CHAPTER XVI.
The evening after the departure of the happy trio, who were gone to Dublin to buy wedding-dresses, the party remaining at Castle Corny consisted only of King Corny, Ormond, and Father Jos. When the candles were lighted, his majesty gave a long and loud yawn, Harry set the backgammon table for him, and Father Jos, as usual, settled himself in the chimney corner; “And now Mademoiselle’s gone,” said he, “I shall take leave to indulge myself in my pipe.”
“You were on the continent this morning, Father Jos,” said Cornelius. “Did ye learn any news for us? Size ace! that secures two points.”
“News! I did,” said Father Jos.
“Why not tell it us, then?”
“I was not asked. You both seemed so wrapped up, I waited my time and opportunity. There’s a new parson come to Castle Hermitage.”
“What new person?” said King Corny. “Doublets, aces, Harry.”
“A new parson I’m talking of,” said Father Jos, “that has just got the living there; and they say Sir Ulick’s mad about it, in Dublin, where he is still.”
“Mad!—Three men up—and you can’t enter, Harry. Well, what is he mad about?”
“Because of the presentation to the living,” replied the priest, “which government wouldn’t make him a compliment of, as he expected.”
“He is always expecting compliments from government,” said Corny, “and always getting disappointments. Such throws as you have, Harry—Sixes! again—Well, what luck!—all over with me—It is only a hit at any rate! But what kind of man,” continued he, “is this new clergyman?”
“Oh! them parsons is all one kind,” said Father Jos.
“All one kind! No, no more than our own priests,” said Corny. “There’s good and bad, and all the difference in life.”
“I don’t know any thing at all about it,” said Father Jos, sullenly; “but this I know, that no doubt he’ll soon be over here, or his proctor, looking for the tithes.”
“I hope we will have no quarrels,” said Corny.
“They ought to be abolished,” said Father Jos, “the tithes, that is, I mean.”
“And the quarrels, too, I hope,” said Ormond.
“Oh! It’s not our fault if there’s quarrels,” said Father Jos.
“Faults on both sides generally in all quarrels,” said Corny.
“In lay quarrels, like enough,” said Father Jos. “In church quarrels, it don’t become a good Catholic to say that.”
“What?” said Corny.
“That,” said the priest.
“Which?” said Corny.
“That which you said, that there’s faults on both sides; sure there’s but one side, and that’s our own side, can be in the right there can’t be two right sides, can there? and consequently there won’t be two wrong sides, will there?—Ergo, there cannot, by a parity of rasoning, be two sides in the wrong.”
“Well, Harry, I’ll take the black men now, and gammon you,” said Corny. “Play away, man—what are you thinking of? is it of what Father Jos said? ‘tis beyond the limits of the human understanding.”
Father Jos puffed away at his pipe for some time.
“I was tired and ashamed of all the wrangling for two-pence with the last man,” said King Corny, “and I believe I was sometimes too hard and too hot myself; but if this man’s a gentleman, I think we shall agree. Did you hear his name, or any thing at all about him, Father?”
“He is one of them refugee families, the Huguenots, banished France by the adict of Nantz, they say, and his name’s Cambray.”
“Cambray!” exclaimed Ormond.
“A very good name,” said O’Shane; “but what do you know of it, Harry?”
“Only, sir, I happened to meet with a Dr. Cambray the winter I was in Dublin, whom I thought a very agreeable, respectable, amiable man—and I wonder whether this is the same person.”
“There is something more now, Harry Ormond, I know by your face,” said Corny: “there’s some story of or belonging to Dr. Cambray—what is it?”
“No story, only a slight circumstance—which, if you please, I’d rather not tell you, sir,” said Ormond.
“That is something very extraordinary, and looks mysterious,” said Father Jos.
“Nothing mysterious, I assure you,” said Ormond,—“a mere trifle, which, if it concerned only myself, I would tell directly.”
“Let him alone, father,” said King Corny; “I am sure he has a good reason—and I’m not curious: only let me whisper this in your ear to show you my own penetration, Harry—I’d lay my life” (said he, stretching over and whispering), “I’d lay my life Miss Annaly has something to do with it.”
“Miss Annaly!—nothing in the world—only—yes, I recollect she was present.”
“There now—would not any body think I’m a conjuror? a physiognomist is cousin to (and not twice removed from) a conjuror.”
“But I assure you, though you happened to guess right partly as to her being present, you are totally mistaken, sir, as to the rest.”
“My dear Harry, totally means wholly: if I’m right in a part, I can’t be mistaken in the whole. I am glad to make you smile, any way—and I wish I was right altogether, and that you was as rich as Croesus into the bargain; but stay a bit, if you come home a hero from the wars—that may do—ladies are mighty fond of heroes.”
It was in vain that Ormond assured his good old imaginative friend that he was upon a wrong scent. Cornelius stopped to humour him; but was convinced that he was right: then turned to the still smoking Father Jos, and went on asking questions about Dr. Cambray.
“I know nothing at all about him,” said Father Jos, “but this, that Father M’Cormuck has dined with him, if I’m not misinformed, oftener than I think becoming in these times—making too free! And in the chapel last Sunday, I hear he made a very extraordinary address to his flock—there was one took down the words, and handed them to me: after remarking on the great distress of the season—first and foremost about the keeping of fast days the year—he allowed the poor of his flock, which is almost all, to eat meat whenever offered to them, because, said he, many would starve—now mark the obnoxious word—‘if it was not for their benevolent Protestant neighbours, who make soup and broth for them.’”
“What is there obnoxious in that?” said Cornelius.
“Wait till you hear the end—‘and feed and clothe the distressed.’”
“That is not obnoxious either, I hope,” said Ormond, laughing.
“Young gentleman, you belong to the establishment, and are no judge in this case, permit me to remark,” said Father Jos; “and I could wish Mr. O’Shane would hear to the end, before he joins in a Protestant laugh.”
“I’ve heard of a ‘Protestant wind’ before,” said Harry, “but not of a Protestant laugh.”
“Well, I’m serious, Father Jos,” said Corny; “let me hear to the end what makes your face so long.”
“‘And, I am sorry to say, show more charity to them than their own people, the rich Catholics, sometimes do.’ If that is not downright slander, I don’t know what is,” said Father Jos.
“Are you sure it is not truth, Father?” said Corny.
“And if it was, even, so much the worse, to be telling it in the chapel, and to his flock—very improper in a priest, very extraordinary conduct!”
Father Jos worked himself up to a high pitch of indignation, and railed and smoked for some time, while O’Shane and Ormond joined in defending M’Cormuck, and his address to his flock—and even his dining with the new clergyman of the parish. Father Jos gave up and had his punch. The result of the—whole was, that Ormond proposed to pay his respects the next morning to Dr. Cambray.
