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diff --git a/9107-0.txt b/9107-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7b14da6 --- /dev/null +++ b/9107-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,21496 @@ +Project Gutenberg’s Tales And Novels, Volume 9 (of 10), by Maria Edgeworth + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you’ll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + +Title: Tales And Novels, Volume 9 (of 10) + Harrington; Thoughts on Bores; Ormond + +Author: Maria Edgeworth + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9107] +This file was first posted on September 7, 2003 +Last Updated: December 20, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES AND NOVELS, VOLUME 9 (OF 10) *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, William Flis, David Widger +and Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + +TALES AND NOVELS + +VOLUME IX (of X) + +HARRINGTON; THOUGHTS ON BORES; ORMOND + +By Maria Edgeworth + +With Engravings On Steel (Engravings are not included in this edition) + + + +CONTENTS + +TO THE READER. + + + +HARRINGTON. + +CHAPTER I. + +CHAPTER II. + +CHAPTER III. + +CHAPTER IV. + +CHAPTER V. + +CHAPTER VI. + +CHAPTER VII. + +CHAPTER VIII. + +CHAPTER IX. + +CHAPTER X + +CHAPTER XI. + +CHAPTER XII. + +CHAPTER XIII. + +CHAPTER XIV. + +CHAPTER XV. + +CHAPTER XVI. + +CHAPTER XVII. + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +CHAPTER XIX. + + + +THOUGHTS ON BORES. + + + +ORMOND + +CHAPTER I. + +CHAPTER II. + +CHAPTER III. + +CHAPTER IV. + +CHAPTER V. + +CHAPTER VI. + +CHAPTER VII. + +CHAPTER VIII. + +CHAPTER IX. + +CHAPTER X. + +CHAPTER XI. + +CHAPTER XII. + +CHAPTER XIII. + +CHAPTER XIV + +CHAPTER XV. + +CHAPTER XVI. + +CHAPTER XVII. + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +CHAPTER XIX. + +CHAPTER XX. + +CHAPTER XXI. + +CHAPTER XXII. + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +CHAPTER XXV. + +CHAPTER XXVI. + +CHAPTER XXVII. + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + +CHAPTER XXIX. + +CHAPTER XXX. + +CHAPTER XXXI. + +CHAPTER XXXII. + + + +TO THE READER. + +In my seventy-fourth year, I have the satisfaction of seeing another +work of my daughter brought before the public. This was more than I +could have expected from my advanced age and declining health. + +I have been reprehended by some of the public critics for the _notices_ +which I have annexed to my daughter’s works. As I do not know their +reasons for this reprehension, I cannot submit even to their respectable +authority. I trust, however, the British public will sympathize with +what a father feels for a daughter’s literary success, particularly as +this father and daughter have written various works in partnership. + +The natural and happy confidence reposed in me by my daughter puts it in +my power to assure the public that she does not write negligently. I can +assert that twice as many pages were written for these volumes as are +now printed. + +The first of these tales, HARRINGTON, was occasioned by an extremely +well-written letter, which Miss Edgeworth received from America, from +a Jewish lady, complaining of the illiberality with which the Jewish +nation had been treated in some of Miss Edgeworth’s works. + +The second tale, ORMOND, is the story of a young gentleman, who is in +some respects the reverse of Vivian. The moral of this tale does not +immediately appear, for the author has taken peculiar care that it +should not obtrude itself upon the reader. + +Public critics have found several faults with Miss Edgeworth’s former +works--she takes this opportunity of returning them sincere thanks for +the candid and lenient manner in which her errors have been pointed out. +In the present Tales she has probably fallen into many other faults, +but she has endeavoured to avoid those for which she has been justly +reproved. + +And now, indulgent reader, I beg you to pardon this intrusion, and, with +the most grateful acknowledgments, I bid you farewell for ever. + +RICHARD LOVELL EDGEWORTH. + +_Edgeworthstown, May_ 31,1817. + +_Note_--Mr. Edgeworth died a few days after he wrote this Preface--the +13th June, 1817. + + + +HARRINGTON. + + + +CHAPTER I. + +When I was a little boy of about six years old, I was standing with a +maid-servant in the balcony of one of the upper rooms of my father’s +house in London--it was the evening of the first day that I had ever +been in London, and my senses had been excited, and almost exhausted, by +the vast variety of objects that were new to me. It was dusk, and I was +growing sleepy, but my attention was awakened by a fresh wonder. As I +stood peeping between the bars of the balcony, I saw star after star of +light appear in quick succession, at a certain height and distance, and +in a regular line, approaching nearer and nearer. I twitched the skirt +of my maid’s gown repeatedly, but she was talking to some acquaintance +at the window of a neighbouring house, and she did not attend to me. I +pressed my forehead more closely against the bars of the balcony, +and strained my eyes more eagerly towards the object of my curiosity. +Presently the figure of the lamp-lighter with his blazing torch in one +hand, and his ladder in the other, became visible; and, with as much +delight as philosopher ever enjoyed in discovering the cause of a new +and grand phenomenon, I watched his operations. I saw him fix and mount +his ladder with his little black pot swinging from his arm, and his red +smoking torch waving with astonishing velocity, as he ran up and down +the ladder. Just