of gallantry wa's supposed to have paid his addresses — 
 next to being of the blood royal this appearing to be of 
 the highest distinction. 
 
 " And a propos, Monsieur d'Ormond, you, yourself, 
 when do you count to go to Versailles ? — Ah ! when 
 you shall see the king and the king's supper, and 
 Madame la Dauphine ! Ah ! " 
 
 Mademoiselle was recalled from the ecstasy in which 
 she had thrown up her eyes to heaven, by some 
 gentleman speaking to her as he passed the open cabinet 
 door arm in arm with a lady — mademoiselle answered, 
 with a profound inclination of the head, whispering to 
 
 Ormond after they had passed, " M. le Due de C 
 
 with Mad. de la Tour. Why he is constant always to 
 that woman, Heaven knows better than me ! Stand, if 
 you are so good, monsieur, a little more this way, and 
 give your attention — they don't want you yet at play." 
 
 Then designating every person at the different card- 
 tables, she said, " That lady is the wife of M. , and 
 
 there is M. le Baron de L , her lover, the gentleman 
 
 who looks over her cards — and that other lady with the 
 joli pompon, she is intimate with M. de la Tour, the 
 husband of the lady who passed with M. le Due." 
 Mademoiselle explained all these arrangements with the 
 most perfect sang froid, as tilings of course, that every- 
 body knew and spoke of except just before the husbands ; 
 but there was no mystery, no concealment : " What 
 use ? — To what good ? "
 
 3 1 6 ORMOND. 
 
 Ormond asked whether there were any ladies In 
 the room who were supposed to be faithful to their 
 husbands. 
 
 " Eh ! — Ma niece, par exemple, Mad. de Connal, I 
 may cite as a woman of la plus belle reputation, sans 
 tache — what you call unblemish." 
 
 " Assuredly," said Ormond, " you could not, I hope, 
 think me so indiscreet — I believe I said ladies in the 
 plural number." 
 
 " Ah ! oui, assuredly, and I can name you twenty. 
 To begin, there, do you see that woman standing up, 
 who has the air as if she think of nothing at all, and 
 nobody thinking of her, with only her husband near 
 her, cet grand homme bleme ? — There is Mad. de la 
 Rousse — d'une reputation intacte ! — frightfully dressed, 
 as she is always. But, hold, you see that pretty little 
 Comtesse de la Brie, all in white ? — Charmante ! I give 
 her to you as a reputation against which slander cannot 
 breathe — Nouvelle mariee — bride — in what you call de 
 honeymoon ; but we don't know that In French — no 
 matter ! Again, since you are curious in these things, 
 there is another reputation without spot, Mad. de St 
 Ange, I warrant her to you — bien froide celle-la, cold 
 as any English — married a full year, and still her choice 
 to make ; — allons, there is three I give you already, 
 without counting my niece ; and, wait, I will find you 
 yet another," said mademoiselle, looking carefully 
 through the crowd. 
 
 She was relieved from her difficulty by the entrance 
 of the little abbe, who came to summon monsieur to 
 Mad. de Connal, who did him the honour to invite him 
 to the table. Ormond played, and fortune smiled upon 
 him, as she usually does upon a new votary ; and beauty 
 smiled upon him perhaps on the same principle. Connal 
 never came near him till supper was announced ; then 
 only to desire him to give his arm to a charming little
 
 ORMOND. 317 
 
 countess — la nouvelle mariee — Mad. de Connal belong- 
 ing, by right of rank, to Monsieur le Comtc de Belle 
 Chasse. The supper was one ot the delightful petit 
 soupers for wliich Paris was famous at that day, and 
 which she will never see again. 
 
 The moralist, who considers the essential interests of 
 morality more than the immediate pleasures of society, 
 will think this rather a matter of rejoicing than regret. 
 How far such society and correct female conduct be 
 compatible, is a question which it might take too long 
 a time to decide. 
 
 Therefore, be it sufficient here to say, that Ormond, 
 without staying to examine it, was charmed with the 
 present effect ; with the gaiety, the wit, the politeness, 
 the ease, and altogether with that indescribable thing, 
 that untranslatable esprit de societe. He could not 
 afterwards remember anything very striking or very 
 solid that had been said, but all was agreeable at the 
 moment, and there was great variety. Ormond's self- 
 love was, he knew not how, flattered. Without effort, 
 it seemed to be the object of everybody to make Paris 
 agreeable to him ; and they convinced him that he 
 would find it the most charming place in the world — 
 without any disparagement to his own country, to which 
 all solid honours and advantages were left undisputed. 
 The ladies whom he had thought so little captivating 
 at first view at the theatre were all charming on farther 
 acquaintance : so full of vivacity, and something so 
 flattering in their manner, that it put a stranger at once 
 at his ease. Towards the end of the supper, he found 
 himself talking to two very pretty women at once, with 
 good effect, and thinking at the same time of Dora and 
 the Comte de Belle Chasse. Moreover, he thought he 
 saw that Dora was doing the same between the irre- 
 sistible comte and the marquis plcin d'esprit, from 
 whom, while she was listening and talking without
 
 31 8 ORMOND. 
 
 intermission, her eyes occasionally strayed, and once or 
 twice met those of Ormond. 
 
 ** Is it indiscreet to ask you whether you passed your 
 evening agreeably ? " said M. de Connal, when the com- 
 pany had retired. 
 
 " Delightfully ! " said Ormond ; " the most agree- 
 able evening I ever passed in my life ! " 
 
 Then fearing that he had spoken with too much 
 enthusiasm, and that the husband might observe that 
 his eyes, as he spoke, involuntarily turned towards Mad. 
 de Connal, he moderated (he might have saved himself 
 the trouble), he moderated his expression by adding, 
 that as far as he could yet judge, he thought French 
 society very agreeable. 
 
 " You have seen nothing yet — you are right not to 
 judge hastily," said Connal ; " but so far, I am glad 
 you are tolerably well satisfied." 
 
 " Ah ! oui, Monsieur Ormond," cried mademoiselle, 
 joining them, " we shall fix you at Paris, I expect." 
 
 "You hope, I suppose you mean, my dear aunt," 
 said Dora, with such flattering hope in her voice, and 
 in the expression of her countenance, that Ormond 
 decided that he " certainly intended to spend the 
 winter at Paris." 
 
 Connal, satisfied with this certainty, would have let 
 Ormond go. But mademoiselle had many compliments 
 to make him and herself upon his pronunciation, and 
 his fluency in speaking the French language — really 
 like a Frenchman himself — the Marquis de Beaulieu 
 had said to her: she was sure M. d'Ormond could not 
 fail to succeed in Paris with that perfection added to all 
 his other advantages. It was the greatest of all the 
 advantages in the world — the greatest advantage in the 
 universe, she was going on to say, but M. de Connal 
 finished the flattery better. 
 
 *' You would pity us, Ormond," cried he, inter-
 
 ORMOND. 319 
 
 rupting mademoiselle, " if you could see and hear the 
 vandals they send to us from England with letters of 
 introduction — barbarians, who can neither sit, stand, 
 nor speak — nor even articulate the language. How 
 many of these bulors, rich, of good family, I have been 
 sometimes called upon to introduce into society, and to 
 present at court ! Upon my honour it has happened 
 to me to wish they might hang themselves out of my 
 way, or be found dead in their beds the day I was to 
 tike them to Versailles." 
 
 " It is really too great a tax upon the good-breed- 
 ing of the lady of the house," said Mad. de Connal, 
 " deplorable, when she has nothing better to say of an 
 English guest than that ' Ce monsieur la a un grand 
 talent pour le silence.' " 
 
 Ormond, conscious that he had talked away at a 
 great rate, was pleased by this indirect compliment. 
 
 " But such personnages muets never really see French 
 society. They never obtain more than a supper — not 
 2, petit souper — no, no, an invitation to a great assembly, 
 where they see nothing. Milord Anglois is lost in the 
 crowd, or stuck across a doorway by his own sword. 
 Now, what could any letter of recommendation do for 
 such a fellow as that ? " 
 
 " The letters of recommendation which are of most 
 advantage," said Mad. de Connal, "are those which 
 are written in the countenance." 
 
 Ormond had presence of mind enough not to bow, 
 though the compliment v/as directed distinctly to him 
 — a look of thanks he knew was sufficient. As he 
 retired, mademoiselle, pursuing to the door, begged that 
 he would come as early as he could next morning, that 
 she might introduce him to her apartments, and explain 
 to him all the superior conveniences of a French house. 
 M. de Connal representing, hov^ever, that the next day 
 Mr Ormond was to go to Versailles, mademoiselle
 
 320 ORMOND. 
 
 acknowledged that was an affair to which all others 
 must yield. 
 
 Well flattered by all the trio, and still more perhaps 
 by his own vanity, our young hero was at last suffered 
 to de])art. 
 
 The first appearance at Versailles was a matter of 
 great consequence. Court dress was then an affair of 
 as much importance at Paris as it seems to be now in 
 London, if we may judge by the columns of birthday 
 dresses, and the honourable notice of gentlemen's coats 
 and waistcoats. It was then at Paris, however, as it is 
 now and ever will be all over the world, essential to the 
 appearance of a gentleman, that whatever time, pains, or 
 expence it might have cost, he should, from the moment 
 he is dressed, be, or at least seem to be, above his dress. 
 In this as in most cases, the shortest and safest way to 
 seem is to be. Our young hero being free from personal 
 conceit, or overweening anxiety about his appearance, 
 looked at ease. He called at the Hotel de Connal 
 the day he was to go to Versailles, and mademoiselle 
 was in ecstasy at the sight of his dress, exclaiming, 
 " Superbe ! — magnifique ! " 
 
 M. de Connal seemed more struck with his air than 
 his dress, and Dora, perhaps, was more pleased with his 
 figure ; she was silent, but it was a silence that spoke ; 
 her husband heeded not what it said, but, pursuing his 
 own course, observed, that, to borrow the expression of 
 Crepin, the valet-de-chambre, no contemptible judge in 
 these cases, M. Ormond looked not only as if he was 
 ne coiff'e, but as if he had been born with a sword by his 
 side. " Really, my dear friend," continued M. de 
 Connal, *' you look as if you had come at once full 
 dressed into the world, which in our days is better than 
 coming ready armed out of the head of Jupiter." 
 
 Mdlle. O'Falcy, now seizing upon Ormond, whom 
 she called her pupil, carried him oflf, to show him her
 
 ORMOND. 321 
 
 apartments and the whole house ; which slie did with 
 many useful notes — pointing out the convenience and 
 entire liberty that result from the complete separation 
 of the apartments of the husband and wife in French 
 houses. 
 
 •' You see, monsieur et madamc with their own stair- 
 cases, their own passages, their own doors in and out, 
 and all separate for the people of monsieur, and the 
 women of madame, and here through this little door 
 you go into the apartments of madame." 
 
 Prmond's English foot stopped respectfully. 
 
 " Eh, entrez toujours," said mademoiselle, as the 
 husband had said before at the door of the boudoir. 
 
 " But Mad. de Connal is dressing, perhaps," said 
 Ormond. 
 
 " Et puis ? — and what then ? you must get rid as fast 
 as you can of your English prejuges — and she is not here 
 neither," said mademoiselle, opening the door. 
 
 Mad. de Connal was in an inner apartment ; and 
 Ormond, the instant after he entered this room with 
 mademoiselle, heard a quick step, which he knew was 
 Dora's, running to bolt the door of the inner room — 
 he was glad that she had not quite got rid of her 
 English prejudices. 
 
 Mdlle. O'Faley pointed out to him all the accom- 
 modations of a French apartment: she had not at this 
 moment the slightest malice or bad intention in anything 
 she was saying — she simply spoke in all the innocence 
 of a Frenchwoman — if that term be intelligible. If 
 she had any secret motive, it was merely the vanity of 
 showing that she was quite Parisienne ; and there again 
 she was mistaken ; for having lived half her life out of 
 Paris, she had forgotten, if she ever had it, the tone of 
 good society, and upon her return had overdone the 
 matter, exaggerated French manners, to prove to her 
 niece that she knew les usages, les convenances, les 
 
 X
 
 322 OliMOND. 
 
 nuances — enfin, la mode de Paris ! A more dangerous 
 guide in Paris for a young married woman in every 
 respect could scarcely be found. 
 
 M. de Connal's valet now came to let Mr Ormond 
 know that monsieur waited his orders. But for this 
 interruption, he was in a fair way to hear all the private 
 history of the family, all the secrets that mademoiselle 
 knew. 
 
 Of the amazing communicativeness of French- 
 women on all subjects our young hero had as yet no 
 conception. 
 
 IT was during the latter years' of the life of Louis 
 the Fifteenth, and during the reign of Mad. du 
 Barre, that Ormond was at Paris. The court of 
 Versailles was at this time in all its splendour, if not in 
 all its glory. At le souper du roi Ormond beheld, in 
 all the magnificence of dress and jewels, the nobility, 
 wealth, fashion, and beauty of France. Well might 
 the brilliancy dazzle the eyes of a youth fresh from 
 Ireland, when it amazed even old ambassadors, 
 accustomed to the ordinary grandeur of courts. When 
 he recovered from his first astonishment, when his 
 eyes were a little better used to the light, and he looked 
 round and considered all these magnificently decorated 
 personages, assembled for the purpose of standing at a 
 certain distance to see one man eat his supper, it did 
 appear to him an extraordinary spectacle ; and the very 
 great solemnity and devotion of the assistants, so un- 
 suited to the French countenance, inclined him to smile. 
 It was well for him, however, that he kept his Irish 
 risible muscles in order, and that no courtier could 
 guess his thoughts — a smile would have lost him his
 
 ORMOND. 323 
 
 reputation. Nothing in the world appeared to French- 
 men formerly of more importance than their court 
 etiquette, though there were some who began about 
 this time to suspect that the court order of things might 
 not be coexistent with the order of nature — though 
 there were some philosophers and statesmen who began 
 to be aware that the daily routine of the courtier's 
 etiquette was not as necessary as the motions of the 
 sun, moon, and planets. Nor could it have been 
 possible to convince half at least of the crowd, who 
 assisted at the king's supper this night, that all the 
 French national eagerness about the health, the looks, 
 the words, of le roi, all the attachment, le devouement, 
 professed habitually — perhaps felt habitually — for the 
 reigning monarch, whoever or whatever he might be, 
 by whatever name — notre bon roi, or simply notre roi 
 de France — should in a few years pass away, and be 
 no more seen. 
 