“Very proper,” said O’Shane: “do so—fit you should—you are of his people, and you are acquainted with the gentleman—and I’d have you go and show yourself safe to him, that we’ve made no tampering with you.”
Father Jos could not say so much, therefore he said nothing.
O’Shane continued, “A very exact church-goer at the little church there you’ve always been, at the other side of the lake—never hindered—make what compliment you will proper for me—say I’m too old and clumsy for morning visitings, and never go out of my islands. But still I can love my neighbour in or out of them, and hope, in the name of peace, to be on good terms. Sha’n’t be my fault if them tithes come across. Then I wish that bone of contention was from between the two churches. Meantime, I’m not snarling, if others is not craving: and I’d wish for the look of it, for your sake, Harry, that it should be all smooth; so say any thing you will for me to this Dr. Cambray,—though we are of a different faith, I should do any thing in rason.”
“Rason! what’s that about rason?” said Father Jos: “I hope faith comes before rason.”
“And after it, too, I hope, Father,” said Corny.
Father Jos finished his punch, and went to sleep upon it.
Ormond, next morning, paid his visit—Dr. Cambray was not at home; but Harry was charmed with the neatness of his house, and with the amiable and happy appearance of his family. He had never before seen Mrs. Cambray or her daughters, though he had met the doctor in Dublin. The circumstance which Harry had declined mentioning, when Corny questioned him about his acquaintance with Dr. Cambray, was very slight, though Father Jos had imagined it to be of mysterious importance. It had happened, that among the dissipated set of young men with whom Marcus O’Shane and Harry had passed that winter in Dublin, a party had one Sunday gone to hear the singing at the Asylum, and had behaved in a very unbecoming manner during the service. Dr. Cambray preached—he spoke to the young gentlemen afterwards with mild but becoming dignity. Harry Ormond instantly, sensible of his error, made proper apologies, and erred no farther. But Marcus O’Shane in particular, who was not accustomed to endure anything, much less any person, that crossed his humour, spoke of Dr. Cambray afterwards with vindictive bitterness, and with all his talents of mimicry endeavoured to make him ridiculous. Harry defended him with a warmth of ingenuous eloquence which did him honour; and with truth, courage, and candour, that did him still more, corrected some of Marcus’s mis-statements, declaring that they had all been much to blame. Lady Annaly and her daughter were present, and this was one of the circumstances to which her ladyship had alluded, when she said that some things had occurred that had prepossessed her with a favourable opinion of Ormond’s character. Dr. Cambray knew nothing of the attack or the defence till some time afterwards; and it was now so long ago, and Harry was so much altered since that time, that it was scarcely to be expected the doctor should recollect even his person. However, when Dr. Cambray came to the Black Islands to return his visit, he did immediately recognize Ormond, and seemed so much pleased with meeting him again, and so much interested about him, that Corny’s warm heart was immediately won. Independently of this, the doctor’s persuasive benevolent politeness could not have failed to operate, as it usually did, even on a first acquaintance, in pleasing and conciliating even those who were of opposite opinions.
“There, now,” said Corny, when the doctor was gone, “there, now, is a sincere minister of the Gospel for you, and a polite gentleman into the bargain. Now that’s politeness that does not trouble me—that’s not for show—that’s for us, not himself, mark!—and conversation! Why that man has conversation for the prince and the peasant—the courtier and the anchorite. Did not he find plenty for me, and got more out of me than I thought was in me—and the same if I’d been a monk of La Trappe, he would have made me talk like a pie. Now there’s a man of the high world that the low world can like, very different from—”
Poor Corny paused, checked himself, and then resumed—“Principles, religion, and all no hinderance!—liberal and sincere too! Well, I only wish—Father Jos, no offence—I only wish, for Dr. Cambray’s sake, and the Catholic church’s sake, I was, for one day, Archbishop of Canterbury, or Primate of all Ireland, or whatever else makes the bishops in your church, and I’d skip over dean and archdeacon, and all, and make that man—clean a bishop before night.”
Harry smiled, and wished he had the power as well as the good-will.
Father Jos said, “A man ought to be ashamed not to think of his own first.”
“Now, Harry, don’t think I’d make a bishop lightly,” continued King Corny; “I would not—I’ve been a king too long for that; and though only a king of my own fashion, I know what’s fit for governing a country, observe me!—Cousin Ulick would make a job of a bishop, but I would not—nor I wouldn’t to please my fancy. Now don’t think I’d make that man a bishop just because he noticed and praised my gimcracks and inventions, and substitutes.”
Father Jos smiled, and demurely abased his eye.
“Oh! then you don’t know me as well as you think you do, father,” said O’Shane. “Nor what’s more, Harry, not his noting down the two regiments to make inquiry for friends for you, Harry, shouldn’t have bribed me to partiality—though I could have kissed his shoe-ties for it.”
“Mercy on you!” said Father Jos: “this doctor has bewitched you.”
“But did you mind, then,” persisted Corny, “the way he spoke of that cousin of mine, Sir Ulick, who he saw I did not like, and who has been, as you tell us, bitter against him, and even against his getting the living. Well, the way this Doctor Cambray spoke then pleased me—good morals without preaching—there’s do good to your enemies—the true Christian doctrine—and the hardest point. Oh! let Father Jos say what he will, there’s the man will be in heaven before many—heretic or no heretic, Harry!”
Father Jos shrugged up his shoulders, and then fixing the glass in his spectacles, replied, “We shall see better when we come to the tithes.”
“That’s true,” said Corny.
He walked off to his workshop, and took down his fowling-piece to put the finishing stroke to his work for the next day, which was to be the first day of partridge-shooting: he looked forward with delight—anticipating the gratification he should have in going out shooting with Harry, and trying his new fowling-piece. “But I won’t go out to-morrow till the post has come in; for my mind couldn’t enjoy the sport till I was satisfied whether the answer could come about your commission, Harry: my mind misgives me—that is, my calculation tells me, that it will come to-morrow.”
Good Corny’s calculations were just: the next morning the little post-boy brought answers to various letters which he had written about Ormond—one to Ormond from Sir Ulick O’Shane, repeating his approbation of his ward’s going into the army, approving of all the steps Cornelius had taken—especially of his intention of paying for the commission.
“All’s well,” Cornelius said. The next letter was from Cornelius’s banker, saying that the five hundred pound was lodged, ready. “All well.” The army-agent wrote, “that he had commissions in two different regiments, waiting Mr. O’Shane’s choice and orders per return of post, to purchase in conformity.”—“That’s all well.” General Albemarle’s answer to Mr. O’Shane’s letter was most satisfactory: in terms that were not merely officially polite, but kind, “he assured Mr. O’Shane that he should, as far as it was in his power, pay attention to the young gentleman, whom Mr. O’Shane had so strongly recommended to his care, and by whose appearance and manner the general said he had been prepossessed, when he saw him some months ago at Corny Castle. There was a commission vacant in his son’s regiment, which he recommended to Mr. Ormond.”