when he reached the ground, being then within a few +yards of our house, his torch flared on the face and figure of an old +man with a long white beard and a dark visage, who, holding a great bag +slung over one shoulder, walked slowly on, repeating in a low, abrupt, +mysterious tone, the cry of “Old clothes! Old clothes! Old clothes!” + I could not understand the words he said, but as he looked up at +our balcony he saw me--smiled--and I remember thinking that he had a +good-natured countenance. The maid nodded to him; he stood still, and at +the same instant she seized upon me, exclaiming, “Time for you to come +off to bed, Master Harrington.” + +I resisted, and, clinging to the rails, began kicking and roaring. + +“If you don’t come quietly this minute, Master Harrington,” said she, +“I’ll call to Simon the Jew there,” pointing to him, “and he shall come +up and carry you away in his great bag.” + +The old man’s eyes were upon me; and to my fancy the look of his +eyes and his whole face had changed in an instant. I was struck with +terror--my hands let go their grasp--and I suffered myself to be carried +off as quietly as my maid could desire. She hurried and huddled me into +bed, bid me go to sleep, and ran down stairs. To sleep I could not go, +but full of fear and curiosity I lay, pondering on the thoughts of Simon +the Jew and his bag, who had come to carry me away in the height of +my joys. His face with the light of the torch upon it appeared and +vanished, and flitted before my eyes. The next morning, when daylight +and courage returned, I asked my maid whether Simon the Jew was a good +or a bad man? Observing the impression that had been made upon my mind, +and foreseeing that the expedient, which she had thus found successful, +might be advantageously repeated, she answered with oracular duplicity, +“Simon the Jew is a good man for naughty boys.” The threat of “Simon the +Jew” was for some time afterwards used upon every occasion to reduce me +to passive obedience; and when by frequent repetition this threat had +lost somewhat of its power, she proceeded to tell me, in a mysterious +tone, stories of Jews who had been known to steal poor children for the +purpose of killing, crucifying, and sacrificing them at their secret +feasts and midnight abominations. The less I understood, the more I +believed. + +Above all others, there was one story--horrible! most horrible!--which +she used to tell at midnight, about a Jew who lived in Paris in a dark +alley, and who professed to sell pork pies; but it was found out at +last that the pies were not pork--they were made of the flesh of little +children. His wife used to stand at the door of her den to watch for +little children, and, as they were passing, would tempt them in with +cakes and sweetmeats. There was a trap-door in the cellar, and the +children were dragged down; and--Oh! how my blood ran cold when we came +to the terrible trap-door. Were there, I asked, such things in London +now? + +Oh, yes! In dark narrow lanes there were Jews now living, and watching +always for such little children as me; I should take care they did not +catch me, whenever I was walking in the streets; and Fowler (that was my +maid’s name) added, “There was no knowing what they might do with me.” + +In our enlightened days, and in the present improved state of education, +it may appear incredible that any nursery-maid could be so wicked as +to relate, or any child of six years old so foolish as to credit, such +tales; but I am speaking of what happened many years ago: nursery-maids +and children, I believe, are very different now from what they were +then; and in further proof of the progress of human knowledge and +reason, we may recollect that many of these very stories of the Jews, +which we now hold too preposterous for the infant and the nursery-maid +to credit, were some centuries ago universally believed by the English +nation, and had furnished more than one of our kings with pretexts for +extortion and massacres. + +But to proceed with my story. The impression made on my imagination by +these horrible tales was greater than my nursery-maid intended. Charmed +by the effect she had produced, she was next afraid that I should bring +her into disgrace with my mother, and she extorted from me a +solemn promise that I would never tell any body the secret she had +communicated. From that moment I became her slave, and her victim. I +shudder when I look back to all I suffered during the eighteen months I +was under her tyranny. Every night, the moment she and the candle left +the room, I lay in an indescribable agony of terror; my head under the +bed-clothes, my knees drawn up, in a cold perspiration. I saw faces +around me grinning, glaring, receding, advancing, all turning at last +into the same face of the Jew with the long beard and the terrible eyes; +and that bag, in which I fancied were mangled limbs of children--it +opened to receive me, or fell upon my bed, and lay heavy on my breast, +so that I could neither stir nor scream; in short, it was one continued +nightmare; there was no refreshing sleep for me till the hour when the +candle returned and my tyrant--my protectress, as I thought her--came to +bed. In due course she suffered in her turn; for I could not long endure +this state, and, instead of submitting passively or lying speechless +with terror, the moment she left the room at night I began to roar and +scream till I brought my mother and half the house up to my bedside. +“What could be the matter with the child?” Faithful to my promise, I +never betrayed the secrets of my prison-house. Nothing could be learned +from me but that “I was frightened,” that “I could not go to sleep;” + and this, indeed, my trembling condition, and convulsed countenance, +sufficiently proved. My mother, who was passionately fond of me, became +alarmed for my health, and ordered that Fowler should stay in the room +with me every night till I should be quite fast asleep. + +So Fowler sat beside my bed every night, singing, caressing, cajoling, +hushing, conjuring me to sleep: and when in about an hour’s time, she +flattered herself that her conjurations had succeeded; when my relaxing +muscles gave her hope that she might withdraw her arm unperceived; and +when slowly and dexterously she had accomplished this, and, watching +my eyelashes, and cautiously shading the candle with her hand, she had +happily gained the door; some slipping of the lock, some creaking of the +hinge, some parting sound startled me, and bounce I was upright in +my bed, my eyes wide open, and my voice ready for a roar: so she was +compelled instantly to return, to replace the candle full in my view, to +sit down close beside the bed, and, with her arm once more thrown over +me, she was forced again to repeat that the Jew’s bag could not come +there, and, cursing me in her heart, she recommenced her deceitful +songs. She was seldom released in less than two hours. In vain she now +tried by day to chase away the terrors of the night: to undo her own +work was beyond her power. In vain she confessed that her threats were +only to frighten me into being a good boy. In vain she told me that I +was too old now to believe such nonsense. In vain she told me that Simon +was only an old-clothes-man, that his cry was only “Old clothes! Old +clothes!” which she mimicked to take off its terror; its terror was in +that power of association which was beyond her skill to dissolve. In +vain she explained to me that his bag held only my old shoes and her +yellow petticoat. In vain she now offered to let me _see with my +own eyes_. My imagination was by this time proof against ocular +demonstration. One morning early, she took me down stairs into the +housekeeper’s room, where Simon and his bag were admitted; she emptied +the bag in my presence, she laughed at my foolish fears, and I pretended +to laugh, but my laugh was hysterical. No power could draw me within +arm’s-length of the bag or the Jew. He smiled and smoothed his features, +and stroked his white beard, and, stooping low, stretched out his +inoffensive hand to me; my maid placed sugared almonds on the palm of +that hand, and bid me approach and eat. No! I stood fixed, and if the +Jew approached, I ran back and hid my head in Fowler’s lap. If she +attempted to pull or push me forwards I screamed, and at length I sent +forth a scream that wakened my mother--her bell rang, and she was told +that it was only Master Harrington, who was afraid of poor Simon, the +old-clothes-man. Summoned to the side of my mother’s bed, I appeared +nearly in hysterics--but still faithful to my promise, I did not betray +my maid;--nothing could be learned from me but that I could not bear the +sight of Old Simon the Jew. My mother blamed Fowler for taking me down +to see such a sort of a person. The equivocating maid replied, that +Master Harrington could not or would not be asy unless she did; and that +indeed now it was impossible to know how to make him asy by day or by +night; that she lost her natural rest with him; and that for her part +she could not pretend to stand it much longer, unless she got her +natural rest. Heaven knows _my_ natural rest was gone! But, besides, +she could not even get her cup of tea in an evening, or stir out for a +mouthful of fresh air, now she was every night to sing Master Harrington +to sleep. + +It was but poetical justice that she who had begun by terrifying me, in +order to get me to bed, and out of her way, should end by being forced +to suffer some restraint to cure me of my terrors: but Fowler did not +understand or relish poetical justice, or any kind of justice: besides, +she had heard that Lady de Brantefield was in want of a nursery-maid +for the little Lady Anne Mowbray, who was some years younger than Master +Harrington, and Fowler humbly represented to my mother that she thought +Master Harrington was really growing too stout and too much of a +man; and she confessed quite above and beyond her management and +comprehension; for she never pretended to any thing but the care of +young children that had not arrived at the years of discretion; this she +understood to be the case with the little Lady Anne Mowbray; therefore a +recommendation to Lady de Brantefield would be very desirable, and, she +hoped, but justice to her. The very desirable recommendation was given +by my mother to Lady de Brantefield, who was her particular friend; +nor was my mother in the least to blame on this occasion, for she truly +thought she was doing nothing but justice; had it been otherwise, those +who know how these things are usually managed, would, I trust, never +think of blaming my mother for a _sort of thing_ which they would do, +and doubtless have done themselves without scruple, for a favourite +maid, who is always a _faithful creature_. + +So Fowler departed, happy, but I remained unhappy--not with her, +departed my fears. After she was gone I made a sort of compromise with +my conscience, and without absolutely breaking my promise, I made a half +confession to my mother that I had somehow or other horrid notions about +Jews; and