 Ormond had no concern with the affairs of the 
 nation, nor with the future fate of anything he beheld : 
 he was only a spectator, a foreigner ; and his business 
 was, according to mademoiselle's maxim, to enjoy to- 
 day and to reflect to-morrow. His enjoyment of this day 
 was complete : he not only admired, but was admired. 
 In the vast crowd he was distinguished : some noble- 
 men of note asked who he was — another observed Pair 
 noble — another exclaimed " Le bel Amlois ! " and his 
 
 o 
 
 fortune was made at Paris ; especially as a friend of Mad. 
 du Barre's asked where he bought his embroidery. 
 
 He went afterwards, at least in Connal's society, 
 by the name of " Le bel Anglo'is." Half in a tone of 
 raillery, yet with a look that showed she felt it to be 
 just, Mad. de Connal first adopted the appellation, 
 and then changed the term to '■'■ Mon bel Irlandois." 
 Invitations upon invitations poured upon Ormond — 
 all were eager to have him at their parties — he was
 
 324 ORMOND. 
 
 everywhere — attending Mad. do Connal — and she, 
 how proud to be attended by Ormond ! He dreaded 
 lest his principles should not withstand the strong 
 temptation. He could not leave her, but he deter- 
 mined to see her only in crowds ; accordingly, he 
 avoided every select party : I'amie intime could never 
 for the first three weeks get him to one petit comite, 
 though Mad. de Connal assured him that her friend's 
 petit soupers " were charming, worth all the crowded 
 assemblies in Paris." Still he pursued his plan, and 
 sought for safety in a course of dissipation. 
 
 •' I give you joy," said Connal to him one day, 
 " you are fairly launched ! you are no distressed 
 vessel to be taken in toiv, nor a petty bark to sail in 
 any man's tuale. You have a gale, and are likely to 
 have a triumph of your own." 
 
 Connal was, upon all occasions, careful to impress 
 upon Ormond's mind that he left him wholly to 
 himself, for he was aware that in former days he had 
 offended his independent spirit by airs of protection. 
 He managed better now — he never even invited him 
 to play, though it was his main object to draw him 
 to his faro table. He made use of some of his friends 
 or confederates, who played for him : Connal occasion- 
 ally coming to the table as an unconcerned spectator. 
 Ormond played with so much freedom, and seemed to 
 have so gentlemanlike an indifference whether he lost 
 or won, that he was considered as an easy dupe. Time 
 only was necessary, M. de Connal thought, to lead him 
 on gradually and without alarm, to let him warm to the 
 passion for play. Meanwhile Mad. de Connal felt as 
 fully persuaded that Ormond's passion for her would 
 increase. It was her object to Jix him at Paris; but 
 she should be content, perfectly happy with his friend- 
 ship, his society, his sentiments : her own sentitnent 
 for him, as she confessed to Mad. de Clairville, was
 
 ORMOND. 325 
 
 absolutely invincible ; but it should nevei' lead her 
 beyond the bounds of virtue. It was involuntary, but 
 it should never be a crime. 
 
 Mad. de Clairville, who understood her business, 
 and spoke with all the fashionable cant of sensibility, 
 asked how it was possible that an involuntary sentiment 
 could ever be a crime ? 
 
 As certainly as the novice among a band of sharpers 
 is taught by the technical language of the gang to 
 conquer his horror of ciime, so certainly does the 
 cant of sent'mient operate upon the female novice, and 
 vanquish her fear of shame and moral horror of vice. 
 
 The allusion is coarse — so much the better : strength, 
 not elegance, is necessary on some occasions to make an 
 impression. 
 
 The truth will strike the good sense and good feel- 
 ings of our countrywomen, and unadorned, they will 
 prefer it to German or French sophistry. By such 
 sophistry, however, was Dora insensibly led on. 
 
 But Ormond did not yet advance in learning the 
 language of sentiment — he was amusing himself in 
 the world — and Dora imagined that the dissipation 
 in which he lived prevented him from having time 
 to think of his passion : she began to hate the dissi- 
 pation. 
 
 Connal one day, when Dora was present, observed 
 that Ormond seemed to be quite in his natural element 
 in this sea of pleasure. 
 
 " Who would have thought it ? " said Dora : " I 
 thought Mr Ormond's taste was more for domestic 
 happiness and retirement." 
 
 " Retirement at Paris ! " said Ormond. 
 
 " Domestic happiness at Paris ! " said Connal. 
 
 Mad. de Connal sighed No, it was Dora that 
 
 sighed. 
 
 "Where do you go to-night ? " said her husband.
 
 326 ORMOND. 
 
 " Nowhere — I shall stay at home. And you ? " 
 said she, looking up at Harry Orniond. 
 
 "To Mad. de la Tour's." 
 
 "That's the affair of half-an-hour — only to ap- 
 pear " 
 
 " Afterwards to the opera," said Ormond. 
 
 " And after the opera — can't you sup here ? " said 
 Mad. de Connal. 
 
 " With the utmost pleasure — but that I am engaged 
 to Mad. de la Erie's ball." 
 
 " That's true," cried Mad. de Connal, starting up 
 — " I had forgot it — so am I this fortnight — I may 
 as well go to the opera, too, and I can carry you to 
 Mad. de la Tour's — 1 owe her a five minutes' sittinii 
 — though she is un peu precieuse. And what can you 
 find in that little cold Mad. de la Brie — do you like 
 ice ? " 
 
 " He like to break de ice, I suppose," said made- 
 moiselle. " Ma foi, you must then take a hatchet 
 there ! " 
 
 " No occasion ; I had rather slide upon the ice than 
 break it. My business at Paris is merely, you know, 
 to amuse myself," said he, looking at Connal — " Glis- 
 sez mortels, n'appuyez pas." 
 
 " But if de ice should melt of itself," said made- 
 moiselle, " what would you do den ? What would 
 become of him, den, do you think, my dear niece?" 
 
 It was a case which she did not like to consider — 
 Dora blushed — no creature was so blind as mademoi- 
 selle, with all her boasted quickness and penetration. 
 
 From this time forward no more was heard of Mad. 
 de Connal's taste tor domestic life and retirement — she 
 seemed quite convinced, either by her husband, or by 
 Mr Ormond, or both, that no such thing was practi- 
 cable at Paris. She had always liked le grand monde 
 — she liked it better now than ever, when she found
 
 ORMOND. 327 
 
 Ormond in every crowded assembly, every place of 
 public amusement — a continual round of breakfasts, 
 dinners, balls — court balls — bal masque — bal de I'opera 
 — plays — grand entertainments — petits soupers — fetes 
 at Versailles — pleasure in every possible form and 
 variety of luxury and extravagance succeeded day after 
 day, and night after night — and Ormond, le bel Irlan- 
 dois, once in fashion, was everywhere, and everywhere 
 admired ; flattered by the women, who wished to 
 draw him in to be their partners at play — still more 
 flattered by those who wished to engage him as a 
 lover — most of all flattered by Dora. He felt his 
 danger. Improved in coquetry by Parisian practice 
 and power, Dora tried her utmost skill — she played 
 off with great dexterity her various admirers to excite 
 his jealousy : the Marquis de Beaulieu, the witty mar- 
 quis, and the Count de Belle Chasse, the irresistible 
 count, were dangerous rivals. She succeeded in ex- 
 citing Ormond's jealousy ; but in his noble mind there 
 were strong opposing principles to widistand his selfish 
 gratificadon. It was surprising with what politeness 
 to each other, with how little love, all the suitors 
 carried on this game of gallantry and competition of 
 vanity. 
 
 Till Ormond appeared, it had been the general 
 opinion that before the end of the winter or the spring, 
 the Count de Belle Chasse would be triumphant. 
 Why Ormond did not enter the lists, when there 
 appeared to all the judges such a chance of his winning 
 the prize, seemed incomprehensible to the spectators, 
 and still more to the rival candidates. Some settled it 
 with the exclamation " Inoui ! " Others pronounced 
 that it was English bizarrerie. Everything seemed to 
 smooth the slippery path of temptation — the indiffer- 
 ence of her husband — the imprudence of her aunt, and 
 the sophistry of Mad. de Clairville — the generai
 
 328 ORMOND. 
 
 customs of French society — the peculiar profligacy of 
 the society into which he happened to be thrown — the 
 opinion which he saw prevailed, that if he withdrew 
 from the competition a rival would immediately profit 
 by his forbearance, conspired to weaken his resolution. 
 
 Many accidental circumstances concurred to increase 
 the danger. At these balls, to which he went origi- 
 nally to avoid Dora in smaller parties. Mad. de Connal, 
 though she constantly appeared, seldom danced. She 
 did not dance well enough to bear comparison with 
 French dancers : Ormond was in the same situation. 
 The dancing which was very well in England would 
 not do in Paris — no late lessons could, by any art, 
 bring them to an equality with French nature. 
 
 " Ah, il ne danse pas ! He dances like an English- 
 man." At the first ball this comforted the suitors, 
 and most the Count de Belle Chasse ; but this very 
 circumstance drew Ormond and Dora closer together 
 — she pretended headaches, and languor, and lassitude, 
 and, in short, sat still. 
 
 But it was not to be expected that the Comte de 
 Belle Chasse could give up dancing : — the Comte de 
 Belle Chasse danced like le dieu de la danse, another 
 Vestris ; he danced every night, and Ormond sat and 
 talked to Dora, for it was his duty to attend madame 
 when the little abbe was out of the way. 
 
 The spring was now appearing, and the spring is 
 delightful in Paris, and rhe promenades in the Champs 
 Elysees, and In the Bois de Boulogne, and the pro- 
 menade in Long-Champ, commenced. Riding was 
 just coming into high fashion with the French ladies ; 
 and, instead of riding in men's clothes, and like a man, 
 it was now the ambition de monter a cheval a 
 I'Anglcise : to ride on a side-saddle and in an English 
 riding-habit was now the ambition. Now Dora, 
 though she could not dance as well, could ride better
 
 ORMOND. 329 
 
 than any Frenchwoman ; and she was ambitious to 
 show herself and her horsemanship in the Bois de 
 Boulogne : but she had no horse tliat she liked. Le 
 Conite de Belie Chasse offered to get one broke for her 
 at the king's riding-house — this she refused ; but for- 
 tunately Ormond, as was the custom with the English 
 at that time, had, after his arrival, some English horses 
 brought over to him at Paris. Among these was the 
 horse he had once broke for Dora. 
 
 For this an English side-saddle was procured — she 
 was properly equipped and mounted. 
 
 And the two friends, le bel Irlandois, as they per- 
 sisted in calling Ormond, and la belle Irlandois, and 
 their horses, and their horsemanship, were the admiration 
 of the promenade. 
 
 The Comte de Belle Chasse sent to London for an 
 English horse at any price. He was out of humour — 
 and Ormond in the finest humour imaginable. Dora 
 was grateful ; her horse was a beautiful, gentle-spirited 
 creature : it was called Harry — it was frequently patted 
 and caressed, and told how much it was valued and 
 loved. 
 
 Ormond was now in great danger, because he felt 
 himself secure that he was only a friend — I'ami de la 
 inatson. 
 
 Cfjapter jcvty. 
 
 THERE was a picture of Dagote's which was at 
 this moment an object of fashionable curiosity in 
 Paris. It was a representation of one of the many 
 charitable actions of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, 
 " then dauphiness — at that time full of life, and splendour, 
 and joy, adorning and cheering the elevated sphere she 
 just began to move in ; " and yet diffusing life, and hope,
 
 330 ORMOND. 
 
 and joy, in that lower sphere, to which the radiance of 
 the great and happy seldom reaches. The dauphiness 
 was at that time the pride of France, and the darhng 
 of Paris ; not only worshipped by the court, but loved 
 by the people. While she was dauphiness, and during 
 the commencement of her reign, everything, even disas- 
 trous accidents, and the rigour of the season, served 
 to give her fresh opportunity of winning the affection 
 and exciting the enthusiasm of the people. When, 
 during the festivities on her marriage, hundreds were 
 cmshed to death by the fall of a temporary building, the 
 sensibility of the dauphiness, the eagerness with which she 
 sent all her money to the lieutenant de police for the 
 families of those who had perished, conciliated the people, 
 and turned even the evil presage to good. Again, during 
 a severe frost, her munificence to the suffering poor 
 excited such gratitude, that the people erected to her 
 honour a vast pyramid of snow — Frail memorial ! — 
 " These marks of respect were almost as transitory as 
 the snowy pyramid." 
 
 Ormond went with Mdlle. O'Faley one morning to 
 see the picture of the dauphiness ; and he had now an 
 opportunity of seeing a display of French sensibility, 
 that eagerness to feel and to excite a sensation ; that 
 desire to produce an effecty to have a scene ; that half 
 real, half theatric enthusiasm, by which the French 
 character is peculiarly distinguished from the English. 
 He was perfectly astonished by the quantity of exclama- 
 tions he heard at the sight of this picture ; the lifting 
 up of hands and eyes, the transports, the ecstasies, the 
 tears — the actual tears that he saw streaming in despite of 
 rouge. It was real ! and it was not real feeling ! Of 
 one thing he was clear — that this superllulty of feeling 
 or exaggeration of expression completely silenced him, 
 and made him cold indeed : like one unskilled or dumb 
 he seemed to stand.
 
 ORMOND. 331 
 
 "But are you of marble?" cried mademoiselle — 
 " where is your sensibilite then ?" 
 
 " I hope it is safe at the bottom of my heart," said 
 Ormond ; " but when it is called for, I cannot always 
 find it — especially on these public occasions." 
 