“The very thing I could have wished for you, my dear boy—you shall go off the day after to-morrow—not a moment’s delay—I’ll answer the letters this minute.”
But Harry reminded him that the post did not go out till the next day, and urged him not to lose this fine day—this first day of the season for partridge shooting.
“Time enough for my business after we come home—the post does not go out till morning.”
“That’s true: come off, then—let’s enjoy the fine day sent us; and my gun, too—I forgot; for I do believe, Harry, I love you better even than my gun,” said the warm-hearted Corny. “Call Ormond. Moriarty; let us have him with us—he’ll enjoy it beyond all: one of the last day’s shooting with his own Prince Harry!—but, poor fellow, we’ll not tell him that.”
Moriarty and the dogs were summoned, and the fineness of the day, and the promise of good sport, put Moriarty in remarkably good spirits. By degrees King Corny’s own spirits rose, and he forgot that it was the last day with Prince Harry, and he enjoyed the sport. After various trials of his new fowling-piece, both the king and the prince agreed that it succeeded to admiration. But even in the midst of his pride in his success, and his joy in the sport, his superior fondness for Harry prevailed, and showed itself in little, almost delicate instances of kindness, which could hardly have been expected from his unpolished mind. As they crossed a bog, he stooped every now and then, and plucked different kinds of bog-plants and heaths.
“Here, Harry,” said he, “mind these for Dr. Cambray. Remember yesterday his mentioning that a daughter of his was making a botanical collection, and there’s Sheelah can tell you all the Irish names and uses. Some I can note for you myself; and here, this minute—by great luck! the very thing he wanted!—the andromeda, I’ll swear to it: throw away all and keep this—carry it to her to-morrow—for I will have you make a friend of that Dr. Cambray; and no way so sure or fair to the father’s heart as by proper attention to the daughter—I know that by myself. Hush, now, till I have that partridge!—Whirr!—Shot him clean, my dear gun!—Was not that good, Harry?”
Thus they continued their sport till late; and returning, loaded with game, had nearly reached the palace, when Corny, who had marked a covey, quitted Harry, and sent his dog to spring it, at a distance much greater than the usual reach of a common fowling-piece. Harry heard a shot, and a moment afterwards a violent shout of despair;—he knew the voice to be that of Moriarty, and running to the spot from whence it came, he found his friend, his benefactor, weltering in his blood. The fowling-piece, overloaded, had burst, and a large splinter of the barrel had fractured the skull, and had sunk into the brain. As Moriarty was trying to raise his head, O’Shane uttered some words, of which all that was intelligible was the name of Harry Ormond. His eye was fixed on Harry, but the meaning of the eye was gone. He squeezed Harry’s hand, and an instant afterwards O’Shane’s hand was powerless. The dearest, the only real friend Harry Ormond had upon earth was gone for ever!
CHAPTER XVII.
A boy passing by saw what had happened, and ran to the house, calling as he went to some workmen, who hastened to the place, where they heard the howling of the dogs. Ormond neither heard nor saw—till Moriarty said, “He must be carried home;” and some one approaching to lift the body, Ormond started up, pushed the man back, without uttering a syllable—made a sign to Moriarty, and between them they carried the body home. Sheelah and the women came out to meet them, wringing their hands, and uttering loud lamentations. Ormond, bearing his burden as if insensible of what he bore, walked onward, looking at no one, answering none, but forcing his way straight into the house, and on—till they came to O’Shane’s bedchamber, which was upon the ground-floor—there laid him on his bed. The women had followed, and all those who had gathered on the way rushed in to see and to bewail. Ormond looked up, and saw the people about the bed, and made a sign to Moriarty to keep them away, which he did, as well as he could. But they would not be kept back—Sheelah, especially, pressed forward, crying loudly, till Moriarty, with whom she was struggling, pointed to Harry. Struck with his fixed look, she submitted at once. “Best leave him!” said she. She put every body out of the room before her, and turning to Ormond, said, they would leave him “a little space of time till the priest should come, who was at a clergy dinner, but was sent for.”
When Ormond was left alone he locked the door, and kneeling beside the dead, offered up prayers for the friend he had lost, and there remained some time in stillness and silence, till Sheelah knocked at the door, to let him know that the priest was come. Then retiring, he went to the other end of the house, to be out of the way. The room to which he went was that in which they had been reading the letters just before they went out that morning. There was the pen which Harry had taken from his hand, and the answer just begun.
“Dear General, I hope my young friend, Harry Ormond—”
That hand could write no more!—that warm heart was cold! The certainty was so astonishing, so stupifying, that Ormond, having never yet shed a tear, stood with his eyes fixed on the paper, he knew not how long, till he felt some one touch his hand. It was the child, little Tommy, of whom O’Shane was so fond, and who was so fond of him. The child, with his whistle in his hand, stood looking up at Harry, without speaking. Ormond gazed on him for a few instants, then snatched him in his arms, and burst into an agony of tears. Sheelah, who had let the child in, now came and carried him away. “God be thanked for them tears,” said she, “they will bring relief;” and so they did. The necessity for manly exertion—the sense of duty—pressed upon Ormond’s recovered reason. He began directly, and wrote all the letters that were necessary to his guardian and to Miss O’Faley, to communicate the dreadful intelligence to Dora. The letters were not finished till late in the evening. Sheelah came for them, and leaving the door and the outer door to the hall open, as she came in, Ormond saw the candles lighted, and smelt the smell of tobacco and whiskey, and heard the sound of many voices.
“The wake, dear, which is beginning,” said she, hastening back to shut the doors, as she saw him shudder. “Bear with it, Master Harry,” said she: “hard for you!—but bear with us, dear; ‘tis the custom of the country; and what else can we do but what the forefathers did?—how else for us to show respect, only as it would be expected, and has always been?—and great comfort to think we done our best for him that is gone, and comfort to know his wake will be talked of long hereafter, over the fires at night, of all the people that is there without—and that’s all we have for it now: so bear with it, dear.”
This night, and for two succeeding nights, the doors of Corny Castle remained open for all who chose to come.
Crowds, as many, and more, than the castle could hold, flocked to King Corny’s wake, for he was greatly beloved.
There was, as Sheelah said, “plenty of cake, and wine, and tea, and tobacco, and snuff—every thing handsome as possible, and honourable to the deceased, who was always open-handed and open-hearted, and with open house too.”