that it was the terror I had conceived of Simon the Jew +which prevented me from sleeping all night. My mother felt for me, and +considered my case as no laughing matter. + +My mother was a woman of weak health, delicate nerves, and a kind of +morbid sensibility; which I often heard her deplore as a misfortune, but +which I observed every body about her admire as a grace. She lamented +that her dear Harrington, her only son, should so much resemble her in +this exquisite sensibility of the nervous system. But her physician, and +he was a man who certainly knew better than she did, she confessed, +for he was a man who really knew every thing, assured her that this was +indisputably “the genuine temperament of genius.” + +I soon grew vain of my fears. My antipathy, my _natural_, positively +natural antipathy to the sight or bare idea of a Jew, was talked of +by ladies and by gentlemen; it was exhibited to all my mother’s +acquaintance, learned and unlearned; it was a medical, it was a +metaphysical wonder, it was an _idiosyncrasy_, corporeal, or mental, or +both; it was--in short, more nonsense was talked about it than I will +repeat, though I perfectly remember it all; for the importance of which +at this period I became to successive circles of visitors fixed every +circumstance and almost every word indelibly in my memory. It was a +pity that I was not born some years earlier or later, for I should have +flourished a favourite pupil of Mesmer, the animal magnetizer, or +I might at this day be a celebrated somnambulist. No, to do myself +justice, I really had no intention to deceive, at least originally; +but, as it often happens with those who begin by being dupes, I was in +imminent danger of becoming a knave. How I escaped it, I do not well +know. For here, a child scarce seven years old, I saw myself surrounded +by grown-up wise people, who were accounting different ways for that, +of which I alone knew the real, secret, simple cause. They were all, +without my intending it, my dupes. Yet when I felt that I had them in +my power, I did not deceive them much, not much more than I deceived +myself. I never was guilty of deliberate imposture. I went no farther +than affectation and exaggeration, which it was in such circumstances +scarcely possible for me to avoid; for I really often did not know the +difference between my own feelings, and the descriptions I heard given +of what I felt. + +Fortunately for my integrity, my understanding, and my health, people +began to grow tired of seeing and talking of Master Harrington. Some +new wonder came into fashion; I think it was Jedediah Buxton, the man of +prodigious memory, who could multiply in his head nine figures by nine; +and who, the first time he was taken to the playhouse, counted all the +steps of the dancers, and all the words uttered by Garrick in Richard +the Third. After Jedediah Buxton, or about the same time, if I recollect +rightly, came George Psalmanazar, from his Island of Formosa, who, with +his pretended Dictionary of the Pormosan language, and the pounds of +raw beef he devoured per day, excited the admiration and engrossed the +attention of the Royal Society and of every curious and fashionable +company in London: so that poor little I was forgotten, as though I had +never been. My mother and myself were left to settle the affair with my +nerves and the Jews, as we could. Between the effects of real fear, and +the exaggerated expression of it to which I had been encouraged, I was +now seriously ill. It is well known that persons have brought on fits +by pretending to have them; and by yielding to feelings, at first slight +and perfectly within the command of the will, have at last acquired +habits beyond the power of their reason, or of their most strenuous +voluntary exertion, to control. Such was my pitiable case; and at the +moment I was most to be pitied, nobody pitied me. Even my mother, now +she had nobody to talk to about me, grew tired of my illness. She was +advised by her physician, on account of her own health, by no means +to keep so close to the house as she had done of late: she went out +therefore every night to refresh herself at crowded parties; and as soon +as she left the house, the nurse and every body in the family left me. +The servants settled it, in my hearing, that there was nothing in life +the matter with me, that my mother and I were equally vapoursome-ish and +_timersome_, and that there was no use in nursing and pampering of me up +in them fantastical _fancifulnesses_: so the nurse, and lady’s maid, and +housekeeper, went down all together to _their_ tea; and the housemaid, +who was ordered by the housekeeper to stay with me, soon followed, +charging the under housemaid to supply her place; who went off also in +her turn, leaving me in charge of the cook’s daughter, a child of nine +years old, who soon stole out of the room, and scampered away along the +gallery out of the reach of my voice, leaving the room to darkness +and to me--and there I lay, in all the horrors of a low nervous fever, +unpitied and alone. + +Shall I be pardoned for having dwelt so long on this history of the +mental and corporeal ills of my childhood? Such details will probably +appear more trivial to the frivolous and ignorant than to the +philosophic and well informed: not only because the best informed are +usually the most indulgent judges, but because they will perceive some +connexion between these apparently puerile details and subjects of +higher importance. Bacon, and one who in later days has successfully +followed