 " Ah ! but what good all the sensibilite in the 
 world do at the bottom of your heart, where nobody 
 see it ? It is on these public occasions too you must 
 always contrive and find it quick at Paric, or after all 
 you will seem but an Englishman." 
 
 " I must be content to seem and to be what I am," said 
 Ormond, in a tone of playful but determined resignation. 
 
 " Bon ! " said a voice near him. Mademoiselle went 
 off in impatience to find some better auditor — she did 
 not hear the " Bon" 
 
 Ormond turned, and saw near him a gentleman, 
 whom he had often met at some of the first houses at 
 Paris — the Abbe Morellet, then respected as the most 
 reasonable of all the wits of France, and who has 
 since, through all the trying scenes of the Revolution, 
 through the varieties of unprincipled change, preserved 
 unaltered the integrity and frankness of his character ; 
 retaining even to his eighty-seventh year all his 
 characteristic warmth of heart and clearness of under- 
 standing — le doyen de la litteralure Franrohe — the love, 
 respect, and admiration, of every honest heart in France. 
 May he live to receive among all the other tributes, 
 which his countrymen pay publicly and privately to his 
 merit, this record of the impression his kindness left on 
 grateful English hearts ! 
 
 Our young liero had often desired to be acquainted 
 with the abbe ; but the abbe had really hitherto passed 
 him over as a mere young man of fashion, a mere 
 milord Anglois, one of the ephemeral race, who appear 
 in Parisian society, vanish, and leave no trace behind. 
 But now he did him the honour to enter into conversa-
 
 332 ORMOND. 
 
 tion with him. The abbe peculiarly disliked all 
 affectation of sentiment and exaggeration : they were 
 revolting to his good sense, good taste, and feeling. 
 Ormond won directly his good opinion and good-will, 
 by having insisted upon it to mademoiselle, that he 
 would not for the sake of fashion or effect pretend to 
 feel more than he really did. 
 
 " Bah," said the abbe, " hear all those women now 
 and ail those men — they do not know what they are 
 saying — they make me sick. And, besides, I am 
 afraid these flattering courtiers will do no good to our 
 young dauphiness, on whom so much of the future 
 happiness or misery of France will depend. Her heart 
 is excellent, and they tell me she announces a strong 
 character ; but what head of a young beauty and a 
 young queen will be able to withstand perpetual 
 flattery ? They will lead her wrong, and then will 
 be the first to desert her — trust me, I know Paris. 
 All this might change as quickly as the turn of a 
 weathercock ; but I will not trouble you with fore- 
 bodings perhaps never to be realized. You see Paris, 
 monsieur, at a fortunate time," continued he ; " society 
 is now more agreeable, has more freedom, more life 
 and variety, than at any other period that I can 
 remember." 
 
 Ormond replied by a just compliment to the men of 
 litters, who at this period added so much to the 
 brilliancy and pleasure of Parisian society. 
 
 " But you have seen nothing of our men of literature, 
 have you ? " said the abbe. 
 
 " Much less than I wish. I meet them frequently 
 in society, but as unluckily I have no pretensions to 
 their notice, I can only catch a little of their conver- 
 sation, when I am fortunate enough to be near them." 
 
 " Yes," said the abbe, with his peculiar look and 
 tone of good-natured irony, *' between the pretty
 
 ORMOND. 333 
 
 things you are saying and hearing from Fear 
 
 nothing, I am not going to name any one, but — every 
 pretty woman in company. I grant you it must be 
 difficult to hear reason in such a situation — as difficult 
 almost as in the midst of the din of all the passions 
 at the faro table. I observe, however, that you play 
 with astonishing coolness — there is something still — 
 wanting. Excuse me — but you interest me, monsieur ; 
 the determination not to play at all " 
 
 " Beyond a certain sum I have resolved never to 
 play," said Ormond. 
 
 " Ah ! but the appetite grows — I'appetit vient en 
 mangeant — the danger is in acquiring the taste — 
 excuse me if I speak too freely." 
 
 " Not at all — you cannot oblige me more. But 
 there is no danger of my acquiring a taste for play, 
 because I am determined to lose." 
 
 " Bon ! " said the abbe ; " that is the most singular 
 determination I ever heard : explain that to me, then, 
 
 monsieur." 
 
 " I have determined to lose a certain sum — suppose 
 five hundred guineas. I have won and lost backwards 
 and forwards, and have been longer about it than you 
 would conceive to be probable ; but it is not lost yet. 
 The moment it is I shall stop short. By this means I have 
 acquired ail the advantages of yielding to the fashion- 
 able madness, without risking my future happiness." 
 
 The abbe was pleased with the idea, and with the 
 frankness and firmness of our young hero. 
 
 " Really, monsieur," said he, " you must have a 
 strong head — you, le bel Irlandois — to have prevented 
 it from turning with all the flattery you have received 
 at Paris. There is nothing which gets into the head 
 — worse still — into the heart, so soon, so dangerously, 
 as the flattery of pretty women. And yet I declare 
 you seem wonderfully sober, considering."
 
 334 ORMOND. 
 
 " Ne jurez pas," said Ormond ; " but at least in 
 one respect I have not quite lost my senses ; I know 
 the value, and feel the want of a safe, good guide at 
 Paris : if I dared to ask such a favour, I should, 
 since he has expressed some interest for me, beg to be 
 permitted to cultivate the acquaintance of M. I'Abbe 
 Morellet." 
 
 " Ah, p — now my head will turn, for no head can 
 stand the dose of flattery that happens to suit the taste. 
 I am particularly flattered by the idea of being a safe, 
 good friend ; and frankly, if I can be of any service 
 to you, I will. Is there anything I can do for you ? " 
 
 Ormond thanked him, and told him that it was his 
 great ambition to become acquainted with the celebrated 
 men of literature in Paris — he said he should feel 
 extremely obliged if M. Morellet would tJike occasion 
 to introduce him to any of them they might meet in 
 society. 
 
 "We must do better for you," said the abbe — 
 " we must show you our men of letters." He con- 
 cluded by begging Ormond to name a day when he 
 could do him the honour to breakfast with him. " I 
 will promise you Marmontel, at least ; for he is just 
 going to be married to my niece, and of him we shall 
 be secure : as to the rest I will promise nothing, but 
 do as much as I can." 
 
 The men of letters about this period at Paris, as the 
 abbe explained to Ormond, began to feel their own 
 power and consequence, and had assumed a tone of in- 
 dependence, as yet tempered with due respect for rank. 
 Many of them lived or were connected with men of rank, 
 by places about the court, by secretaryships and pensions, 
 obtained through court influence. Some were attached 
 by early friendship to certain great families ; had apart- 
 ments to themselves in their hotels, where they received 
 what friends they pleased ; and, in short, lived as if they
 
 ORMOND. 335 
 
 were at home. Their company was much sought for 
 by the great ; and they enjoyed good houses, good tables, 
 carriages, all the conveniences of life, and all the 
 luxuries of the rich, without the trouble of an establish- 
 ment. Their mornings were their own, usually em- 
 ployed in study ; and the rest of the day they gave 
 themselves to society. The most agreeable period of 
 French literary society was, perhaps, while this state of 
 things lasted. 
 
 The Abbe Morellet's breakfast was very agreeable, 
 and Ormond saw at his house what had been promised 
 him, many of the literary men at Paris. Voltaire was 
 not then in France ; and Rousseau, who was always 
 quarrelling with somebody, and generally with every- 
 body, could not be prevailed upon to go to this breakfast. 
 Ormond was assured that he lost nothing by not seeing 
 him, or by not hearing his conversation, for that it was 
 by no means equal to his writings ; his temper was so 
 susceptible and wayward, that he was not fit for society 
 — neither capable of enjoying nor of adding to its 
 pleasures. Ormond heard, perhaps, more of Rousseau 
 and Voltaire, and learnt more of their characters, by the 
 anecdotes that were related, and the bon-mots that were 
 repeated, than he could have done if they had been 
 present. There was great variety of different characters 
 and talents at this breakfast ; and the abbe amused him- 
 self by making his young friend guess who the people 
 were, before he told their names. It was happy for 
 Ormond that he was acquainted with some of their 
 writings (this he owed to Lady Annaly's well-chosen 
 present of French books). He was fortunate in his 
 first guess — Marivaux's conversation was so like the 
 style of his writings, so full of hairbreadth distinctions, 
 subtle exceptions, and metaphysical refinement and 
 digressions, that Ormond soon guessed him, and was 
 applauded for his quickness. Marmontel he discovered
 
 336 ORMOND. 
 
 by his being the only man in the room who had not 
 mentioned to him any of " Lcs Contes Moraux." But 
 there was one person who set all his skill at defiance : 
 he pronounced that he was no author — that he was I'ami 
 de la maison : he was so indeed wherever he went — 
 but he was both a man of literature, and a man of deep 
 science — no less a person than the great d'Alembert. 
 Ormond thought d'Alembert and Marmontel were the 
 two most agreeable men in company. D'Alembert was 
 simple, open-hearted, unpresuming, and cheerful in 
 society. Far from being subject to that absence of 
 mind with which profound mathematicians are sometimes 
 reproached, d'Alembert was present to everything that 
 was going forward — every trifle he enjoyed with the 
 zest of youth, and the playfulness of childhood. Ormond 
 confessed that he should never have guessed that he was 
 a great mathematician and profound calculator. 
 
 Marmontel was distinguished for combining in his 
 conversation, as in his character, two qualities for 
 which there are no precise English words, naivete and 
 jinesse. Whoever is acquainted with Marmontcl's 
 writings must have a perfect knowledge of what is 
 meant by both. 
 
 It was fortunate for our young hero that Marmontel 
 was, at this time, no longer the dissipated man he had 
 been during too great a period of his life. He had 
 now returned to his early tastes for simple pleasures 
 and domestic virtues — had formed that attachment 
 which afterwards made the happiness ot his life : he 
 was just going to be married to the amiable Mdlle. 
 Montigny, a niece of the Abbe Morellet. She, and 
 her excellent mother, lived with him ; and Ormond 
 was most agreeably surprised and touched at tlie unex- 
 pected sight of an amiable, united, happy fcmiily, when 
 he had expected only a meeting of literati. 
 
 The sight of this domestic happiness reminded him
 
 ORMOND. 337 
 
 of the Annalys — ^brought the image of Florence to his 
 niind. If she had been but sincere, how he should 
 have preferred her to all he had seen ! 
 
 It came upon him just at the right moment. It 
 contrasted with all the dissipation he had seen, and it 
 struck him the more strongly, because it could not 
 possibly have been prepared as a moral lesson to make 
 an impression. He saw the real, natural course of 
 things — he heard in a few hours the result of the ex- 
 perience of a man of great vivacity, great talents, who 
 had led a life of pleasure, and who had had opportunities 
 of seeing and feeling all that it could possibly afford, 
 at the period of the greatest luxury and dissipation ever 
 known in France. No evidence could be stronger than 
 Marmontel's in favour of virtue and of domestic life, 
 nor could any one express it with more grace and per- 
 suasive eloquence. 
 
 It did Ormond infinite good. He required such a 
 lesson at this juncture, and he was capable of taking it 
 — it recalled him to his better self. 
 
 The good abbe seemed to see something of what 
 passed in Ormond's mind, and became still more inte- 
 rested about him. 
 
 "Ah, 9a," said he to Marmontel, as soon as Ormond 
 was gone, " that young man is worth something : I 
 thought he was only le bel Irlandols, but I find he is 
 much more. We must do what we can for him, and 
 not let him leave Paris, as so many do, having seen 
 only the worst part of our society." 
 
 Marmontel, who had also been pleased with him, 
 was willing, he said, to do anything in his power ; but 
 he could scarcely hope that they had the means of 
 withdrawing, from the double attraction of the faro 
 table and coquetry, a young man of that age and figure. 
 
 "Fear nothing, or rather hope everything," said the 
 abbe : " his head and his heart are more in our favour.
 
 338 ORMOND. 
 
 trust me, than his age and his figure are against us. To 
 begin, my good Marmontel, did not you see how much 
 he was struck and edified by your reformation ? " 
 
 " Ah ! if there was another Mdlle. de Montigny for 
 him, I should fear nothing, or rather hope everything," 
 said Marmontel : " but where shall he find such another 
 in all Paris ? " 
 
 " In his own country, perhaps, all in good time," 
 said the abbe. 
 
 " In his own country ? — True," cried Marmontel, 
 " now you recall it to my mind, how eager he grew in 
 disputing with Marivaux upon the distinction between 
 aimahle and amiable. His description of an amiable 
 nuoman, according to the English taste, was, I recollect, 
 made con amore ; and there was a sigh at the close 
 which came from the heart, and which showed the 
 heart was in England or Ireland." 
 
 " Wherever his heart is, cest hien place" said the 
 abbe. " I like him — we must get him into good com- 
 pany — he is v/orthy to be acquainted with your amiable 
 and aimable Mad. de Beauveau and Mad. de Seran." 
 
 " True," said Marmontel ; " and for the honour of 
 Paris, we must convince him that he has taken up false 
 notions, and that there is such a thing as conjugal 
 fidelity and domestic happiness here." 
 
 " Bon. That is peculiarly incumbent on the author 
 of Les Contes Moraux" said the abbe. 
 
 It happened, fortunately for our hero, that Mad. de 
 Connal was, about this time, engaged to pass a fortnight 
 at the country house of Mad. de Clairville. During 
 her absence, the good abbe had time to put in execution 
 all his benevolent intentions, and introduced his young 
 friend to some of the really good company of Paris. 
 He pointed out to him at Mad. Geoffrin's, Mad. de 
 Tencin's, Mad. du Dcffand's, and Mad. Tmdaine's 
 the difference between the society at the house of a
 
 ORMOND. 339 
 
 rich farmer-general — or at the house of one connected 
 with the court, and with people in place and political 
 power — and the society of mixed rank and literature. 
 The mere passing pictures of tliese things, to one who 
 was not to live in Paris, might not perhaps, except as 
 a matter of curiosity, be of much value ; but his 
 judicious friend led Ormond from these to make 
 comparisons and deductions which were of use to him 
 ail his life afterward. 
 
