CHAPTER XIX.
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 apprehensions 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 patronize 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 that 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 every thing with the warmth of youth, and with the enthusiasm of his natural character.
The first evening that “the earthly paradise” of Castle Hermitage re-opened 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 whispering 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 every thing and every body 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.”
“The gentlemen, however—I suppose you have seen the inside of some of them?”
“Certainly—those who have any thing 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 any thing 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 quite the thing, and that he knows more about dishes and cooks than I could have conceived 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 wonderfully 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. Lardner?”
“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, Miss Darrell, who danced, sung, played, rode, did every thing 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 fourth night, Ormond chancing to praise the fine shape of one of her very dear friends, Miss Darrell whispered, “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. Cambray, 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 naïve, 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 any body 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 degree.” 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 honourable Eliza Darrell; and some young lady, who was not 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 any thing was going wrong, broke up the intended set of country dances, by insisting upon it that the Miss Darrells had promised him a quadrille, 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 amiable, but still it was entertaining: there was also something flattering in being exempted from this general reprobation and ridicule. Miss Lardner was intolerant of all insipid people—flats, as she called them. How far Ormond might have been drawn on by this laughing, talking, satirical, flattering wit, there is no saying; but 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 friend. But Ormond thought upon this occasion 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 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 weakness 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 Millicent!—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 downcast 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 for scandal, that common vice of idle society. He determined to guard against it cautiously himself; and ever after, when he saw a disposition to it in any woman, however highly-bred, highly-accomplished, or highly-gifted, he considered her as a person of mean mind, with whom he could never form any connexion 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 preliminary 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 between want of understanding, and want of practice. Besides, he did not see the whole: he saw the outward boyish folly—he did not see the inward manly sense; he judged Ormond by a false standard, by comparison 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 wisdom; he profited dearly, but permanently, by his own experience.
“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 any thing 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 things one must not talk of: and pray, with your own money—if you could—what place upon earth would you purchase?”
“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.”
“Darrell, Dartford, Lardner, 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 any thing 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 all 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 firmness with which his ward, when in company with persons of the first rank and fashion, resisted the combined 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 independent of knowledge of the world. The habit of self-control can be acquired 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 preparing for him; but before we go on to these, it may be expected that we should not pass over in silence the vice-regal 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 hand 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 talked 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 drunk a certain quantity of wine, nothing was said worth repeating, and afterwards nothing repeatable.
After the vice-regal raree show was over, and that the grand folk had been properly bowed into their carriages, and had fairly driven away, there was some diversion to be had. People, without yawning, seemed to recover from a dead sleep; the state of the atmosphere 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 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 kept 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 admiration—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 hearing the conversation of some of those who had distinguished 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?
CHAPTER XX.
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 from party motives, or given half in jest and half 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. Ormond 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 was 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 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—I 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 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 Millicent 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 every thing 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 impossibility 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. At 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 dangerous 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 themselves the criminality of passion, or to mask the deformity 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 was talking of Lord Chesterfield’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 the 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 when 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 nobleman’s son, while his hair was powdering, to the ‘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 woman, 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 recurred at this instant. From the great admiration Sir Ulick expressed for Lady Millicent, and the constant attention—more than gallant—tender attention, which Sir Ulick paid her, Ormond was persuaded that, but for that half of the broken chain of matrimony which 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 careful, 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 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 considerable 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 embarrassed. 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 affectionate 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 Millicent, Dr. Cambray,” Ormond began the introduction; but each bowing, said, in a constrained voice, “I have the honour of knowing—” “I have the pleasure of being acquainted—”
The pleasure 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 conversation 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 every where; in Ireland most especially, where the spirit of conciliation is much wanted. ‘Tis unknown how much a good clergyman may 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.
“Oh, no, I have had a most delightful drive.”
Harry just stayed to say that Dr. Cambray was returned, 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 earnestly 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 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 know on the subject is this,” said Dr. Cambray: “during Lord Millicent’s absence on service, a gentleman of high rank and gallantry paid assiduous attention to Lady Millicent. Her relation 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 discountenanced 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 moment he returned, he informed Sir Ulick of his determination, 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 dissipate 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 recommendation 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, but 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 every thing had been prepared 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.