him on this ground, point out as one of the most important +subjects of human inquiry, equally necessary to the science of morals +and of medicine, “The history of the power and influence of the +imagination, not only upon the mind and body of the imaginant, but upon +those of other people.” This history, so much desired and so necessary, +has been but little advanced. One reason for this may be, that both by +the learned and the unlearned it is usually begun at the wrong end. + +“_Belier, mon ami, commences par le commencement_,” is excellent advice; +equally applicable to philosophical history and to fairy tale. We must +be content to begin at the beginning, if we would learn the history of +our own minds; we must condescend to be even as little children, if we +would discover or recollect those small causes which early influence +the imagination, and afterwards become strong habits, prejudices, and +passions. In this point of view, if they might possibly tend to turn +public attention in a new direction to an important subject, my puerile +anecdotes may be permitted. These, my experiments, _solitary and +in concert, touching fear_, and _of and concerning sympathies and +antipathies_, are perhaps as well worth noting for future use, as some +of those by which Sir Kenelm Digby and others astonished their own +generation, and which they bequeathed to ungrateful posterity. + + + +CHAPTER II. + +My mother, who had a great, and perhaps not altogether a mistaken, +opinion, of the sovereign efficacy of the touch of gold in certain +cases, tried it repeatedly on the hand of the physician who attended me, +and who, in consequence of this application, had promised my cure; but +that not speedily taking place, and my mother, naturally impatient, +beginning to doubt his skill, she determined to rely on her own. On Sir +Kenelm Digby’s principle of curing wounds, by anointing the weapon with +which the wound had been inflicted, she resolved to try what could be +done with the Jew, who had been the original cause of my malady, and to +whose malignant influence its continuance might be reasonably ascribed; +accordingly one evening, at the accustomed hour when Simon the +old-clothes-man’s cry was heard coming down the street, I being at that +time seized with my usual fit of nerves, and my mother being at her +toilette crowning herself with roses to go to a ball, she ordered +the man to be summoned into the housekeeper’s room, and, through the +intervention of the housekeeper, the application was made on the Jew’s +hand; and it was finally agreed that the same should be renewed every +twelvemonth, upon condition that he, the said Simon, should never more +be seen or heard under our windows or in our square. My evening attack +of nerves intermitted, as the signal for its coming on, ceased. For +some time I slept quietly: it was but a short interval of peace. Simon, +meanwhile, told his part of the story to his compeers, and the fame of +his annuity ran through street and alley, and spread through the whole +tribe of Israel. The bounty acted directly as an encouragement to ply +the profitable trade, and “Old clothes! Old clothes!” was heard again +punctually under my window; and another and another Jew, each more +hideous than the former, succeeded in the walk. Jews I should not +call them; though such they appeared to be at the time: we afterwards +discovered that they were good Christian beggars, dressed up and daubed, +for the purpose of looking as frightful, and as like the traditionary +representations and vulgar notions of a malicious, revengeful, ominous +looking Shylock as ever whetted his knife. The figures were well got +up; the tone, accent, and action, suited to the parts to be played; the +stage effect perfect, favoured as it was by the distance at which I saw +and wished ever to keep such personages; and as money was given, by my +mother’s orders, to these people to send them away, they came the more. +If I went out with a servant to walk, a Jew followed me; if I went in +the carriage with my mother, a Jew was at the coach-door when I got in, +or when I got out: or if we stopped but five minutes at a shop, while my +mother went in, and I was left alone, a Jew’s head was at the carriage +window, at the side next me; if I moved to the other side, it was at +the other side; if I pulled up the glass, which I never could do fast +enough, the Jew’s head was there opposite to me, fixed as in a frame; +and if I called to the servants to drive it away, I was not much better +off, for at a few paces’ distance the figure would stand with his eyes +fixed upon me; and, as if fascinated, though I hated to look at those +eyes, for the life of me I could not turn mine away. The manner in which +I was thus haunted and pursued wherever I went, seemed to my mother +something “really extraordinary;” to myself, something magical and +supernatural. The systematic roguery of beggars, their combinations, +meetings, signals, disguises, transformations, and all the secret tricks +of their trade of deception, were not at this time, as they have in +modern days, been revealed to public view, and attested by indisputable +evidence. Ignorance is always credulous. Much was then thought +wonderful, nay, almost supernatural, which can now be explained and +accounted for, by asy and very ignoble means. My father--for all this +time, though I have never mentioned him, I had a father living--my +father, being in public life, and much occupied with the affairs of the +nation, had little leisure to attend to his family. A great deal