 ONE morning when Ormond wakened, the first 
 thing he heard was, that a person from Ireland 
 was below, who was very impatient to see him. 
 It was Patrickson, Sir Ulick O' Shane's confidential 
 man of business. 
 
 " What news from Castle Hermitage ? " cried Or- 
 mond, starting up in his bed, surprised at the sight of 
 Patrickson. 
 
 "The best that can be — never saw Sir Ulick in 
 such heart — he has a share of the loan, and " 
 
 " And what news of the Annalys ? " interrupted 
 Ormond. 
 
 " I know nothing about them at all, sir," said 
 Patrickson, who was a methodical man of business, and 
 whose head was always intent upon what he called the 
 main chance. " I have been in Dublin, and heard no 
 country news." 
 
 " But have you no letter for me ? and what brings 
 you over so suddenly to Paris ?" 
 
 " I have a letter for you somewhere here, sir — only 
 I have so many 'tis hard to find," said Patrickson, 
 looking carefully over a parcel of letters in his pocket-
 
 34© ORMOND. 
 
 book, but with such a drawling slowness of manner as 
 put Ormond quite out of patience. Patrickson laid 
 the letters on the bed one by one. " That's not it — • 
 and that's not it ; that's for Monsieur un Tel, marchand, 
 
 Rue ; that packet's from the Hamburg merchants 
 
 What brings me over ? Why, sir, I have business 
 
 enough, Heaven knows ! " 
 
 Patrickson was employed not only by Sir Ulick 
 O' Shane, but by many Dublin merchants and bankers, 
 to settle business for them with different houses on the 
 Continent. Ormond, without listening to the various 
 digressions he made concerning the persons of mercantile 
 consequence to whom the letters were addressed, or 
 from whom they were answers, pounced upon the letter 
 in Sir Ulick's handwriting directed to himself, and tore 
 it open eagerly, to see if there was any news of the 
 Annalys. None — they were in Devonshire. Tha 
 letter was merely a few lines on business — Sir Ulick 
 had now the opportunity he had foreseen of laying out 
 Ormond's money in the loan most advantageously for 
 him ; but there had been an omission in the drawing 
 up of his power of attorney, which had been done in 
 such a hurry on Ormond's leaving home. It gave 
 power only to sell out of the Three per Cents. ; 
 whereas much of Ormond's money was in the Four 
 per Cents. Another power, Patrickson said, was 
 necessary, and he had brought one for him to sign. 
 Patrickson in his slow manner descanted upon the folly 
 of signing papers in a hurry, just when people were 
 getting into carriages, which was always the way with 
 young gentlemen, he said. He took care that Ormond 
 should do nothing in a hurry now ; for he put on his 
 spectacles, and read the power, sparing him not a 
 syllable of the law forms and repetitions, Ormond 
 wrote a few kind lines to Sir Ulick, and earnestly 
 besought him to find out something more about the
 
 ORMOND. 341 
 
 Annalys. If Miss Annaly were married, it must have 
 appeared in the papers. What delayed the marriage ? 
 Was Colonel Albemarle dismissed or accepted ? 
 Where was he ? — Ormond said he would be content if 
 Sir Ulick could obtain an answer to that single plain 
 question. 
 
 All the time Ormond was writing, Patrickson never 
 stirred his forefinger from the spot where the signature 
 was to be written at the bottom of the power of 
 attorney. 
 
 " Pray," said Ormond, looking up from the paper 
 he was going to sign, " pray, Patrickson, are you really 
 and truly an Irishman ? " 
 
 " By the father's side, I apprehend, sir — but my 
 mother was English. Stay, sir, if you please — I must 
 witness it." 
 
 "Witness away," said Ormond; and after having 
 signed this paper, empowering Sir Ulick to sell ^30,000 
 out of the Four per Cents., Ormond lay down, and 
 wishing him a good journey, settled himself to sleep ; 
 while Patrickson, packing up his papers, deliberately 
 said, " he hoped to be in London in short ; but that he 
 should go by Havre de Grace, and that he should be 
 happy to execute any commands for Mr Ormond there 
 or in Dublin." More he would have said, but finding 
 Ormond by this time past reply, he left the room on 
 tiptoe. The next morning Mad. de Connal returned 
 from the country, and sent Ormond word that she should 
 expect him at her assembly that night. 
 
 Everybody complimented Mad. de Connal upon the 
 improvement which the country air had made in her 
 beauty — even her husband was struck with it, and paid 
 her his compliments on the occasion ; but she stood 
 conversing so long with Ormond, that the faro players 
 grew impatient : she led him to the table, but evidently 
 had little interest herself in the game. He played at
 
 342 ORMOND. 
 
 first with more than his usual success, but late at night 
 his fortune suddenly changed ; he lost — lost — till at 
 last he stopped, and rising from table, said he had no 
 more money, and he could play no longer. Connal, 
 who was not one of the players, but merely looking on, 
 offered to lend him any sum he pleased. ** Here's a 
 rouleau — here are two rouleaus — what will you have?" 
 said Connal. 
 
 Ormond declined playing any more : he said that he 
 had lost the sum he had resolved to lose, and there he 
 would stop. Connal did not urge him, but laughing 
 said, that a resolution to lose at play was the most extra- 
 ordinary he had ever heard. 
 
 " And yet you see I have kept it," said Ormond. 
 
 " Then I hope you will next make a resolution to 
 win," said Connal, "and no doubt you will keep that 
 as well — I prophesy that you will ; and you will give 
 fortune fair play to-morrow night." 
 
 Ormond simply repeated that he should play no 
 more. Mad. de Connal soon afterwards rose from the 
 table, and went to talk to Mr Ormond. She said she 
 was concerned for his loss at play this night. He 
 answered, as he felt, that it was a matter of no 
 consequence to him — that he had done exactly what 
 he had determined ; that in the course of the whole 
 time he had been losing this money he had had a great 
 deal of amusement in society, had seen a vast deal 
 of human nature and manners, which he could not 
 otherwise have seen, and that he thought his money 
 exceedingly well employed. 
 
 " But you shall not lose your money," said Dora ; 
 " when next you play it shall be on my account as well 
 as your own — you know this is not only a compliment, 
 but a solid advantage. But, Ormond, the bank has 
 certain advantages — and it is fair that you should share 
 then). I must explain to you," continued Mad. de
 
 ORMOND. 343 
 
 Connal — " they are all busy about their own affairs, and 
 we may speak in English at our ease — I must explain 
 to you, that a good portion of my fortune has been 
 settled, so as to be at riiy own disposal — my aunt, you 
 know, has also a good fortune — we are partners, and 
 put a considerable sum into the faro bank. We find it 
 answers well. You see how handsomely we live. Mr 
 Connal has his own share. We have nothing to do 
 with thai. If you would take my advice," continued 
 she, speaking in a very persuasive tone, " instead of 
 forswearing play, as you seem inclined to do at the first 
 reverse of fortune, you would join forces with us ; you 
 cannot imagine that / would advise you to anything 
 which I was not persuaded would be advantageous to 
 you — you little know how much I am interested." She 
 checked herself, blushed, hesitated, and hurried on — 
 " You have no ties in Ireland — you seem to like Paris 
 — where can you spend your time more agreeably ? " 
 
 "More agreeably — nowhere upon earth!" cried 
 Ormond. Her manner, tone, and look, at this moment 
 were so flattering, so bewitching, that he was scarcely 
 master of himself. They went to the boudoir — the 
 company had risen from the faro table, and, one after 
 another, had most of them departed. Connal was 
 gone — only a few remained in a distant apartment, 
 listening to some music. It was late. Ormond had 
 never till this evening stayed later than the generality 
 of the company, but he had now an excuse to himself, 
 something that he had long wished to have an oppor- 
 tunity of saying to Dora, when she should be quite 
 alone ; it was a word of advice about le Comte de Belle 
 Chasse — her intimacy with him was beginning to be 
 talked of. She had been invited to a bal pare at the 
 Spanish ambassador's for the ensuing night — but she had 
 more inclination to go to a bal masque, as Ormond had 
 heard her declare. Now certain persons had whispered
 
 344 ORMOND. 
 
 that it was to meet the Comte de Belle Chasse that she 
 intended to go to this ball : and Ormond feared that such 
 whispers might be injurious to her reputation. It was 
 difficult to him to speak, because the counsels of the 
 friend might be mistaken for the jealous fears of a lover. 
 With some embarrassment he delicately, timidly, hinted 
 his apprehensions. 
 
 Dora, though naturally of a temper apt to take alarm 
 at the touch of blame, and offence at the tone of advice, 
 now in the most graceful manner thanked her friend for 
 his counsel ; said she was flattered, gratified, by the 
 interest it showed in her happiness — and she immediately 
 yielded her will, her fantauie, to his better judgment. 
 This compliance, and the look with which it was 
 accompanied, convinced him of the absolute power he 
 possessed over her heart. He was enchanted with 
 Dora — she never looked so beautiful ; never before, 
 not even in the first days of his early youth, had he 
 felt her beauty so attractive. 
 
 " Dear Mad. de Connal, dear Dora ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 " Call me Dora," said she : " I wish ever to be 
 Dora to Harry Ormond. O Harry, my first, my best, 
 my only friend, I have enjoyed but little real happiness 
 since we parted." 
 
 Tears filled her fine eyes — no longer knowing where 
 he was, Harry Ormond found himself at her feet. But 
 while he held and kissed in transport the beautiful hand, 
 which was but feebly withdrawn, he seemed to be 
 suddenly shocked by the sight of one of the rings on 
 her finger. 
 
 " My wedding ring," said Dora, with a sigh. " Un- 
 fortunate marriage ! " 
 
 That v/as not the ring on which Ormond's eyes were 
 fixed. 
 
 " Dora, whose gray hair is tliis ? " 
 
 " My father's," said Dora, in a tremulous voice.
 
 ORMOND. 345 
 
 " Your father ! " cried Ormond, starting up. 
 
 The full recollection of that fond father, that generous 
 benefactor, that confiding friend, rushed upon his heart. 
 
 "And is this the return I make! — Oh, if he could 
 see us at this instant ! " 
 
 "And if he could," cried Dora, " oh ! how he would 
 admire and love you, Ormond, and how he would " 
 
 Her voice failed, and with a sudden motion she hid 
 her face with both her hands. 
 
 ** He would see you, Dora, without a guide, pro- 
 tector, or friend ; surrounded with admirers, among 
 profligate men, and women still more profligate ; yet he 
 would see that you have preserved a reputation of which 
 your father would be proud." 
 
 " My father ! O my poor father ! " cried Dora : 
 " Oh ! generous, dear, ever generous Ormond ! " 
 
 Bursting into tears — alternate passions seizing her — 
 at one moment the thoughts of her lather, the next of 
 her lover, possessed her imagination. 
 
 At this instant the noise of some one approaching 
 recalled them both to their senses. They were found 
 in earnest conversation about a party of pleasure that was 
 to be arranged for the next day. Mad. de Connal 
 made Ormond promise that he would come the next 
 morning, and settle everything with M. de Connal for 
 their intended expedition into the countr)^ 
 
 The next day, as Ormond was returning to Mad. 
 de Connal's, with the firm intention of adhering to the 
 honourable line of conduct he had traced out for him- 
 self, just as he was crossing the Pont Neuf, some one ran 
 full against him. Surprised at what happens so seldom 
 in the streets of Paris, where all meet, pass, or cross, in 
 crowds, with magical celerity and address, he looked 
 back, and at the same instant the person who had passed 
 looked back also. An apparition in broad daylight 
 could not have surprised Ormond more than the sight
 
 346 ORMOND. 
 
 of this person. " Could it be — could it possibly be 
 Moriarty Carroll, on the Pont Neuf in Paris ? " 
 
 " By the blessing, then, it's the man himself — Master 
 Harry ! — though I didn't know him through the French 
 disguise. Oh ! master, then, I've been tried and cast, 
 and all but hanged — sentenced to Botany — transported 
 any way — for a robbery I didn't commit — since I saw 
 you last. But your honour's uneasy, and it's not proper, 
 I know, to be stopping a jantleman in the street ; but I 
 have a word to say that will bear no delay, not a minute." 
 
 Ormond's surprise and curiosity increased — he 
 desired Moriarty to follow him. 
 
 " And now, Moriarty, what is it you have to say ?" 
 
 " It is a long story, then, please your honour. I 
 was transported to Botany, though innocent. But first 
 and foremost for what consarns your honour first." 
 
 " First," said Ormond, " if you were transported, 
 how came you here ? " 
 
 " Because I was not transported, plase your honour 
 — only sentenced — for I escaped from Kilmainham, 
 where I was sent to be put on board the tender ; but I 
 got on board of an American ship, by the help of a 
 friend — and this ship being knocked against the rocks, 
 I came safe ashore in this country on one of the sticks 
 of the vessel : so when I knowed it was France I was 
 in, and recollected Miss Dora that was married in 
 Paris, I thought if T could just make my way anyhows 
 to Paris, she'd bcfrind me in case of need. 
 
 " But, dear master," said Moriarty, interrupting, 
 *' it's a folly to talk — I'll not tell you a word more of 
 myself till you hear the news I have for you. The 
 worst news I have to tell you is, there is great fear of 
 the breaking of Sir Ulick's bank ! " 
 
 " The breaking of Sir Ulick's bank ? I heard from 
 him the day before yesterday." 
 
 ** May be you did ; but the captain of the American
 
 ORMOND. 347 
 
 ship in which I came was complaining of his having 
 been kept two hours at that bank, where they were 
 paying large sums in small notes, and where there was 
 the greatest run upon the house that ever was seen." 
 