His praises, from time to time, were heard, and then the common business of the country was talked of—and jesting and laughter went on—and all night there were tea-drinkings for the women, and punch for the men. Sheelah, who inwardly grieved most, went about incessantly among the crowd, serving all, seeing that none, especially them who came from a distance, should be neglected—and that none should have to complain afterwards, “or to say that any thing at all was wanting or niggardly.” Mrs. Betty, Sheelah’s daughter, sat presiding at the tea-table, giving the keys to her mother when wanted, but never forgetting to ask for them again. Little Tommy took his cake and hid himself under the table, close by his mother, Mrs. Betty; and could not be tempted out but by Sheelah, whom he followed, watching for her to go in to Mr. Harry: when the door opened, he held by her gown, and squeezed in under her arm—and when she brought Mr. Harry his meals, she would set the child up at the table with him for company—and to tempt him to take something.
Ormond had once promised his deceased friend, that if he was in the country when he died, he would put him into his coffin. He kept his promise. The child hearing a noise, and knowing that Mr. Harry had gone into the room, could not be kept out; the crowd had left that room, and the child looked at the bed with the curtains looped up with black—and at the table at the foot of the bed, with the white cloth spread over it, and the seven candlesticks placed upon it. But the coffin fixed his attention, and he threw himself upon it, clinging to it, and crying bitterly upon King Corny, his dear King Corny, to come back to him.
It was all Sheelah could do to drag him away: Ormond, who had always liked this boy, felt now more fond of him than ever, and resolved that he should never want a friend.
“You are in the mind to attend the funeral, sir, I think you told me?” said Sheelah.
“Certainly,” replied Ormond.
“Excuse me, then,” said Sheelah, “if I mention—for you can’t know what to do without. There will be high mass, may be you know, in the chapel. And as it’s a great funeral, thirteen priests will be there, attending. And when the mass will be finished, it will be expected of you, as first of kin considered, to walk up first with your offering—whatsoever you think fit, for the priests—and to lay it down on the altar; and then each and all will follow, laying down their offerings, according as they can. I hope I’m not too bold or troublesome, sir.”
Ormond thanked her for her kindness—and felt it was real kindness. He, consequently, did all that was expected from him handsomely. After the masses were over, the priests, who could not eat any thing before they said mass, had breakfast and dinner joined. Sheelah took care “the clergy was well served.” Then the priests—though it was not essential that all should go, did all, to Sheelah’s satisfaction, accompany the funeral the whole way, three long miles, to the burying-place of the O’Shanes; a remote old abbey-ground, marked only by some scattered trees, and a few sloping grave-stones. King Corny’s funeral was followed by an immense concourse of people, on horseback and on foot; men, women, and children: when they passed by the doors of cabins, a set of the women raised the funeral cry—not a savage howl, as is the custom in some parts of Ireland, but chanting a melancholy kind of lament, not without harmony, simple and pathetic. Ormond was convinced, that in spite of all the festivity at the wake, which had so disgusted him, the poor people mourned sincerely for the friend they had lost.
We forgot to mention that Dr. Cambray went to the Black Islands the day after O’Shane’s death, and did all he could to prevail upon Ormond to go to his house while the wake was going on, and till the funeral should be over. But Ormond thought it right to stay where he was, as none of the family were there, and there was no way in which he could so strongly mark, as Sheelah said, his respect for the dead. Now that it was all over, he had at least the consolation of thinking that he had not shrunk from any thing that was, or that he conceived to be, his duty. Dr. Cambray was pleased with his conduct, and at every moment he could spare went to see him, doing all he could to console him, by strengthening in Ormond’s mind the feelings of religious submission to the will of Heaven, and of pious hope and confidence. Ormond had no time left him for the indulgence of sorrow—business pressed upon him.
Cornelius O’Shane’s will, which Sir Ulick blamed Harry for not mentioning in the first letter, was found to be at his banker’s in Dublin. All his property was left to his daughter, except the farm, which he had given to Ormond; this was specially excepted, with legal care: also a legacy of five hundred pounds was left to Harry; a trifling bequest to Sir Ulick, being his cousin; and legacies to servants. Miss O’Faley was appointed sole executrix—this gave great umbrage to Sir Ulick O’Shane, and appeared extraordinary to many people; but the will was in due form, and nothing could be done against it, however much might be said.
Miss O’Faley, without taking notice of any thing Ormond said of the money, which had been lodged in the bank to pay for his commission, wrote as executrix to beg of him to do various business for her—all which he did; and fresh letters came with new requests, inventories to be taken, things to be sent to Dublin, money to be received and paid, stewards’ and agents’ accounts to be settled, business of all kinds, in short, came pouring in—upon him, a young man unused to it, and with a mind peculiarly averse from it at this moment. But when he found that he could be of service to any one belonging to his benefactor, he felt bound in gratitude to exert himself to the utmost. These circumstances, however disagreeable, had an excellent effect upon his character, giving him habits of business which were ever afterwards of use to him. It was remarkable that the only point in his letters which had concerned his own affairs still continued unanswered. Another circumstance hurt his feelings—instead of Miss O’Faley’s writing to make her own requests, Mr. Connal was soon deputed by Mademoiselle to write for her. He spoke of the shock the ladies had felt, and the distressing circumstances in which they were; all in commonplace phrases, which Ormond despised, and from which he could judge nothing of Dora’s real feelings.
“The marriage must, of course,” Mr. Connal said, “be put off for some time; and as it would be painful to the ladies to return to Corny Castle, he had advised their staying in Dublin; and they and he feeling assured that, from Mr. Ormond’s regard for the family, they might take the liberty of troubling him, they requested so and so, and the executrix begged he would see this settled and that settled”—at last, with gradually forgotten apologies, falling very much into the style of a person writing to an humble friend or dependent, bound to consider requests as commands.
Our young hero’s pride was piqued on the one side, as much as his gratitude was alive on the other.
Sir Ulick O’Shane wrote to Harry that he was at this time peculiarly engaged with affairs of his own. He said, that as to the material point of the money lodged for the commission, he would see the executrix, and do what he could to have that settled; but as to all lesser points, Sir Ulick said, he really had not leisure to answer letters at present. He enclosed a note to Dr. Cambray, whom he recommended it to his ward to consult, and whose advice and assistance he now requested for him in pressing terms.
In consequence of this direct application from the young gentleman’s guardian, Dr. Cambray felt himself authorized and called upon to interfere, where, otherwise, delicacy might have prevented him. It was fortunate for Ormond that he had Dr. Cambray’s counsel to guide him, or else he would, in the first moments of feeling, have yielded too much to the suggestions of both gratitude and pride.
In the first impulse of generous pride, Ormond wanted to give up the farm which his benefactor had left him, because he wished that no possible suspicion of interested motives having influenced his attachment to Cornelius O’Shane should exist, especially with Mr. Connal, who, as the husband of Dora, would soon be the lord of all in the Black Islands.