went on +in his house, without his knowing any thing about it. He had heard of +my being ill and well, at different hours of the day; but had left it to +the physicians and my mother to manage me till a certain age: but now +I was nine years old, he said it was time I should be taken out of the +hands of the women; so he inquired more particularly into my history, +and, with mine, he heard the story of Simon and the Jews. My mother +said she was glad my father’s attention was at last awakened to this +extraordinary business. She expatiated eloquently upon the medical, or, +as she might call them, magical effects of sympathies and antipathies: +on the nervous system; but my father was not at all addicted to a belief +in magic, and he laughed at the whole _female_ doctrine, as he called +it, of sympathies and antipathies: so, declaring that they were all +making fools of themselves, and a Miss Molly of his boy, he took the +business up short with a high hand. There was some trick, some roguery +in it. The Jews were all rascals, he knew, and he would soon _settle_ +them. So to work he set with the beadles, and the constables, and the +overseers. The corporation of beggars were not, in those days, so well +grounded in the theory and so alert in the practice of evasion as, by +long experience, they have since become. The society had not then, as +they have now, in a certain lane, their regular rendezvous, called the +_Beggars’ Opera_; they had not then, as they have now, in a certain +cellar, an established school for teaching the art of scolding, kept +by an old woman, herself an adept in the art; they had not even their +regular nocturnal feasts, where they planned the operations of the next +day’s or the next week’s campaign, so that they could not, as they now +do, set at nought the beadle and the parish officers: the system of +signals was not then perfected, and the means of conveying secret and +swift intelligence, by telegraphic science, had not in those days been +practised. The art of begging was then only art without science: +the native genius of knavery unaided by method or discipline. The +consequence was, that the beggars fled before my father’s beadles, +constables, and overseers; and they were dispersed through other +parishes, or led into captivity to roundhouses, or consigned to places +called asylums for the poor and indigent, or lodged in workhouses, or +crammed into houses of industry or penitentiary houses, where, by +my father’s account of the matter, there was little industry and no +penitence, and from whence the delinquents issued, after their seven +days’ captivity, as bad or worse than when they went in. Be that as it +may, the essential point with my father was accomplished: they were got +rid of that season, and before the next season he resolved that I should +be out of the hands of the women, and safe at a public school, which +he considered as a specific for all my complaints, and indeed for every +disease of mind and body incident to childhood. It was the only thing, +he said, to make a man of me. “There was Jack B----, and Thomas D----, +and Dick C----, sons of gentlemen in our county, and young Lord Mowbray +to boot, all at school with Dr. Y----, and what men they were already!” + A respite of a few months was granted, in consideration of my small +stature, and of my mother’s all eloquent tears. Meantime my father took +me more to himself; and, mixed with men, I acquired some manly, or what +were called manly, ideas. My attention was awakened, and led to new +things. I took more exercise and less medicine; and with my health and +strength of body my strength of mind and courage increased. My father +made me ashamed of that nervous sensibility of which I had before been +vain. I was glad that the past should be past and forgotten; yet a +painful reminiscence would come over my mind, whenever I heard or saw +the word _Jew_. About this time I first became fond of reading, and I +never saw the word in any page of any book which I happened to open, +without immediately stopping to read the passage. And here I must +observe, that not only in the old story books, where the Jews are as +sure to be wicked as the bad fairies, or bad genii, or allegorical +personifications of the devils, and the vices in the old emblems, +mysteries, moralities, &c.; but in almost every work of fiction, I found +them represented as hateful beings; nay, even in modern tales of very +late years, since I have come to man’s estate, I have met with books by +authors professing candour and toleration--books written expressly for +the rising generation, called, if I mistake not, Moral Tales for Young +People; and even in these, wherever the Jews are introduced, I find +that they are invariably represented as beings of a mean, avaricious, +unprincipled, treacherous character. Even the peculiarities of their +persons, the errors of their foreign dialect and pronunciation, were +mimicked and caricatured, as if to render them objects of perpetual +derision and detestation. I am far from wishing to insinuate that such +was the serious intention of these authors. I trust they will in +future benefit by these hints. I simply state the effect which similar +representations in the story books I read, when I was a child, produced +on my mind. They certainly acted most powerfully and injuriously, +strengthening the erroneous association of ideas I had accidentally +formed, and confirming my childish prejudice by what I then thought the +indisputable authority of _printed books_. + +About this time also I began