 Ormond instantly saw his danger — he recollected 
 the power of attorney he had signed two days before. 
 But Patrickson was to go by Ha\Te de Grace — that 
 would delay him. It was possible that Ormond by 
 setting out instantly might get to London time enough 
 to save his property. He went directly and ordered 
 post horses. He had no debts in Paris, nothing to pay, 
 but for his stables and lodging. He had a faithful 
 servant, whom he could leave behind, to make all 
 necessary arrangements. 
 
 "You are right, jewel, to be in a hurry," said 
 Carroll. " But sure you won't leave poor Moriarty 
 behind ye here, in distress, when he has no friend in 
 the wide world but yourself." 
 
 "Tell me, in the first place, Moriarty, are you 
 innocent ? " 
 
 " Upon my conscience, master, 1 am perfectly inno- 
 cent as the child unborn, both of the murder and the 
 robbery. If your honour will give me leave, I'll tell 
 you the whole story." 
 
 "That will be a long affair, Moriarty, li you talk out 
 of the face, as you used to do. I will, however, find 
 an opportunity to hear it all. But, in the meandme, 
 stay where you are till I return." 
 
 Ormond went instantly to Connal's, to inform him 
 of what had happened. His astonishment was obviously 
 mixed with disappointment. But to do him justice, 
 besides the interest which he really had in the preserva- 
 tion of the fortune, he felt some personal regard for 
 Ormond himself. 
 
 " What shall we do without you ? " said he. " I 
 assure you, madame and I have never been so happy
 
 3|8 ORMOND. 
 
 together since the first month after our marriage as we 
 have been since you came to Paris." 
 
 Connal was somewhat consoled by hearing Ormond 
 say that if he was time enough in London to save his 
 fortune, he proposed returning immediately to Paris, 
 intending to make the tour of Switzerland and Italy. 
 
 Connal had no doubt that they should yet be able to 
 fix him at Paris. 
 
 Mad. de Connal and mademoiselle were out — Connal 
 did not know where they were gone. Ormond was 
 glad to tear himself away with as few adieus as possible. 
 He got into his travelling carriage, put his servant on 
 the box, and took Moriarty with him in the carriage, 
 that he might relate his history at leisure. 
 
 " Plase your honour," said Moriarty, " Mr Marcus 
 never missed any opportunity of showing me ill-will. 
 The supercargo of the ship that was cast away, when 
 you were with Sir' Herbert Annaly, God rest his 
 soul ! came down to the seaside to look for some of 
 the things that he had lost : the day after he came, 
 early in the morning, his horse, and bridle, and saddle, 
 and a surtout coat, was found in a lane, near the place 
 where he lived, and the supercargo was never heard 
 any more of. Suspicion fell upon many — the country 
 rung with the noise that was made about this murder 
 — and at last I was taken up for it, because people had 
 seen me buy cattle at the fair, and the people would 
 not believe it was with money your honour sent me by 
 the good parson — for the parson was gone out of the 
 country, and I had nobody to stand my friend ; for 
 Mr Marcus was on the grand jury, and the sheriff was 
 his friend, and Sir Ulick was in Dublin, at the bank. 
 Howsomdever, after a long trial, which lasted the 
 whole day, a 'cute lawyer on my side found out that 
 there was no proof that anybody had been murdered, 
 and that a man might lose his horse, his saddle, and
 
 ORMOND. 349 
 
 his bridle, and his big coat, without being kilt : so that 
 the judge ordered the jury to let me off for the murder. 
 They then tried me for the robbery ; and sure enough 
 that went again me : for a pair of silver-mounted pistols, 
 with the man's name engraved upon them, was found in 
 my house. They knew the man's name by the letters 
 in the big coat. The judge asked me what I had to 
 say for myself: *My lard,' says I, 'those pistols were 
 brought into my house about a fortnight ago, by a little 
 boy, one little Tommy Dunshaughlin, who found them 
 in a punk-horn, at the edge of a bog-hole.' 
 
 "The jidge favoured me more than the jury — for 
 he asked how old the boy was, and whether I could 
 produce him ? The little fellow was brought into court, 
 and it was surprising how clear he told his story. 
 The jidge listened to the child, young as he was. 
 But M'Crule was on the jury, and said that he knew 
 the child to be as cunning as any in Ireland, and that 
 he would not believe a word that came out of his mouth. 
 So the short and the long of it was, I was condemned to 
 be transported. 
 
 " It would have done you good, if you'd heard the 
 cry in the court when sentence was given, for I was 
 loved in the country. Poor Peggy and Sheelah ! — 
 But I'll not be troubling your honour's tender heart 
 with our parting. I was transmuted to Dublin, to 
 be put on board the tender, and lodged in Kilmainham, 
 waiting for the ship that was to go to Botany. I had 
 not been long there, when another prisoner was brought 
 to the same room with me. He was a handsome-look- 
 ing man, about thirty years of age, of the most pene- 
 trating eye and determined countenance that I ever 
 saw. He appeared to be worn down with ill health, 
 and his limbs much swelled: notwithstanding which, 
 he had strong handcuffs on his wrists, and he seemed 
 to be guarded with uncommon care. He begged the
 
 35° ORMOND. 
 
 turnkey to lay him down upon the miserable iron bed 
 that was in the cell ; and he begged him, for God's 
 sake, to let him have a jug of water by his bedside, 
 and to leave him to his fate. 
 
 " I could not help pitying this poor creature ; I 
 went to him, and offered him any assistance in' my 
 power. He answered me shortly, * What are you 
 here for ? ' — I told him. ' Well,' says he, * whether 
 you are guilty or not, is your affair, not mine ; but 
 answer me at once — are you a good man ? — Can you 
 go through with a thing ? — and are you steel to the 
 backbone ? ' — ' I am,' said I. * Then,' said he, < you 
 are a lucky man — for he that is talking to you is 
 Michael Dunne, who knows how to make his way out 
 of any jail in Ireland.' Saying this, he sprung with 
 great activity from the bed. ♦ It is my cue,' said he, 
 ' to be sick and weak, whenever the turnkey comes in, 
 to put him off his guard — for they have all orders to 
 watch me strictly ; because as how, do you see, I broke 
 out of the jail of Trim ; and when they catched me, 
 they took me before his honour the police magistrate, 
 who did all he could to get out of me the way which 
 I made my escape. ' Well,' says the magistrate, ' I'll 
 put you in a place where you can't get out — till you're 
 sent to Botany.' < Plase your worship,' says I, * if 
 there's no offence in saying it, there's no such place in 
 Ireland.' — ' No such place as what ? ' ' No such place 
 as will hold Michael Dunne.' — ' What do you think of 
 Kilmainham ? ' says he. ' I think it's a fine jail — and 
 it will be no asy matter to get out of it — but it is not 
 impossible.' — ' Well, Mr Dunne,' said the magistrate, 
 * I have heard of your fame, and that you have secrets 
 of your own for getting out. Now, if you'll tell me 
 how you got out of the jail of Trim, I'll make your 
 confinement at Kilmainham as asy as may be, so as to 
 keep you safe ; and if you do not, you must be ironed,
 
 ORMOND. 351 
 
 and I will have sentinels from an English regiment, who 
 shall be continually changed : so that you can't get any 
 of them to help you.' — * Plase your worship,' said Dunne, 
 « that's very hard usage ; but I know as how that you 
 are going to build new jails all over Ireland, and that 
 you'd be glad to know the best way to make them 
 secure. If youi- worship will promise me that if I get 
 out of Kilmainham, and if I tell you how I do it, then 
 you'll get me a free pardon, I'll try hard but what 
 before three months are over I'll be a prisoner at large.' 
 — * That's more than I can promise you,' said the 
 magistrate ; ' but if you will disclose to me the best 
 means of keeping other people in, I will endeavour to 
 keep you from Botany Bay.' — ' Now, sir,' says Dunne, 
 * I know your worship to be a man of honour, and that 
 your own honour regards yourself, and not me ; so 
 that if I was ten times as bad as I am, you'd keep your 
 promise with me, as well as if I was the best gentleman 
 in Ireland. So that now, Mr Moriarty,' said Dunne, 
 ' do you see, if I get out, I shall be safe ; and if you 
 get out along with me, you have nothing to do but to 
 go over to America. And if you are a married man, 
 and tired of your wife, you'll get rid of her. If you 
 are not tired of her, and you have any substance, she 
 may sell it and follow you.' 
 
 " There was something, master Harry, about the man 
 that made me have great confidence in him — and I was 
 ready to follow his advice. Whenever the turnkey was 
 coming he was groaning and moaning on the bed. At 
 other times he made me keep bathing his wrists with 
 cold water so that in three or four days they were not 
 half the size they were at first. This change he kept 
 carefully from the jailer. I observed that he frequently 
 asked what day of the month it was, but that he never 
 made any attempt to speak to the sentinels ; nor did he 
 seem to make any preparation, or to lay any scheme for
 
 352 ORMOND. 
 
 getting out. I held my tongue, and waited qui'tely. 
 At last, he took out of his pocket a little flageolet, and 
 began to play upon it. He asked me if I could play : 
 I said I could a litde, but very badly. ' I don't care 
 how bad it is, if you can play at all.' He got off the 
 bed where he was lying, and with the utmost ease 
 pulled his hands out of his handcuffs. Besides the 
 swelling of his wrists having gone down, he had some 
 method of getting rid of his thumb that I never could 
 understand. Says I, ' Mr Dunne, the jailer will miss 
 the fetters.' — 'No,' said he, 'for I will put them on 
 again ; ' and so he did, with great ease. * Now,' said 
 he, ' it is time to begin our work.' 
 
 " He took off one of his shoes, and taking out the 
 in- sole, he showed me a hole, that was cut where the 
 heel was, in which there was a little small flat bottle, 
 which he told me was the most precious thing in life. 
 And under the rest of the sole there were a number of 
 saws, made of watch spring, that lay quite flat and snug 
 under his foot. The next time the turnkey came in, 
 he begged, for the love of God, to have a pipe and 
 some tobacco, which was accordingly granted to him. 
 What the pipe and tobacco were for I could not then 
 guess, but they were found to be useful. He now 
 made a paste of some of the bread of his allowance, 
 with which he made a cup round the bottom of one of 
 the bars of the window ; into this cup he poured some 
 of the contents of the little bottle, which was, I believe, 
 oil of vitriol : in a little time, this made a bad smell, 
 and it was then I found the use of the pipe and 
 tobacco, for the smell of the tobacco quite bothered 
 the smell of the vitriol. When he thought he had 
 softened the iron bar sufficiently, he began to work 
 away with the saws, and he soon taught me how to use 
 them ; so that we kept working on continually, no 
 matter how little we did at a time ; but as we were
 
 ORMOND. 353 
 
 constantly at it, what I thought never could be done 
 was finished in three or four days. The use of the 
 flageolet was to drown the noise of the filing ; for 
 when one filed, the other piped. 
 
 " When the bar was cut through, he fitted the parts 
 nicely together, and covered them over with rust. He 
 proceeded in the same manner to cut out another bar ; 
 so that we had a free opening out of the window. 
 Our cell was at the very top of the jail, so that even 
 to look down to the ground was terrible. 
 
 " Under various pretences, we had got an unusual 
 quantity of blankets on our beds ; these he examined 
 with the utmost care, as upon their strength our lives 
 were to depend. We calculated with great coolness 
 the breadth of the strips into which he miglit cut the 
 blankets, so as to reach from the window to the 
 ground ; allowing for the knots by which they were 
 to be joined, and for other knots that were to hinder 
 the hands and feet from slipping. 
 
 " * Nov/,' said he, ' Mr Moriarty, all this is quite 
 easy, and requires nothing but a determined heart and 
 a sound head : but the difficulty is to baffle the sentinel 
 that is below, and who is walking backward and for- 
 ward continually, day and night, under the window ; 
 and there is another, you see, in a sentry-box, at the 
 door of the yard : and, for all I know, there may be 
 another sentinel at the other side of the wall. Now 
 these men are never twice on the same duty : I have 
 friends enough out of doors, who have money enough, 
 and would have talked reason to them ; but as these 
 sentinels are changed every day, no good can be got 
 of them : but stay till to-morrow night, and we'll try 
 what we can do.' 
 
 " I was determined to follow him. The next night, 
 the moment that we were locked in for the night, we 
 set to work to cut the blankets into slips, and tied 
 
 2
 
 354 ORMOND. 
 
 them together with great care. We put this rope 
 round one of the fixed bars of the window ; and, 
 pulling at each knot, we satisfied ourselves that every 
 part was sufficiently strong. Dunne looked frequently 
 out of the window with the utmost anxiety — it was a 
 moonlight night. 
 
 " ' The moon,' said he, ' will be down in an hour and 
 a half.' 
 
 " In a little while we heard the noise of several girls 
 singing at a distance from the windows, and we could see, 
 as they approached, that they were dancing, and making 
 free with the sentinels : I saw that they were provided 
 with bottles of spirits, with which they pledged the 
 deluded soldiers. By degrees the sentinels forgot their 
 duty ; and, by the assistance of some laudanum contained 
 in some of the spirits, they were left senseless on the 
 ground. The whole of this plan, and the very night 
 and hour, had been arranged by Dunne with his 
 associates, before lie was put into Kilmainham. The 
 success of this scheme, which was totally unexpected 
 by me, gave me, I suppose, plase your honour, fresh 
 courage. He, very honourably, gave me the choice to 
 go down first or to follow him. I was ashamed not to go 
 first : after I had got out of the window, and had fairly 
 hold of the rope, my fear diminished, and I went 
 cautiously down to the bottom. Here I waited for 
 Dunne, and we both of us silently stole along in the 
 dark, for the moon had gone in, and did not meet with 
 the least obstruction. Our out-of-doors assistants had 
 the prudence to get entirely out of sight. Dunne led 
 me to a hiding-place in a safe part of the town, and 
 committed me to the care of a seafaring man, who 
 promised to get me on board an American ship. 
 
 "'As for my part,' said Dunne, *I will go in the 
 morning, boldly, to the magistrate, and claim his 
 promise.'
 
 ORMOND, 355 
 
 " He did so — and the magistrate, witli good sense, 
 and good faith, kept his promise, and obtained a pardon 
 for Dunne. 
 