On the other hand, when Mr. Connal wrote to him, that the executrix, having no written order from the deceased to that effect, could not pay the five hundred pounds, lodged in the bank, for his commission, Ormond was on the point of flying out with intemperate indignation. “Was not his own word sufficient? Was not the intention of his benefactor apparent from the letters? Would not this justify any executor, any person of common sense or honour?”
Dr. Cambray, his experienced and placid counsellor, brought all these sentiments to due measure by mildly showing what was law and justice, and what was fit and proper in each case; putting jealous honour, and romantic generosity, as they must be put, out of the question in business.
He prevented Ormond from embroiling himself with Connal about the legacy, and from giving up his farm. He persuaded him to decline having any thing to do with the affairs of the Black Islands.
A proper agent was appointed, who saw Ormond’s accounts settled and signed, so that no blame or suspicion could rest upon him.
“There seems no probability, Mr. Ormond,” said Dr. Cambray, “of your commission being immediately purchased. Your guardian, Sir Ulick O’Shane, will be detained some time longer, I understand, in Dublin. You are in a desolate situation here—you have now done all that you ought to do—leave these Black Islands, and come to Vicar’s Dale: you will find there a cheerful family, and means of spending your time more agreeably, perhaps more profitably, than you can have here. I am sensible that no new friends can supply to you the place of him you have lost; but you will find pleasure in the perception, that you have, by your own merit, attached to you one friend in me, who will do all in his power to soothe and serve you.—Will you trust yourself to me?” added he, smiling, “You have already found that I do not flatter. Will you come to us?—The sooner the better—to-morrow, if you can.”
It scarcely need be said, that this invitation was most cordially accepted. Next day Ormond was to leave the Black Islands. Sheelah was in despair when she found he was going: the child hung upon him so that he could hardly get out of the house, till Moriarty promised to return for the boy, and carry him over in the boat often, to see Mr. Ormond. Moriarty would not stay in the islands himself, he said, after Harry went: he let the cabin and little tenement which O’Shane had given him, and the rent was to be paid him by the agent. Ormond went, for the last time, that morning, to Ormond’s Vale, to settle his own affairs there: he and Moriarty took an unusual path across this part of the island to the waterside, that they might avoid that which they had followed the last time they were out, on the day of Corny’s death. They went, therefore, across a lone tract of heath-bog, where, for a considerable time, they saw no living being.
On this bog, of which Cornelius O’Shane had given Moriarty a share, the grateful poor fellow had, the year before, amused himself with cutting in large letters of about a yard long the words
“LONG LIVE KING CORNY.”
He had sowed the letters with broom-seed in the spring, and had since forgotten ever to look at them; but they were now green, and struck the eye.
“Think then of this being all the trace that’s left of him on the face of the earth!” said Moriarty. “I’m glad that I did even that same.”
After crossing this lone bog, when they came to the waterside, they found a great crowd of people, seemingly all the inhabitants of the islands, assembled there, waiting to take leave of Master Harry; and each of them was cheered by a kind word and a look, before they would let him step into the boat.
“Ay, go to the continent,” said Sheelah, “ay, go to fifty continents, and in all Ireland you’ll not find hearts warmer to you than those of the Black Islands, that knows you best from a child, Master Harry dear.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
Ormond was received with much kindness in Dr. Cambray’s family, in which he felt himself at ease, and soon forgot that he was a stranger: his mind, however, was anxious about his situation, as he longed to get into active life. Every morning, when the post came in, he hoped there would be a letter for him with his commission; and he was every morning regularly surprised and disappointed, on finding that there was none. In the course of each ensuing day, however, he forgot his disappointment, and said he believed he was happier where he was than he could be any where else. The regular morning question of “Any letters for me?” was at last answered by “Yes; one franked by Sir Ulick O’Shane.” “Ah! no commission—I feel no enclosure—single letter—no! double.” Double or single, it was as follows:—
“DEAR HARRY,
At last I have seen the executrix and son-in-law, whom that great genius deceased, my well-beloved cousin in folly, King Corny, chose for himself. As to that thing, half mud, half tinsel, half Irish, half French, Miss, or Mademoiselle, O’Faley, that jointed doll, is—all but the eyes, which move of themselves in a very extraordinary way—a mere puppet, pulled by wires in the hands of another. The master showman, fully as extraordinary in his own way as his puppet, kept, while I was by, as much as possible behind the scenes. The hand and ruffle of the French petit-maitre, and the prompter’s voice, however, were visible and audible enough for me. In plain English, I suppose it is no news to you to hear that Mdlle. O’Faley is a fool, and Monsieur de Connal, Captain O’Connal, Black Connal, or by whatever other alias he is to be called, is properly a puppy. I am sorry, my dear boy, to tell you that the fool has let the rogue get hold of the five hundred pounds lodged in the bank—so no hopes of your commission for three months, or at the least two months to come. My dear boy, your much-lamented friend and benefactor (is not that the style?), King Corny, who began, I think, by being, years ago, to your admiration, his own tailor, has ended, I fear to your loss, by being his own lawyer: he has drawn his will so that any attorney could drive a coach and six through it—so ends ‘every man his own lawyer.’ Forgive me this laugh, Harry. By-the-bye, you, my dear ward, will be of age in December, I think—then all my legal power of interference ceases.
“Meantime, as I know you will be out of spirits when you read this, I have some comfort for you and myself, which I kept for a bonne-bouche—you will never more see Lady O’Shane, nor I either. Articles of separation—and I didn’t trust myself to be my own lawyer—have been signed between us: so I shall see her ladyship sail for England this night—won’t let any one have the pleasure of putting her on board but myself—I will see her safe off, and feel well assured nothing can tempt her to return—even to haunt me—or scold you. This was the business which detained me in Dublin—well worth while to give up a summer to secure, for the rest of one’s days, liberty to lead a bachelor’s merry life, which I mean to do at Castle Hermitage or elsewhere, now and from henceforth—Miss Black in no ways notwithstanding. Miss Black, it is but justice to tell you, is now convinced of my conjugal virtues, and admires my patience as much as she used to admire Lady O’Shane’s. She has been very useful to me in arranging my affairs in this separation—in consequence, I have procured a commission of the peace for a certain Mr. M’Crule, a man whom you may remember to have seen or heard at the bottom or corner of the table at Castle Hermitage, one of the Cromwellians, a fellow with the true draw-down of the mouth, and who speaks, or snorts, through his nose. I have caused him, not without some difficulty, to ask Miss Black to be his helpmate (Lord help him and forgive me!); and Miss Black, preferring rather to stay in Ireland and become Mrs. M’Crule than to return to England and continue companion to Lady O’Shane, hath consented (who can blame her?) to marry on the spur of the occasion—to-morrow—I giving her away—you may imagine with what satisfaction. What with marriages and separations, the business of the nation, my bank, my canal, and my coal-mines, you may guess my hands have been full of business. Now, all for pleasure! next week I hope to be down enjoying my liberty at Castle Hermitage, where I shall be heartily glad to have my dear Harry again. Marcus in England still—the poor Annalys in great distress about the son, with whom, I fear, it is all over. No time for more. Measure my affection by the length of this, the longest epistle extant in my hand-writing.