to attend to conversation--to the +conversation of gentlemen as well as of ladies; and I listened with a +sort of personal interest and curiosity whenever Jews happened to be +mentioned. I recollect hearing my father talk with horror of some young +gentleman who had been _dealing with the Jews_, I asked what this meant, +and was answered, “‘Tis something very like dealing with the devil, my +dear.” Those who give a child a witty instead of a rational answer, do +not know how dearly they often make the poor child pay for their jest. +My father added, “It is certain, that when a man once goes to the Jews, +he soon goes to the devil. So Harrington, my boy, I charge you at your +peril, whatever else you do, keep out of the hands of the Jews--never go +near the Jews: if once they catch hold of you, there’s an end of you, my +boy.” + +Had the reasons for the prudential part of this charge been given to +me, and had the nature of the disgraceful transactions with the Hebrew +nation been explained, it would have been full as useful to me, and +rather more just to them. But this was little or no concern of my +father’s. With some practical skill in the management of the mind, but +with short-sighted views as to its permanent benefit, and without an +idea of its philosophic moral cultivation, he next undertook to cure me +of the fears which he had contributed to create. He took opportunities +of pointing out how poor, how helpless, how wretched they are; how they +are abused continually, insulted daily, and mocked by the lowest of +servants, or the least of children in our streets; their very name a +by-word of reproach: “He is a Jew--an actual Jew,” being the expression +for avarice, hard-heartedness, and fraud. Of their frauds I was told +innumerable stories. In short, the Jews were represented to me as +the lowest, meanest, vilest of mankind, and a conversion of fear into +contempt was partially effected in my mind; partially, I say, for the +conversion was not complete; the two sentiments existed together, and by +an experienced eye, could easily be detected and seen even one through +the other. + +Now whoever knows any thing of the passions--and who is there who does +not?--must be aware how readily fear and contempt run into the kindred +feeling of hatred. It was about this time, just before I went to school, +that something relative to the famous _Jew Bill_ became the subject +of vehement discussion at my father’s table. My father was not only a +member of parliament, but a man of some consequence with his party. He +had usually been a staunch friend of government; but upon one occasion, +when he first came into parliament, nine or ten years before the time +of which I am now writing, in 1753 or 54, I think, he had voted against +ministry upon this very bill for the Naturalization of the Jews in +England. Government liberally desired that they should be naturalized, +but there was a popular cry against it, and my father on this one +occasion thought the voice of the people was right. After the bill had +been carried half through, it was given up by ministry, the opposition +to it proving so violent. My father was a great stickler for +parliamentary consistency, and moreover he was of an obstinate temper. +Ten years could make no change in his opinions, as he was proud to +declare. There was at this time, during a recess of parliament, some +intention among the London merchants to send addresses to government in +favour of the Jews; and addresses were to be procured from the country. +The county members, and among them of course my father, were written to; +but he was furiously against _the naturalization_: he considered all +who were for it as enemies to England; and, I believe, to religion. He +hastened down to the country to take the sense of his constituents, +or to impress them with his sense of the business. Previously to some +intended county meeting, there were, I remember, various dinners of +constituents at my father’s, and attempts after dinner, over a bottle of +wine, to convince them, that they were, or ought to be, of my father’s +opinion, and that they had better all join him in the toast of “The Jews +are down, and keep ‘em down.” + +A subject apparently less liable to interest a child of my age could +hardly be imagined; but from my peculiar associations it did attract my +attention. I was curious to know what my father and all the gentlemen +were saying about the Jews at these dinners, from which my mother and +the ladies were excluded. I was eager to claim my privilege of marching +into the dining-room after dinner, and taking my stand beside my +father’s elbow; and then I would gradually edge myself on, till I got +possession of half his chair, and established a place for my elbow on +the table. I remember one day sitting for an hour together, turning from +one person to another as each spoke, incapable of comprehending their +arguments, but fully understanding the vehemence of their tones, and +sympathizing in the varying expression of passion; as to the rest, quite +satisfied with making out which speaker was _for_, and which against +the Jews. All those who were against them, I considered as my father’s +friends; all those who were _for_ them, I called by a common misnomer, +or metonymy of the passions, my father’s enemies, because my father was +their enemy. The feeling of party spirit, which is caught by children as +quickly as it is revealed by men, now combined to strengthen still more +and to exasperate my early prepossession. Astonished by the attention +with which I had