 " I wrote to Peggy, to get aboard an American ship. 
 I was cast away on the coast of France — made my way 
 to the first religious house that I could hear of, where 
 I luckily found an Irishman, who saved me from starva- 
 tion, and who sent me on from convent to convent, till 
 I got to Paris, where your honour met me on that 
 bridge, just when I was looking for Miss Dora's house. 
 And that's all I've got to tell," concluded Moriarty, 
 " and all true." 
 
 No adventures of any sort happened to our hero in 
 the course of his journey. The wind was fair for 
 England when he reached Calais : he had a good 
 passage ; and with all the expedition that good horses, 
 good roads, good money, and civil words, ensure in 
 England, he pursued his way ; and arrived in the 
 shortest time possible in London. 
 
 He reached town in the morning, before the usual 
 hour when the banks are open. Leaving orders with 
 his servant, on whose punctuality he could depend, to 
 waken him at the proper hour, he lay down, overcome 
 with fatigue, and slept — yes — slept soundly. 
 
 ORMOND was wakened at the proper hour — went 
 immediately to ****'s bank. It was but just 
 open, and beginning to do business. He had 
 never been there before — his person was not known to 
 any of the firm. He entered a long narrow room, so 
 dark at the entrance from the street that he could at 
 first scarcely see what was on either side ot him — a
 
 350 ORMOND. 
 
 clerk from some obscure nook, and from a desk higher 
 than himself, put out his head, with a long pen behind 
 his ear, and looked at Ormond as he came in. 
 
 " Pray, sir, am I right ? — Is this Mr ****'s bank ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 With mercantile econom}^ of words, and a motion 
 of his head, the clerk pointed out to Ormond the way 
 he should go — and continued casting up his books. 
 Ormond walked down the narrow aisle, and it became 
 light as he advanced towards a large window at the 
 farther end, before which three clerks sat at a table 
 opposite to him. A person stood with his back to 
 Ormond, and was speaking earnestly to one of the 
 clerks, who leaned over the table listening. Just as 
 Ormond came up he heard his own name mentioned 
 — he recollected the voice — he recollected the back 
 of the figure — the very bottle-green coat — it was 
 Patrickson — Ormond stood still behind him, and 
 waited to hear what was going on. 
 
 " Sir," said the clerk, " it is a very sudden order 
 for a very large sum." 
 
 " True, sir — but you see my power — you know 
 Mr Ormond's handwriting, and you know Sir Ulick 
 O'Shane's " 
 
 " Mr James," said the principal clerk, turning to one 
 of the others, " be so good to hand me the letters we 
 have of Mr Ormond. As we have never seen the 
 gentleman sign his name, sir, it Is necessary that we 
 should be more particular in comparing." 
 
 " O sir, no doubt — compare as much as you please 
 — no doubt people cannot be too exact and deliberate 
 in doing business." 
 
 " It certainly is his signature," said the clerk. 
 
 " I witnessed the paper," said Patrickson. 
 
 "Sir, I don't dispute it," replied the clerk; "but 
 you cannot blame us for being cautious v/hen such a
 
 ORMOND. 357 
 
 very large sum is in question, and when we have no 
 letter of advice from the gentleman." 
 
 " But I tell you I come straight from Mr Ormond ; 
 I saw him last Tuesday at Paris " 
 
 " And you see him now, sir," said Ormond, 
 advancing. 
 
 Patrickson's countenance changed beyond all power 
 of control. 
 
 " Mr Ormond ! — I thought you were at Paris." 
 
 " Mr Patrickson ! — I thought you were at Havre de 
 Grace — what brought you here so suddenly ? " 
 
 " I acted for another," hesitated Patrickson : " I 
 therefore made no delay." 
 
 " And, thank Heaven ! " said Ormond, " I have 
 acted for myself! — but just in time! Sir," con- 
 tinued he, addressing himself to the principal clerk, 
 " Gentlemen, I have to return you my thanks for your 
 caution — it has actually saved me from ruin — for I 
 understand " 
 
 Ormond suddenly stopped, recollecting that he might 
 injure Sir Ulick O'Shane essentially by a premature 
 disclosure, or by repeating a report which might be 
 ill-founded. 
 
 He turned again to speak to Patrickson, but 
 Patrickson had disappeared. 
 
 Then continuing to address himself to the clerks, 
 " Gentlemen," said Ormond, speaking carefully, " have 
 you heard anything of or from Sir Ulick O'Shane 
 lately, except what you may have heard from this Mr 
 Patrickson ? " 
 
 " Not from but of Sir Ulick O'Shane we heard from 
 our Dublin correspondent — in due course we have 
 heard," replied the head clerk. "Too true, I am 
 afraid, sir, that his bank had come to paying in sixpences 
 on Saturday." 
 
 The second clerk seeing great concern in Ormond's
 
 358 ORMOND. 
 
 countenance, added, " But Sunda}', you know, is in 
 their favour, sir ; and Monday and Tuesday are holi- 
 days : so they may stand the run, and recover yet." 
 
 With the help of this gentleman's thirty thousand, 
 they might have recovered, perhaps — but Mr Ormond 
 would scarcely have recovered it. 
 
 As to the ten thousand pounds in the Three per 
 Cents., of which Sir Ulick liad obtained possession a 
 month ago, that was irrecoverable, if his bank should 
 break — " 7/"." — The clerks all spoke with due caution ; 
 but their opinion was sufficiently plain. They were 
 honestly indignant against the guardian who had thus 
 attempted to ruin his ward. 
 
 Though almost stunned and breathless with the 
 sense of the danger he had so narrowly escaped, yet 
 Ormond's instinct of generosity, if we may use the 
 expression, and his gratitude for early kindness, 
 operated ; he would not believe that Sir Ulick had 
 been guilty of a deliberate desire to injure him. At 
 all events, he determined that, instead of returning to 
 France, as he had intended, he would go immediately 
 to Ireland, and try if it were possible to assist Sir 
 Ulick, without materially injuring himself. 
 
 Having ordered horses, he made Inquiry wherever 
 he thought he might obtain information with respect to 
 the Annalys. All that he could learn was, that they 
 were at some sea-bathing place in the south of England, 
 and that Miss Annaly was still unmarried. A ray of 
 hope darted into the mind of our hero — and he began 
 his journey to Ireland with feelings which every good 
 and generous mind will know how to appreciate. 
 
 He had escaped at Paris from a temptation which 
 it was scarcely possible to resist. He had by decision 
 and activity preserved his fortune from ruin — he had 
 under his protection an humble friend, whom he had 
 saved from banishment and di.sgrace, and whom he
 
 ORMOND. 359 
 
 hoped to restore to his wretched wife and family. 
 Forgetful of the designs that had been meditated against 
 him by his guardian, to whose necessities he attributed 
 his late conduct, he hastened to his immediate assist- 
 ance ; determined to do everything in his power to 
 save Sir Ulick from ruin, if his difficulties arose from 
 misfortune, and not from criminality : if, on the con- 
 trary, he should find that Sir Ulick was fraudulently a 
 bankrupt, he determined to quit Ireland immediately, 
 and to resume his scheme of foreign travel. 
 
 The system of posting had at this time been carried 
 to the highest perfection in England. It was the 
 amusement and the fashion of the time to squander 
 large sums in hurrying from place to place, without any 
 immediate motive for arriving at the end of a journey 
 but that of having the satisfaction of boasting in what a 
 short time it had been performed ; or, as it is expressed 
 in one of our comedies, " to enter London like a meteor, 
 with a prodigious tail of dust." 
 
 Moriarty Carroll, who was perched upon the box 
 with Ormond's servant, made excellent observations 
 wherever he went. His English companion could not 
 comprehend how a man of common sense could be 
 ignorant of various things which excited the wonder 
 and curiosity of Moriarty. Afterwards, however, 
 when they travelled in Ireland, Moriarty had as much 
 reason to be surprised at the impression which Irish 
 manners and customs made upon his companion. 
 
 After a rapid journey to Holyhead, our hero found 
 to his mortification that the packet had sailed with a 
 fair wind about half-an-hour before his arrival. 
 
 Notwithstanding his impatience, he learned that it 
 was impossible to overtake the vessel in a boat, and 
 that he must wait for the sailing of the next day's 
 packet. 
 
 Fortunately, however, the Lord Lieutenant's secretary
 
 360 ORMOND. 
 
 arrived from London at Holyhead time enough for the 
 tide ; and as he had an order from the post-office for a 
 packet to sail whenever he should require it, the intelli- 
 gent landlord of the inn suggested to Ormond that he 
 might probably obtain permission from the secretary to 
 have a berth in this packet. 
 
 Ormond's manner and address were such as to obtain 
 from the good-natured secretary the permission he 
 required ; and in a short time he found himself out of 
 sight of the coast of Wales. During the beginning of 
 their voyage the motion of the vessel was so steady, and 
 the weather so fine, that everybody remained on deck ; 
 but on the wind shifting and becoming more violent, 
 the landsmen soon retired below decks, and poor 
 Moriarty and his English com,panion slunk down into 
 the steerage, submitting to their fate. Ormond was 
 never sea-sick ; he walked the deck and enjoyed the 
 admirable manoeuvring of the vessel. Tv/o or three 
 naval officers, and some other passengers, who were 
 used to the sea, and who had quietly gone to bed during 
 the beginning of the voyage, now came from belov%^ to 
 avoid the miseries of the cabin. As one of these gentle- 
 men walked backwards and forwards upon deck, he 
 eyed our hero from time to time with looks of anxious 
 curiosity — Ormond perceiving this, addressed the 
 stranger, and inquired from him whether he had 
 mistaken his looks, or whether he had any wish to speak 
 to him. " Sir," said the stranger, " I do think that I 
 have seen you before, and I believe that I am under 
 considerable obligations to you — I was supercargo to 
 that vessel that was wrecked on the coast of Ireland, 
 when you and your young friend exerted yourselves to 
 save the vessel from plunder. After the shipwreck, 
 the moment I found myself on land, I hastened to the 
 neighbouring town to obtain protection and assistance. 
 In the meantime, your exertions had saved a great deal
 
 ORMOND. 361 
 
 of our property, which was lodged in safety in the 
 neighbourhood. I had procured a horse in the town to 
 which I had gone, and had ridden back to the shore 
 with the utmost expedition. Along with the vessel 
 which had been shipwrecked there had sailed another 
 American sloop. We were both bound from New 
 York to Bourdeaux. In tiie morning after the ship- 
 wreck, our consort hove in sight of the wreck, and sent 
 a boat on shore, to inquire what had become of the 
 crew, and of the cargo, but they found not a human 
 creature on the shore, except myself. The plunderers 
 had escaped to their hiding-places, and all the rest of 
 the inhabitants had accompanied the poor young gentle- 
 man, who had fallen a sacrifice to his exertions in our 
 favour. 
 
 " It was of the utmost consequence to my employers 
 that I should arrive as soon as possible at Bourdeaux, 
 to give an account of what had happened. I therefore, 
 without hesitation, abandoned my horse, with its bridle 
 and saddle, and I got on board the American vessel 
 without delay. In my hurry I forgot my greatcoat on 
 the shore, a loss which proved extremely inconvenient 
 to me — as there were papers in the pockets which might 
 be necessary to produce before my employers. 
 
 " I arrived safely at Bourdeaux, settled with my 
 principals to their satisfaction, and I am now on my 
 way to Ireland, to reclaim such part of my property, 
 and that of my employers, as was saved from the 
 savages who pillaged us in our distress." — This detail, 
 which was given with great simplicity and precision, 
 excited considerable interest among the persons upon the 
 deck of the packet. Moriarty, who was pretty well 
 recovered from his sickness, was now summoned upon 
 deck. Ormond confi'onted him with the American 
 supercargo, but neither of them had the least recollection 
 of each other. *< And yet," said Ormond to the
 
 362 ORMOND. 
 
 Ameiican, " tliough you do not know this man, he is 
 at this moment under sentence of transportation for 
 having robbed you, and he very narrowly escaped being 
 hanged for your murder — a fate from which he was 
 saved by the patience and sagacity of the judge who 
 tried him." 
 
 Moriarty's surprise was expressed with such strange 
 contortions of delight, and with a tone, and in a phrase- 
 ology, so peculiarly his own, as to astonish and entertain 
 the spectators. Among these was the Irish secretary, 
 who, without any application being made to him, promised 
 Moriarty to procure for him a free pardon. 
 
 On Ormond's landing in Dublin, the first news he 
 heard, and it was repeated a hundred times in a quarter 
 of an hour, was that " Sir Ulick O'Shane was bankrupt 
 — that his bank shut up yesterday." It was a public 
 calamity, a source of private distress, that reached lower 
 and farther than any bankruptcy had ever done in Ireland. 
 Ormond heard of it from every tongue, it was written 
 in every face — in every house it was the subject of lamen- 
 tation, of invective. In every street poor men, with 
 ragged notes in their hands, were stopping to pore over 
 the names at the back of the notes, or hurrying to and 
 fro, looking up at the shop-windows for ^^ half price 
 given here for 0' Shane's notes." Groups of people, of all 
 ranks, gathered — stopped — dispersed, talking of Sir 
 Ulick O'Shane's bankruptcy — their hopes — their fears 
 — their losses — their ruin — their despair — their rage. 
 Some said it was all owing to Sir Ulick's shameful 
 extravagance : " His house in Dublin, fit for a duke ! 
 — Castle Hermitage full of company to the last week 
 — balls — dinners — the most expensive luxuries — 
 scandalous ! " 
 
 Others accused Sir Ulick's absurd speculations. 
 Many pronounced the bankruptcy to be fraudulent, 
 and asserted that an estate had been made over to
 
 ORMOND. 363 
 
 Marcus, who would live in affluence on the ruin of the 
 creditors. 
 