“My dear boy, yours ever,
“Ulick O’Shane.”
The mixed and crossing emotions which this letter was calculated to excite having crossed, and mixed, and subsided a little, the predominating feeling was expressed by our young hero with a sigh, and this reflection: “Two months at the least! I must wait before I can have my commission—two months more in idleness the fates have decreed.”
“That last is a part of the decree that depends on yourself, not on the fates. Two months you must wait, but why in idleness?” said Dr. Cambray.
The kind and prudent doctor did not press the question—he was content with its being heard, knowing that it would sink into the mind and produce its effect in due season. Accordingly, after some time, after Ormond had exhaled impatience, and exhausted invective, and submitted to necessity, he returned to reason with the doctor. One evening, when the doctor and his family had returned from walking, and as the tea-urn was just coming in bubbling and steaming, Ormond set to work at a corner of the table, at the doctor’s elbow.
“My dear doctor, suppose I was now to read over to you my list of books.”
“Suppose you were, and suppose I was to fall asleep,” said the doctor.
“Not the least likely, sir, when you are to do any thing kind for a friend—may I say friend?”
“You may. Come, read on—I am not proof against flattery, even at my age—well, read away.”
Ormond began; but at that moment there drove past the windows a travelling chariot and four.
“Sir Ulick O’Shane, as I live!” cried Ormond, starting up. “I saw him—he nodded to me. Oh! no, impossible—he said he would not come till next week—Where’s his letter?—What’s the date?—Could it mean this week?—No, he says next week quite plainly—What can be the reason?”
A note for Mr. Ormond was brought in, which had been left by one of Sir Ulick O’Shane’s servants as they went by.
“My commission, after all,” cried Harry. “I always knew, I always said, that Sir Ulick was a good friend.”
“Has he purchased the commission?” said Dr. Cambray.
“He does not actually say so, but that must be what his note means,” said Ormond.
“Means! but what does it say?—May I see it?”
“It is written in such a hurry, and in pencil, you’ll not be able to make it out.”
The doctor, however, read aloud—
“If Mr. Harry Ormond will inquire at Castle Hermitage, he will hear of something to his advantage.
“U. O’SHANE.”
“Go off this minute,” said Mrs. Cambray, “and inquire at Castle Hermitage what Mr. Harry Ormond may hear to his advantage, and let us learn it as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Harry; and ere the words were well uttered, a hundred steps were lost.
With more than his usual cordiality, Sir Ulick O’Shane received him, came out into the hall to meet his dear Harry, his own dear boy, to welcome him again to Castle Hermitage.
“We did not expect you, sir, till next week—this is a most agreeable surprise. Did you not say—”
“No matter what I said—you see what I have done,” interrupted Sir Ulick; “and now I must introduce you to a niece of mine, whom you have never yet seen—Lady Norton, a charming, well-bred, pleasant little widow, whose husband died, luckily for her and me, just when they had run out all their large fortune. She is delighted to come to me, and is just the thing to do the honours of Castle Hermitage—used to the style; but observe, though she is to rule my roast and my boiled, she is not to rule me or my friends—that is a preliminary, and a special clause for Harry Ormond’s being a privileged ami de la maison. Now, my dear fellow, you understand how the land lies; and depend upon it, you’ll like her, and find her every way of great advantage to you.”
So, thought Harry, is this all the advantage I am to hear of?
Sir Ulick led on to the drawing-room, and presented him to a fashionable-looking lady, neither young nor old, nothing in any respect remarkable.
“Lady Norton, Harry Ormond—Harry Ormond, my niece, Lady Norton, who will make this house as pleasant to you, and to me, and to all my friends, as it has been unpleasant ever since—in short, ever since you were out of it, Harry.”
Lady Norton, with gracious smile and well-bred courtesy, received Harry in a manner that promised the performance of all for which Sir Ulick had engaged. Tea came; and the conversation went on chiefly between Sir Ulick and Lady Norton on their own affairs, about invitations and engagements they had made, before they left Dublin, with various persons who were coming down to Castle Hermitage. Sir Ulick asked, “When are the Brudenells to come to us, my dear?—Did you settle with the Lascelles?—and Lady Louisa, she must be here with the vice-regal party—arrange that, my dear.”
Lady Norton had settled every thing; she took out an elegant memorandum-book, and read the arrangements to Sir Ulick. Between whiles, Sir Ulick turned to Ormond and noted the claims of those persons to distinction, and as several ladies were named, exclaimed, “Charming woman!—delightful little creature!—The Darrells; Harry, you’ll like the Darrells too!—The Lardners, all clever, pleasant, and odd, will entertain you amazingly, Harry!—But Lady Millicent is the woman—nothing at all has been seen in this country like her!—most fascinating! Harry, take care of your heart.”
Then, as to the men—this man was clever—and the other was quite a hero—and the next the pleasantest fellow—and the best sportsman—and there were men of political eminence—men who had distinguished themselves on different occasions by celebrated speeches—and particularly promising rising young; men, with whom he must make Ormond intimately acquainted. Now Sir Ulick closed Lady Norton’s book, and taking it from her hand, said, “I am tiring you, my dear—that’s enough for to-night—we’ll settle all the rest to-morrow: you must be tired after your journey—I whirled you down without mercy—you look fatigued and sleepy.”
Lady Norton said, “Indeed, she believed she was a little tired, and rather sleepy.”
Her uncle begged she would not sit up longer from compliment; accordingly, apologizing to Mr. Ormond, and “really much fatigued,” she retired. Sir Ulick walked up and down the room, meditating for some moments, while Harry renewed his intimacy with an old dog, who, at every pause in the conversation, jumping up on him, and squealing with delight, had claimed his notice.
“Well, my boy,” exclaimed Sir Ulick, stopping short, “aren’t you a most extraordinary fellow? Pray did you get my note?”
“Certainly, sir, and came instantly in consequence.”
“And yet you have never inquired what it is that you might hear to your advantage.”
“I—I thought I had heard it, sir.”
“Heard it, sir!” repeated Sir Ulick: “what can you mean?”
“Simply, sir, that I thought the advantage you alluded to was the introduction you did me just now the favour to give me to Lady Norton; you said, her being here would be a great advantage to me, and that led me to conclude—”
“Well, well! you were always a simple good fellow—confiding in my friendship—continue the same—you will, I am confident. But had you no other thought?”