CHAPTER XXI.
During the course of Ormond’s tour through Ireland, he frequently found himself in company with those who knew the history of public affairs for years past, and were but too well acquainted with the political profligacy and shameful jobbing of Sir Ulick O’Shane.
Some of these gentlemen, knowing Mr. Ormond to be his ward, refrained, of course, from touching upon any subject relative to Sir Ulick; and when Ormond mentioned him, evaded the conversation, or agreed in general terms in praising his abilities, wit, and address. But, after a day or two’s journey from Castle Hermitage, when he was beyond his own and the adjoining counties, when he went into company with those who happened to know nothing of his connexion with Sir Ulick O’Shane, then he heard him spoken of in a very different manner. He was quite astonished and dismayed by the general abuse, as he thought it, which was poured upon him.
“Well, every man of abilities excites envy—every man who takes a part in politics, especially in times when parties run high, must expect to be abused: they must bear it; and their friends must learn to bear it for them.”
Such were the reflections with which Ormond at first comforted himself. As far as party abuse went, this was quite satisfactory; even facts, or what are told as facts, are so altered by the manner of seeing them by an opposite party, that, without meaning to traduce, they calumniate. Ormond entrenched himself in total disbelief, and cool assertion of his disbelief, of a variety of anecdotes he continually heard discreditable to Sir Ulick. Still he expected that, when he went into other company, and met with men of Sir Ulick’s own party, he should obtain proofs of the falsehood of these stories, and by that he might be able, not only to contradict, but to confute them. People, however, only smiled, and told him that he had better inquire no farther, if he expected to find Sir Ulick an immaculate character. Those who liked him best, laughed off the notorious instances of his public defection of principle, and of his private jobbing, as good jokes; proofs of his knowledge of the world—his address, his frankness, his being “not a bit of a hypocrite.” But even those who professed to like him best, and to be the least scrupulous with regard to public virtue, still spoke with a sort of facetious contempt of Sir Ulick, as a thorough-going friend of the powers that be—as a hack of administration—as a man who knew well enough what he was about. Ormond was continually either surprised or hurt by these insinuations. The concurrent testimony of numbers who had no interest to serve, or prejudice to gratify, operated upon him by degrees, so as to enforce conviction, and this was still more painful.
Harry became so sore and irritable upon this subject, that he was now every day in danger of entangling himself in some quarrel in defence of his guardian. Several times the master of the house prevented this, and brought him to reason, by representing that the persons who talked of Sir Ulick were quite ignorant of his connexion with him, and spoke only according to general opinion, and to the best of their belief, of a public character, who was fair game. It was, at that time, much the fashion among a certain set in Dublin, to try their wit upon each other in political and poetical squibs—the more severe and bitter these were, the more they were applauded: the talent for invective was in the highest demand at this period in Ireland; it was considered as the unequivocal proof of intellectual superiority. The display of it was the more admired, as it could not be enjoyed without a double portion of that personal promptitude to give the satisfaction of a gentleman, on which the Irish pride themselves: the taste of the nation, both for oratory and manners, has become of late years so much more refined, that when any of the lampoons of that day are now recollected, people are surprised at the licence of abuse which was then tolerated, and even approved of in fashionable society. Sir Ulick O’Shane, as a well-known public character, had been the subject of a variety of puns, bon-mots, songs, and epigrams, which had become so numerous as to be collected under the title of Ulysseana. Upon the late separation of Sir Ulick and his lady, a new edition, with a caricature frontispiece, had been published; unfortunately for Ormond, this had just worked its way from Dublin to this part of the country.
It happened one day, at a gentleman’s house where this Ulysseana had not yet been seen, that a lady, a visitor and a stranger, full of some of the lines which she had learned by heart, began to repeat them for the amusement of the tea-table. Ladies do not always consider how much mischief they may do by such imprudence; nor how they may hazard valuable lives, for the sake of producing a sensation, by the repetition of a severe thing. Ormond came into the room after dinner, and with some other gentlemen gathered round the tea-table, while the lady was repeating some extracts from the new edition of the Ulysseana. The master and mistress of the house made reiterated attempts to stop the lady; but, too intent upon herself and her second-hand wit to comprehend or take these hints, she went on reciting the following lines:—