 At Sir Ulick's house in town every window-shutter 
 was closed. Ormond rang and knocked in vain — not 
 that he wished to see Sir Ulick — no, he would not 
 have intruded on his misery for the world ; but Ormond 
 longed to inquire from the servants how things were 
 with him. No servant could be seen. Ormond went 
 to Sir Ulick's bank. Such crowds of people filled the 
 street that it was with the utmost difficulty, and after 
 a fjreat working of elbows, that in an hour or two he 
 made his way to one of the barred windows. There 
 was a place where notes were handed in and accepted, 
 as they called it, by the clerks, who thus for the hour 
 soothed and pacified the sufferers, with the hopes that 
 this acceptance would be good, and would stand in stead 
 at some future day. They were told that when things 
 should come to a settlement, all would be paid. There 
 was property enough to satisfy the creditors, when the 
 commissioners should look into it. Sir Ulick would pay 
 all honourably — as far as possible — fifteen shillings in 
 the pound, or certainly ten shillings — the accepted notes 
 would pass for that anywhere. The crowd pressed 
 closer and closer, arms crossing over each other to get 
 notes in at the window, the clerks' heads appearing and 
 disappearing. It was said they were laughing while 
 they thus deluded the people. 
 
 All the intelligence that Ormond, after being nearly 
 suflx)cated, could obtain from any of the clerks was, that 
 Sir Ulick was in the country. "They believed at 
 Castle Hermitage — could not be certain — had no letters 
 for him to-day — he was ill when they heard last — so ill 
 he could do no business — confined to his bed." 
 
 The people in the street hearing these answers 
 replied, "Confined in his bed, is he? — In the jail, 
 it should be, as many will be along of him. Ill, is
 
 364 6RM0ND. 
 
 he, Sir Ullck ? — Sham sickness, may be — all his life 
 a sham." AH these and innumerable other taunts 
 and imprecations, with which the poor people vented 
 their rage, Ormond heard as he made his way out of 
 the crowd. 
 
 Of all who had suffered, he who had probably lost 
 the most, and who certainly had been on the brink of 
 losing the greatest part of what he possessed, was the 
 only individual who uttered no reproach. 
 
 He was impatient to get down to Castle Hermitage, 
 and if he found that Sir Ulick had acted fairly, to be 
 some comfort to him, to be with him at least when 
 deserted by all the rest of the world. 
 
 At all the inns upon the road, as he went from 
 Dublin to Castle Hermitage, even at the villages where 
 he stopped to water the horses, every creature, down to 
 the hostlers, were talking of the bankruptcy — and abusing 
 Sir Ulick O'Shane and his son. The curses that were 
 deep, not loud, were the worst — and the faces of dis- 
 tress worse than all. Gathering round his carriage, 
 wherever it stopped, the people questioned him and his 
 servants about the news, and then turned away, saying 
 they were ruined. The men stood in unutterable de- 
 spair. The women crying, loudly bewailed "their 
 husbands, their sons, that must waste in the jail, or 
 fly the country ; for what should they do for the rents 
 that had been made up in Sir Ulick's notes, and no good 
 
 now r 
 
 Ormond felt the more on hearing these complaints, 
 from his sense of the absolute impossibility of relieving 
 the universal distress. 
 
 He pursued his melancholy journey, and took Mori- 
 arty into the carriage with him, that he might not be 
 recognised on the road. 
 
 When he came within sight of Castle Hermitage, 
 he stopped at the top of the hill at a cottage, where
 
 ORMOND. 365 
 
 many a time in his boyish days he had rested with Sir 
 Ulick out hunting. The mistress of the house, now 
 an old woman, came to the door. 
 
 " Master Harry dear ! " crird she, when she saw 
 who it was. But the sudden flash of joy in her old 
 face was over in an instant. 
 
 "But did you hear it?" cried she, "and the great 
 change it caused him — poor Sir Ulick. O'Shane i I 
 went up with eggs on purpose to see him, but could 
 only hear — he was in his bed — wasting with trouble 
 — nobody knows anything more — all is kept hush and 
 close. Mr Marcus took off all he could rap and ran, 
 even to " 
 
 " Well, well, I don't want to hear of Marcus — can 
 you tell me whether Dr Cambray is come home ? " 
 
 " Not expected to come till Monday." 
 
 "Are you sure ? " 
 
 " Oh ! not a morning but I'm there the fii-st tiling, 
 asking, and longing for them." 
 
 " Lie back, Moriarty, in the carriage, and pull your 
 hat over your face," whispered Ormond : " postilions, 
 drive on to that little cabin, with the trees about it, at 
 the foot of the hill : " this was Moriarty's cabin. When 
 they stopped, poor Peggy was called out. Alas ! how 
 altered from the dancing, sprightly, blooming girl, whom 
 Ormond had known so few years since in the Black 
 Islands ! How different from the happy \vife, whom 
 he had left, comfortably settled in a cottage suited to 
 her station and her wishes ! She was thin, pale, and 
 haggard — her dress was neglected — an ill-nui"sed child, 
 that she had in her arms, she gave to a young girl 
 near her. Approaching the carriage, and seeing Harry 
 Ormond, she seemed ready to sink into the earth : 
 however, after having drank some water, she recovered 
 sufficiently to be able to answer Ormond's inquiries. 
 
 " What do you intend to do, Peggy ? "
 
 366 ORMOND. 
 
 *'Do, sir! — go to America, to join my husband, 
 sure ; everything was to have been sold, Monday last 
 — but nobody has any money — and I am tould it will 
 cost a great deal to get across the sea." 
 
 At this she burst into tears, and cried most bitterly ; 
 and at this moment the carriage door flew open — 
 Moriarty's impatience could be no longer restrained — 
 he flung himself into the arms of his wife. 
 
 Leaving this happy and innocent couple to enjoy 
 their felicity, we proceed to Castle Hermitage. 
 
 Ormond directed the postilions to go the back way 
 to the house. They drove down the old avenue. 
 
 Presently they saw a boy, who seemed to be stand- 
 ing on the watch, run back towards the castle, leaping 
 over hedge and ditch with desperate haste. Then 
 came running from the house three men, calling to one 
 another to shut the gates for the love of God ! 
 
 They all ran towards the gateway through which 
 the postilions were going to drive, reached it just as 
 the foremost horses turned, and flung the gate full 
 against the horses' heads. The men, without looking 
 or caring, went on locking the gate. 
 
 Ormond jumped out of the carriage at the sight 
 
 of him, the padlock fell from the hand of the man who 
 held it. 
 
 "Master Harry himself! — and is it you ? — We ask 
 your pardon, your honour." 
 
 The men were three of Sir Ulick's workmen — 
 Ormond forbade the carriage to follow. " For perhaps 
 you are afraid of the noise disturbing Sir Ulick ? " 
 said he. 
 
 " No, please your honour," said the foremost man, 
 " it will not disturb him — as well let the carriage come 
 on — only," whispered he, " best to send the hack 
 postilions with their horses always to the inn, afore 
 they'd learn anything."
 
 ORMOND. 367 
 
 Ormond walked on quickly, and as soon as he was 
 out of hearing of the postilions again asked the men, 
 " What news ? — how is Sir Ulick ? " 
 
 " Poor gentleman ! he has had a deal of trouble — 
 and no help for him," said the man. 
 
 " Better toll him plain," whispered the next. 
 " Master Harry, Sir Ulick O'Shane's trouble is over 
 in this world, sir." 
 
 « Is he " 
 
 "Dead, he is, and cold, and in his coffin — this 
 minute — and thanks be to God, if he is safe there even 
 from them that are on the watch to seize on his body ! 
 — In the dread of them creditors, orders were given to 
 keep the gates locked. He is dead since Tuesday, sir 
 — but hardly one knows it out of the castle — except us." 
 
 Ormond walked on silently, while they followed, 
 talking at intervals. 
 
 " There is a very great cry against him, sir, I hear, 
 in Dublin — and here in the country, too," said one. 
 " The distress, they say, is very great, he caused ; 
 but they might let his body rest any way — what good 
 can that do them ? " 
 
 " Bad or good, they sha'n't touch it," said the other : 
 " by the blessing, we shall have him buried safe in the 
 morning, afore they are stirring. We shall carry the 
 coffin through the underground passage, that goes to 
 the stables, and out by the lane to the churchyard easy 
 — and the gentleman, the clergyman, has notice all will 
 be ready, and the housekeeper only attending." 
 
 " Oh ! the pitiful funeral," said the eldest of the 
 men, "the pitiful funeral for Sir Ulick O'Shane, that 
 was born to better." 
 
 " Well, we can only do the best we can," said the 
 other, " let what will happen to ourselves ; for Sir 
 Marcus said he wouldn't take one of his father's notes 
 from any of us."
 
 36S ORMOND. 
 
 Orniond involuntaiiJy felt for his purse. 
 
 " Oh ! don't be bothering the gentleman, don't be 
 talking," said the old man. 
 
 " This way, master Harry, if you please, sir, the 
 underground way to the backyard. We keep all 
 close till after the burying, for fear — that was the 
 housekeeper's order. Sent all off to Dublin when Sir 
 Ulick took to his bed, and Lady Norton went off." 
 
 Ormond refrained from asking any questions about 
 his illness, fearing to inquire into the manner of his 
 death. He walked on more quickly and silently. 
 When they were going through the dark passage, one 
 of the men, in a low voice, observed to Mr Ormond 
 that the housekeeper would tell him all about it. 
 
 When they got to the house, the housekeeper and 
 Sir Ulick's man appeared, seeming much surprised at 
 the sight of Mr Ormond. They said a great deal 
 about the unfortunate event, and their own sorrow and 
 distress ; but Ormond saw that theirs were only the 
 long faces, dismal tones, and outward show of grief. 
 They were just a common housekeeper and gentleman's 
 gentleman, neither worse nor better than ordinary ser- 
 vants in a great house. Sir Ulick had only treated 
 them as such. 
 
 The housekeeper, without Ormond's asking a single 
 question, went on to tell him that " Castle Hermitage 
 was as full of company, even to the last week, as ever 
 it could hold, and all as grand as ever : the first people 
 in Ireland — champagne and burgundy, and ices, and 
 all as usual — and a ball that very week. Sir Ulick 
 was very considerate, and sent Lady Norton off to her 
 other friends ; he took ill suddenly that night with a 
 great pain in his head : he had been writing hard, and 
 in great trouble, and he took to liis bed, and never rose 
 from it — he was found by Mr Dempscy, his own man, 
 dead in his bed in the morning — died of a broken
 
 ORMOND. 369 
 
 heart, to be sure ! — Poor gentleman ! — Some people in 
 the neighbourhood was mighty busy talking how the 
 coroner ought to be sent for ; but that blew over, sir. 
 But then we were in dread of the seizure of the body 
 for debt, so the gates was kept locked ; and now you 
 know all we know about it, sir." 
 
 Ormond said he would attend the funeral. There 
 was no attempt to seize upon the body ; only the three 
 workmen, the servants, a very few of the cottagers, and 
 Harry Ormond, attended to the grave the body of 
 the once popular Sir Ulick O' Shane. This was con- 
 sidered by the country people as the greatest of all the 
 misfortunes that had befallen him ; the lowest degrada- 
 tion to which an O'Shane could be reduced. They 
 compared him with King Corny, and " see the differ- 
 ence ! " said they ; " the one was the true thing, and 
 never changed — and after all, where is the great friends 
 now ? — the quality that used to be entertained at the 
 castle above ? Where is all the favour promised him 
 now ? What is it come to ? See, with all his wit, 
 and the schemes upon schemes, broke and gone, and 
 forsook and forgot, and buried \vithout a funeral, or a 
 tear, but from master Harry." 
 
 Ormond was surprised to hear, in the midst of 
 many of their popular superstitions and prejudices, 
 how justly they estimated Sir Ulick's abilities and 
 character. 
 
 As the men filled up his grave, one of them said, 
 " There lies the making of an excellent gentleman — 
 but the cunning of his head spoiled the goodness of 
 his heart." 
 
 The day after the funeral an agent came from 
 Dublin to settle Sir Ulick O'Shane's affairs in the 
 country. 
 
 On opening his desk, the first thing that appeared 
 was a bundle of accounts, and a letter, directed to 
 
 2 A
 
 370 ORMOND. 
 
 H. Oimond, Esq. He took it to his own room and 
 read — 
 
 ♦' Ormond, 
 
 " I intended to employ your money to re-establish 
 my falling credit, but I never intended to defraud 
 you. Ulick O'Shane." 
 
 BOTH from a sense of justice to the poor people 
 concerned, and from a desire to save Sir Ulick 
 O'Shane's memory as far as it was in his power 
 from reproach, Ormond determined to pay whatever 
 small debts were due to his servants, workmen, and 
 immediate dependants. For this purpose, when the 
 funeral was over, he had them all assembled at Castle 
 Hermitage. Every just demand of this sort was paid, 
 all were satisfied ; even the barefooted kitchen-maid, 
 the drudge of this great house, who, in despair, had 
 looked at her poor one-guinea note of Sir Ulick's, had 
 that note paid in gold, and went away blessing master 
 Harry. Happy for all that he is come home to us, 
 was the general feeling. But there was one man, a 
 groom of Sir Uhck's, who did not join in any of these 
 blessings or praises : he stood silent and motionless, 
 with his eyes on the money which Mr Ormond had 
 put into his hand. 
 
 " Is your money right ? " said Ormond. 
 " It is, sir ; but I had something to tell you." 
 When all the other servants had left the room, the 
 man said, " I am the groom, sir, that was sent, just 
 before you went to France, with a letter to Annaly : 
 there was an answer to that letter, sir, though you never 
 got it."
 
 ORMOND. 371 
 
 " There was an answer ! " cried Ormond, anger 
 flashing, but an instant afterwards, joy sparkling in his 
 eyes. " There was a letter ! — From whom ? — I'll 
 forgive you all, if you will tell me the whole truth." 
 
 " I will — and not a word of lie, and I beg your 
 honour's pardon, if " 
 
 " Go on — straight to the fact, this instant, or you 
 shall never have my pardon." 
 