“I had,” said Harry, “when first I read your note, I had, I own, another thought.”
“And what might it be?”
“I thought of my commission, sir.”
“What of your commission?”
“That you had procured it for me, sir.”
“Since you ask me, I tell you honestly, that if it had been for your interest, I would have purchased that commission long ago; but there is a little secret, a political secret, which I could not tell you before—those who are behind the scenes cannot always speak—I may tell it to you now confidentially, but you must not repeat it, especially from me—that peace is likely to continue; so the army is out of the question.”
“Well, sir, if that be the case—you know best.”
“I do—it is, trust me; and as things have turned out—though I could not possibly foresee what has happened—every thing is for the best: I have come express from town to tell you news that will surprise you beyond measure.”
“What can you mean, sir?”
“Simply, sir, that you are possessed, or soon will be possessed of—But come, sit down quietly, and in good earnest let me explain to you. You know your father’s second wife, the Indian woman, the governor’s mahogany-coloured daughter—she had a prodigious fortune, which my poor friend, your father, chose, when dying, to settle upon her, and her Indian son; leaving you nothing but what he could not take from you, the little paternal estate of three hundred pounds a year. Well, it has pleased Heaven to take your mahogany-coloured step-mother and your Indian brother out of this world; both carried off within a few days of each other by a fever of the country—much regretted, I dare say, in the Bombay Gazette, by all who knew them.
“But as neither you nor I had that honour, we are not, upon this occasion, called upon for any hypocrisy, farther than a black coat, which I have ordered for you at my tailor’s. Have also noted and answered, in conformity, the agent’s letter of 26th July, received yesterday, containing the melancholy intelligence: farther, replied to that part of his last, which requested to know how and where to transmit the property, which, on the Indian mother and brother’s demise, falls, by the will of the late Captain Ormond, to his European son, Harry Ormond, esq., now under the guardianship of Sir Ulick O’Shane, Castle Hermitage, Ireland.”
As he spoke, Sir Ulick produced the agent’s letter, and put it into his ward’s hand, pointing to the “useful passages.” Harry, glancing his eye over them, understood just enough to be convinced that Sir Ulick was in earnest, and that he was really heir to a very considerable property.
“Well! Harry Ormond, esq.,” pursued Sir Ulick, “was I wrong when I told you that if you would inquire at Castle Hermitage you would hear of something to your advantage?”
“I hope in Heaven,” said Ormond, “and pray to Heaven that it may be to my advantage!—I hope neither my head nor my heart may be turned by sudden prosperity.”
“Your heart—oh! I’ll answer for your heart, my noble fellow,” said Sir Ulick; “but I own you surprise me by the coolness of head you show.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” said Ormond, “I must run this minute to tell Dr. Cambray and all my friends at Vicar’s Dale.”
“Certainly—quite right,” said Sir Ulick—“I won’t detain you a moment,” said he—but he still held him fast. “I let you go to-night, but you must come to me to-morrow.”
“Oh! sir, certainly.”
“And you will bid adieu to Vicar’s Dale, and take up your quarters at Castle Hermitage, with your old guardian.”
“Thank you, sir—delightful! But I need not bid adieu to Vicar’s Dale—they are so near, I shall see them every day.”
“Of course,” said Sir Ulick, biting his lip; “but I was thinking of something.”
“Pray,” continued Sir Ulick, “do you like a gig, a curricle, or a phaeton best, or what carriage will you have? there is Tom Darrel’s in London now, who can bring it over for you. Well, we can settle that to-morrow.”
“If you please—thank you, kind Sir Ulick—how can you think so quickly of every thing?”
“Horses, too—let me see,” said Sir Ulick, drawing Harry back to the fire-place—“Ay, George Beirne is a judge of horses—he can choose for you, unless you like to choose for yourself. What colour—black or bay?”
“I declare, sir, I don’t know yet—my poor head is in such a state—and the horses happen not to be uppermost.”
“I protest, Harry, you perfectly astonish me, by the sedateness of your mind and manner. You are certainly wonderfully formed and improved since I saw you last—but, how! in the name of wonder, in the Black Islands, how I cannot conceive,” said Sir Ulick.
“As to sedateness, you know, sir, since I saw you last, I may well be sobered a little, for I have suffered—not a little,” said Harry.
“Suffered! how?” said Sir Ulick, leaning his arm on the mantel-piece opposite to him, and listening with an air of sympathy—“suffered! I was not aware—”
“You know, sir, I have lost an excellent friend.”
“Poor Corny—ay, my poor cousin, as far as he could, I am sure, he wished to be a friend to you.”
“He wished to be, and was,” said Ormond.
“It would have been better for him and his daughter too,” resumed Sir Ulick, “if he had chosen you for his son-in-law, instead of the coxcomb to whom Dora is going to be married: yet I own, as your guardian, I am well pleased that Dora, though a very pretty girl, is out of your way—you must look higher—she was no match for you.”
“I am perfectly sensible, sir, that we should never have been happy together.”
“You are a very sensible young man, Ormond—you make me admire you, seriously—I always foresaw what you would be Ah! if Marcus—but we’ll not talk of that now. Terribly dissipated—has spent an immensity of money already—but still, when he speaks in parliament he will make a figure. But good bye, good night; I see you are in a hurry to get away from me.”
“From you! Oh! no, sir, you cannot think me so ungrateful. I have not expressed, because I have not words—when I feel much, I never can say any thing; yet believe me, sir, I do feel your kindness, and all the warm fatherly interest you have this night shown that you have for me:—but I am in a hurry to tell my good friends the Cambrays, who I know are impatient for my return, and I fear I am keeping them up beyond their usual hour.”
“Not at all—besides—good Heavens! can’t they sit up a quarter of an hour, if they are so much interested?—Stay, you really hurry my slow wits—one thing more I had to say—pray, may I ask to which of the Miss Cambrays is it that you are so impatient to impart your good fortune?”
“To both, sir,” said Ormond—“equally.”
“Both!—you unconscionable dog, polygamy is not permitted in these countries—Both! no, try again for a better answer; though that was no bad one at the first blush.”
“I have no other answer to give than the plain truth, sir: I am thinking neither of polygamy nor even of marriage at present. These young ladies are both very amiable, very handsome, and very agreeable; but, in short, we are not thinking of one another—indeed, I believe they are engaged.”
“Engaged!—Oh! then you have thought about these young ladies enough to find that out. Well, this saves your gallantry—good night.”
Sir Ulick had this evening taken a vast deal of superfluous pains to sound a mind, which lay open before him, clear to the very bottom; but because it was so clear, 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 unexpectedly early to Vicar’s Dale. He found Ormond with Dr. Cambray, very busy, examining a plan which the doctor had sketched for a new cottage for Moriarty—a mason was standing by, talking of sand, lime, and stones. “But the young ladies, where are they?” Sir Ulick asked.