 " Why then, I stopped to take a glass coming home ; 
 and, not knowing how it was, I had the misfortune to 
 lose the bit of a note, and I thought no more about it 
 till, please your honour, after you was gone, it was 
 found." 
 
 " Found ! " cried Ormond, stepping hastily up to 
 him — " where is it ? " 
 
 " I have it safe here," said the man, opening a sort 
 of pocket-book : " here I have kept it safe till your 
 honour came back." 
 
 Oimond saw, and seized upon a letter in Lady 
 Annaly's hand, directed to him. Tore it open — two 
 notes — one from Florence. 
 
 " I forgive you ! " said he to the man, and made a 
 sign to him to leave the room. 
 
 When Ormond had read, or without reading, had 
 taken in, by one glance of the eye, the sense of the letters 
 — he rang the bell instantly. 
 
 " Inquire at the post-office," said he to his servant, 
 "whether Lady Annaly is in England or Ireland? — 
 If in England, where ? — if in Ireland, whether at 
 Annaly or at Herbert's Town ? Quick — an answer." 
 
 An answer was quickly brought, " In England — in 
 Devonshire, sir : here is the exact direction to the 
 place, sir. I shall pack up, I suppose, sir ? " 
 
 " Certainly — directly." 
 
 Leaving a few lines of explanation and affection for 
 Dr Cambray, our young hero was off" again., to the
 
 •?72 ORMOND. 
 
 surprise and regret of all who saw him driving away 
 as fast as horses could carry him. His servant, from 
 the box, however, spread as he went, for the comfort 
 of the deploring village, the assurance that " Master 
 and he would soon be back again, please Heaven ! — 
 and happier than ever." 
 
 And now that he is safe in the carriage, what was 
 in that note of Miss Annaly's which has produced such 
 a sensation P No talismanic charm ever operated with 
 more magical celerity than this note. What were the 
 words of the charm ? 
 
 That is a secret which shall never be known to the 
 world. 
 
 The only point which it much imports the public to 
 know is probably already guessed — that the letter did 
 not contain a refusal, nor any absolute discouragement of 
 Ormond's hopes. But Lady Annaly and Florence 
 had both distinctly told him that they could not receive 
 him at Annaly till after a certain day, on which they 
 said that they should be particularly engaged. They 
 told Iiim that Colonel Albemarle was at Annaly — that 
 he would leave it at such a time — and they requested that 
 Mr Ormond would postpone his visit till after that time. 
 
 Not receiving this notice, Ormond had unfortunately 
 gone upon the day that was specially prohibited. 
 
 Now that the kneeling figure appeared to him as a 
 rival in despair, not in triumph, Ormond asked himself 
 how he could ever have been such an idiot as to doubt 
 Florence Annaly. 
 
 "Why did I set off in such haste for Paris ? — Could 
 not I have waited a day ? — Could not I have written 
 again? — Could I not have cross-questioned the drunken 
 servant when he was sober ? — Could not I have done 
 anything, in short, but what I did?" 
 
 Clearly as a man, when his anger is dissipated, sees 
 what he ought to have done or to have left undone
 
 ORMOND. 373 
 
 while the fury lasted ; vividly as a man in a different 
 kind of passion sees the folly of all he did, said, or 
 thought, when he was possessed by the past madness ; 
 so clearly, so vividly, did Ormond now see and feel — 
 and vehemently execrate, his jealous folly and mad 
 precipitation ; and then he came to the question, could 
 his folly be repaired ? — would his madness ever be for- 
 given ? Ormond, in love affairs, never had any pre- 
 sumption — any tinge of the Connal coxcombry in his 
 nature : he was not apt to flatter himself that he had 
 made a deep impression ; and now he was, perhaps 
 from his sense of the superior value of the object, more 
 than usually diffident. Though Miss Annaly was still 
 unmarried, she might have resolved irrevocably against 
 him. Though she was not a girl to act in the high- 
 flown heroine style, and, in a fit of pride or revenge, to 
 punish the man she liked, by marrying his rival, whom 
 she did not like ; yet Florence Annaly, as Ormond 
 well knew, inherited some of her mother's strength of 
 character ; and, in circumstances that deeply touched 
 her heart, might be capable of all her mother's warmth 
 of indignation. It was in her character decidedly to 
 refuse to connect herself with any man, however her 
 heart might incline towards him, if he had any essential 
 defect of temper ; or if she thought that his attachment 
 to her was not steady and strong, such as she deserved 
 it should be, and such as her sensibility and all her 
 hopes of domestic happiness required in a husband. 
 And then there was Lady Annaly to be considered — 
 how indignant she would be at his conduct ! 
 
 While Ormond was travelling alone, he had full 
 leisure to torment himself with these thoughts. Pressed 
 forward alternately by hope and fear, each urging ex- 
 pedition, he hastened on — reached Dublin — crossed 
 the water — and travelling day and night, lost not a 
 moment till he was at the feet of his fair mistress.
 
 374 ORMOND. 
 
 To those who like to know the how, the when, and 
 the where, it should be told that it was evening when he 
 arrived. Florence Annaly was walking with her mother 
 by the seaside, in one of the most beautiful and retired 
 parts of the coast of Devonshire, when they were told 
 by a servant that a gentleman from Ireland had just 
 arrived at their house, and wished to see them. A 
 minute afterwards they saw — " Could it be ? " Lady 
 Annaly said, turning in doubt to her daughter ; but the 
 cheek of Florence instantly convinced the mother that 
 it could be none but Mr Ormond himself. 
 
 " Mr Ormond ! " said Lady Annaly, advancing 
 kindly, yet with dignified reserve — " Mr Ormond, after 
 his long absence, is welcome to his old friend." 
 
 There was in Ormond's look and manner as he 
 approached something that much inclined the daughter 
 to hope that he might prove not utterly unworthy 
 of her mother's forgiveness ; and when he spoke to the 
 daughter, there was in his voice and look something that 
 softened the mother's heart, and irresistibly inclined her 
 to wish that he might be able to give a satisfactory ex- 
 planation of his strange conduct. Where the parties are 
 thus happily disposed both to hear reason, to excuse 
 passion, and to pardon the errors to which passion, even 
 in the most reasonable minds, is liable, explanations are 
 seldom tedious, or difficult to be comprehended. The 
 moment Ormond produced the cover, the soiled cover 
 of the letters, a glimpse of the truth struck Florence 
 Annaly ; and before he had got farther in his sentence 
 than these words, " I did not receive your ladyship's 
 letter till within these few days," all the reserve of 
 Lady Annaly's manner was dispelled : her smiles re- 
 lieved his apprehensions, and encouraged him to proceed 
 in his story with happy fluency. The carelessness of the 
 drunken servant, who had occasioned so much mischief, 
 was talked of for a few minutes with great satisfaction.
 
 ORMOND. 375 
 
 Oimond took his own share of the blame so frankly 
 and with so good a grace, and described with such truth 
 the agony he had been thrown into by the sight of the 
 kneeling figure in regimentals, that Lady Annaly could 
 not help comforting him by the assurance that Florence 
 had, at the same moment, been sufficiently alarmed by 
 the rearing of his horse at the sight of the flapping 
 window-blind. 
 
 " The kneeling gentleman," said Lady Annaly, 
 " whom you thought at the height of joy and glory, was 
 at that moment in the depths of despair. So ill do the 
 passions see what is even before their eyes ! " 
 
 If Lady Annaly had had a mind to moralize, she 
 might have done so to any length, without fear of 
 interiniption from either of her auditors, and with the most 
 perfect certainty of unqualified submission and dignified 
 humility on the part of om" hero, who was too happy at 
 this moment not to be ready to acknowledge himself to 
 have been wrong and absurd, and worthy of any quantity 
 of reprehension or indignation that could have been 
 bestowed upon him. 
 
 Her ladyship went, however, as far from morality as 
 possible — to Paris. She spoke of the success Mr Ormond 
 had had in Parisian society — she spoke of M. and Mad. 
 de Connal, and various persons with whom he had been 
 intimate, among others of the Abbe Morellet. 
 
 Ormond rejoiced to find that Lady Annaly knew he 
 had been in the Abbe Morellet's distinguished society. 
 The happiest hopes for the future rose in his mind, from 
 perceiving that her ladyship, by whatever means, knew 
 all that he had been doing in Paris. It seems that they 
 had had accounts of him from several English travellers, 
 who had met him at Paris, and had heard him spoken 
 of in different companies. 
 
 Ormond took care — give him credit for it all who 
 have ever been in love — even in these first moments
 
 376 ORMOND. 
 
 with the object of his present affection, Orniond took 
 care to do justice to the absent Dora, whom he now 
 never expected to see again. He seized, dexterously, 
 an opportunity, in reply to something Lady Annaly 
 said about the Connals, to observe that Mad, de Connal 
 was not only much admired for her beauty at Paris, but 
 that she did honour to Ireland by having preserved her 
 reputation ; young, and without a guide, as she was, in 
 dissipated French society, with few examples of conjugal 
 virtues to preserve in her mind the precepts and habits 
 of her British education. 
 
 He was glad of this opportunity to give, as he now 
 did with all the energy of truth, the result of his feelings 
 and reflections on what he had seen of the modes of 
 living among 4he French ; their superior pleasures of 
 society, and their want of our domestic happiness. 
 
 While Ormond was speaking, both the mother and 
 daughter could not help admiring, in the midst of his 
 moralizing, the great improvement which had been made 
 in his appearance and manners. 
 
 With all his own characteristic frankness, he acknow- 
 ledged the impression which French gaiety and the 
 brilliancy of Parisian society had at first made upon 
 him : he was glad, however, that he had now seen all 
 that the imagination often paints as far more delight- 
 ful than it really is. He had, thank Heaven, passed 
 through this course of dissipation, without losing his 
 taste for better and happier modes of life. The last 
 few months, though they might seem but a splendid or 
 feverish dream in his existence, had in reality been, he 
 believed, of essential service in confirming his principles, 
 settling his character, and deciding for ever his taste and 
 judgment, after full opportunity of comparison, in favour 
 of his own country — and especially of his own country- 
 women. 
 
 Lady Annaly smiled bcnignantly, and after observing
 
 ORMOND. 377 
 
 that this seemingly unlucky excursion, which had begun 
 in anger, had ended advantageously to Mr Ormond ; 
 and after having congratulated him upon having saved 
 his fortune, and established his character solidly, she 
 left him to plead his own cause with her daughter — in 
 her heart cordially wishing him success. 
 
 What he said, or what Florence answered, we do 
 not know ; but we are perfectly sure that if we did, the 
 repetition of it would tire the reader. Lady Annaly 
 and tea waited for them with great patience to an 
 unusually late, which they conceived to be an unusually 
 early, hour. The result of this conversation was, that 
 Ormond remained with them in this beautiful retu-ernent 
 in Devonshire the next day, and the next, and — how 
 many days are not precisely recorded ; a blank was 
 left for the number, which the editor of these memoirs 
 does not dare to fill up at random, lest some Mrs 
 M'Crule should exclaim, " Scandalously too long to 
 keep the young man there ! — or scandalously too short 
 a courtship, after all !" 
 
 It is humbly requested that every young lady of 
 delicacy and feeling will put herself in the place of 
 Florence Annaly — then, imagining the man she most 
 approves to be in the place of Mr Ormond, she will 
 be pleased to fill up the blank with what number of 
 days she may think proper. 
 
 When the happy day was named, it was agreed 
 that they should return to Ireland, to Annaly; and 
 that their kind friend, Dr Cambray, should be the 
 person to complete that union which he had so long 
 foreseen and so anxiously desired. 
 
 Those who wish to hear something of estates, as 
 well as of weddings, should be told, that about the 
 same time Ormond received letters from Marcus 
 O'Shanc, and from M. de Connal ; Marcus informing 
 him that the estate of Castle Ilermitigc was to be sold 
 
 2 B
 
 378 ORMOND. 
 
 by the commissioners of bankrupts, and beseeching him 
 to bid for it, that it might not be sold under value. 
 M. de Connal also besought his dear friend, Mr 
 Ormond, to take the Black Islands off his hands, 
 for they encumbered him terribly. No wonder, 
 living, as he did, at Paris, with his head at Versailles, 
 and his heart in a faro bank. Ormond could not 
 oblige both the gentlemen, though they had each 
 pressing reasons for getting rid speedily of their 
 property, and were assured that he would be the most 
 agreeable purchaser. Castle Hermitage was the finest 
 estate, and by far the best bargain. But other 
 considerations weighed with our hero. While Sir 
 Ulick O'Shane's son and natural representative was 
 living, banished by debts from his native country, 
 Ormond could not bear to take possession of Castle 
 Hermitage. For the Black Islands he had a fondness — 
 they were associated with all the tender recollections of 
 his generous benefactor. He should hurt no one's 
 feelings by this purchase — and he might do a great 
 deal of good, by carrying on his old friend's improve- 
 ments, and by farther civilizing the people of the 
 islands, all of whom were warmly attached to him. 
 They considered Prince Harry as the lawful represen- 
 tative of their dear King Corny, and actually offered up 
 prayers for his coming again to reign over them. 
 
 To those who think that the mind is a kingdom of 
 yet more consequence than even that of the Black 
 Islands, it may be agreeable to hear, that Ormond 
 continued to enjoy the empire which he had gained 
 over himself; and to maintain that high character, 
 which in spite of his neglected education, and of all 
 the adverse circumstances to which he was early 
 exposed, he had formed for himself by resolute 
 energy. 
 
 Lady Annaly, with the pride of affection, gloried
 
 ORMOND. 379 
 
 in the full accomplishment of her prophecies; and 
 was rewarded in the best manner for that benevolent 
 interest which she had early tiken in our hero's 
 improvement, by seeing the perfect felicity that sub- 
 sisted between her daughter and Ormond. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 BALLAXTYNE PRESS : EDINBURGH AND LONDON
 
 uc souTHrnrj RFcinrjAi i iprary i acii ity 
 
 A 000 589 557 8 
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 
 HIGHSMITH #LO-45102 
 
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