Ormond did not know. Mrs. Cambray, who was quietly reading, said she supposed they were in their gardens; and not in the least suspecting Sir Ulick’s suspicions, she was glad to see him, and gave credit to his neighbourly good-will for the earliness of this visit, without waiting even for the doctor to pay his respects first, as he intended to do at Castle Hermitage.
“Oh! as to that,” Sir Ulick said, “he did not intend to live on terms of ceremony with Dr. Cambray—he was impatient to take the first opportunity of thanking the doctor for his attentions to his ward.”
Sir Ulick’s quick eye saw on the table in Harry’s handwriting the list of books to be read. He took it up, looked it over, and with a smile asked, “Any thoughts of the church, Harry?”
“No, sir; it would be rather late for me to think of the church. I should never prepare myself properly.”
“Besides,” said Sir Ulick, “I have no living in my gift; but if,” continued he, in a tone of irony, “if, as I should opine from the list I hold in my hand—you look to a college living, my boy—if you are bent upon reading for a fellowship—I don’t doubt but with Dr. Cambray’s assistance, and with some grinder and crammer, we might get you cleverly through all the college examinations. And doctor, if he did not, in going through some of the college courses, die of a logical indigestion, or a classical fever, or a metaphysical lethargy, he might shine in the dignity of Trin. Coll. Dub., and, mad Mathesis inspiring, might teach eternally how the line AB is equal to the line CD,—or why poor X Y Z are unknown quantities. Ah! my dear boy, think of the pleasure, the glory of lecturing classes of ignoramuses, and dunces yet unborn!”
Harry, no way disconcerted, laughed good-humouredly with his guardian, and replied, “At present, sir, my ambition reaches no farther than to escape myself from the class of dunces and ignoramuses. I am conscious that at present I am very deficient.”
“In what, my dear boy?—To make your complaint English, you must say deficient in some thing or other—‘tis an Iricism to say in general that you are very deficient.”
“There is one of my particular deficiencies then you see, sir—I am deficient in English.”
“You are not deficient in temper, I am sure,” said Sir Ulick: “come, come, you may be tolerably well contented with yourself.”
“Ignorant as I am!—No,” said Ormond, “I will never sit down content in ignorance. Now that I have the fortune of a gentleman, it would be so much the more conspicuous, more scandalous—now that I have every way the means, I will, by the blessing of Heaven, and with the help of kind friends, make myself something more and something better than I am.”
“Gad! you are a fine fellow, Harry Ormond,” cried Sir Ulick: “I remember having once, at your age, such feelings and notions myself.”
“Very unlike the first thoughts and feelings many young men would have on coming into unexpected possession of a fortune,” said Dr. Cambray.
“True,” said Sir Ulick, “and we must keep his counsel, that he may not be dubbed a quiz—not a word of this sort, Harry, for the Darrells, the Lardners, or the Dartfords.”
“I don’t care whether they dub me a quiz or not,” said Harry, hastily: “what are Darrells, Lardners, or Dartfords to me?”
“They are something to me,” said Sir Ulick.
“Oh! I beg pardon, sir—I didn’t know that—that makes it quite another affair.”
“And, Harry, as you are to meet these young men, I thought it well to try how you could bear to be laughed at—I have tried you in this very conversation, and found you, to my infinite satisfaction, ridicule proof—better than even bullet proof—much better. No danger that a young man of spirit should be bullied out of his opinion and principles, but great danger that he might be laughed out of them—and I rejoice, my dear ward, to see that you are safe from this peril.”
Benevolent pleasure shone in Dr. Cambray’s countenance, when he heard Sir Ulick speak in this manner.
“You will dine with us, Dr. Cambray?” said Sir Ulick. “Harry, you will not forget Castle Hermitage?”
“Forget Castle Hermitage! as if I could, where I spent my happy childhood—that paradise, as it seemed to me the first time—when, a poor little orphan boy, I was brought from my smoky cabin. I remember the day as well as if it were this moment—when you took me by the hand, and led me in, and I clung to you.”
“Cling to me still! cling to me ever,” interrupted Sir Ulick, “and I will never fail you—no, never,” repeated he, grasping Harry’s hand, and looking upon him with an emotion of affection, strongly felt, and therefore strongly expressed.
“To be sure I will,” said Harry.
“And I hope,” added Sir Ulick, recovering the gaiety of his tone, “that at Castle Hermitage a paradise will open for your youth as it opened for your childhood.”
Mrs. Cambray put in a word of hope and fear about Vicar’s Dale. To which Ormond answered, “Never fear, Mrs. Cambray—trust me—I know my own interest too well.”
Sir Ulick turning again as he was leaving the room, said with an air of frank liberality, “We’ll settle that at once—we’ll divide Harry between us—or we’ll divide his day thus: the mornings I leave you to your friends and studies for an hour or two Harry, in this Vale of Eden—the rest of the day we must have you—men and books best mixed—see Bacon, and see every clever man that ever wrote or spoke. So here,” added Sir Ulick, pointing to a map of history, which lay on the table, “you will have The Stream of Time, and with us Le Courant du Jour.”
Sir Ulick departed. During the whole of this conversation, and of that of the preceding night, while he seemed to be talking at random of different things, unconnected and of opposite sorts, he had carefully attended to one object. Going round the whole circle of human motives—love, ambition, interest, ease, pleasure, he had made accurate observation on his ward’s mind; and reversing the order, he went round another way, and repeated and corrected his observations. The points he had strongly noted for practical use were, that for retaining influence over his ward, he must depend not upon interested motives of any kind, nor upon the force of authority or precedent, nor yet on the power of ridicule, but principally upon feelings of honour, gratitude, and generosity. Harry now no longer crossed any of his projects, but was become himself the means of carrying many into execution. The plan of a match for Marcus with Miss Annaly was entirely at an end. That young lady had given a decided refusal; and some circumstances, which we cannot here stop to explain, rendered Marcus and his father easy under that disappointment. No jealousy or competition existing, therefore, any longer between his son and ward, Sir Ulick’s affection for Ormond returned in full tide; nor did he reproach himself for having banished Harry from Castle Hermitage, or for having formerly neglected, and almost forgotten him for two or three years. Sir Ulick took the matter up just as easily as he had laid it down—he now looked on Harry not as the youth whom he had deserted, but as the orphan boy whom he had cherished in adversity, and whom he had a consequent right to produce and patronize in prosperity. Beyond, or beneath all this, there was another reason why Sir Ulick took so much pains, and felt so much anxiety, to establish his influence over his ward. This reason cannot yet be mentioned—he had hardly revealed it to himself—it was deep down in his soul—to be or not to be—as circumstances, time, and the hour, should decide.