this day listened to all that seemed so unlikely to +interest a boy of my age, my father, with a smile and a wink, and a +side nod of his head, not meant, I suppose, for me to see, but which +I noticed the more, pointed me out to the company, by whom it was +unanimously agreed, that my attention was a proof of uncommon abilities, +and an early decided taste for public business. Young Lord Mowbray, a +boy two years older than myself, a gawkee schoolboy, was present; and +had, during this long hour after dinner, manifested sundry symptoms of +impatience, and made many vain efforts to get me out of the room. +After cracking his nuts and his nut-shells, and thrice cracking the +cracked--after suppressing the thick-coming yawns that at last could no +longer be suppressed, he had risen, writhed, stretched, and had fairly +taken himself out of the room. And now he just peeped in, to see if he +could tempt me forth to play. + +“No, no,” cried my father, “you’ll not get Harrington, he is too deep +here in politics--but however, Harrington, my dear boy, ‘tis not _the +thing_ for your young companion--go off and play with Mowbray: but stay, +first, since you’ve been one among us so long, what have we been talking +of?” + +“The Jews, to be sure, papa.” + +“Right,” cried my father; “and what about them, my dear?” + +“Whether they ought to be let to live in England, or any where.” + +“Right again, that is right in the main,” cried my father; “though that +is a larger view of the subject than we took.” + +“And what reasons did you hear?” said a gentleman in company. + +“Reasons!” interrupted my father: “oh! sir, to call upon the boy for all +the reasons he has heard--But you’ll not pose him: speak up, speak up, +Harrington, my boy!” + +“I’ve nothing to say about reasons, sir.” + +“No! that was not a fair question,” said my father; “but, my boy, you +know on which side you are, don’t you?” + +“To be sure--on your side, father.” + +“That’s right--bravo! To know on which side one is, is one great point +in life.” + +“And I can tell on which side every one here is.” Then going round +the table, I touched the shoulder of each of the company, saying, “A +Jew!--No Jew!” and bursts of applause ensued. + +When I came to my father again, he caught me in his arms, kissed me, +patted my head, clapped me on the back, poured out a bumper of wine, +bid me drink his toast, “No Naturalization Bill!--No Jews!” and while I +blundered out the toast, and tossed off the bumper, my father pronounced +me a clever fellow, “a spirited little devil, who, if I did but live to +be a man, would be, he’d engage, an honour to my country, my family, and +my _party_.” + +Exalted, not to say intoxicated, by my father’s praise, when I went to +the drawing-room to the ladies, I became rather more eloquent and noisy +than my mother thought quite becoming; she could not, indeed, forbear +smiling furtively at my wit, when, in answer to some simple country +lady’s question of “After all, why should not the Jews be naturalized?” + I, with all the pertness of ignorance, replied, “Why, ma’am, because the +Jews are naturally an unnatural pack of people, and you can’t naturalize +what’s naturally unnatural.” + +Kisses and cake in abundance followed--but when the company was gone, my +mamma thought it her duty to say a few words to me upon politeness, and +a few words to my father upon the _too much_ wine he had given me. The +reproach to my father, being just, he could not endure; but instead of +admitting the truth, he vowed, by Jupiter Ammon, that his boy should +never be made a Miss Molly, and to school I should go, by Jupiter Ammon, +next morning, plump. + +Now it was well known in our house, that a sentence of my father’s +beginning and ending “_by Jupiter Ammon_” admitted of no reply from +any mortal--it was the stamp of fate; no hope of any reversion of the +decree: it seemed to bind even him who uttered the oath beyond his own +power of revocation. My mother was convinced that even her intercession +was vain; so she withdrew, weeping, to the female apartments, where, +surrounded by her maids, the decree of fate was reported, but not +verbatim, after the manner of the gods and goddesses. The maids and the +washerwoman, however, scolded one another very much after their manner, +in a council held at midnight, about my clothes; the result of the whole +was that “they must be found and packed;” and found and packed at last +they were; and the next morning, as decreed, early as Aurora streaked +the east, to school I went, very little thinking of her rosy-tipped +fingers. + + + +CHAPTER III. + +My life at school was like that of any other school-boy. I shall not +record, even if I could remember, how often I was flogged when I did +not deserve it, or how often I escaped when I did. Five years of my life +passed away, of which I have nothing to relate but that I learned to +whip a top, and to play at ball and marbles, each in their season; that +I acquired in due course the usual quantity of Greek and Latin; and +perpetrated in my time, I presume, the usual quantity of mischief. But +in the fourth year of my schoolboy life, an opportunity for unusual +mischief occurred. An accident happened, which, however trifling in +itself, can never be effaced from my memory. Every particular connected +with it, is indeed as fresh in my recollection as it was the day +after it happened. It was a circumstance which awakened long dormant +associations, and combined them with all the feelings and principles of +party spirit, which had first been inculcated by my father at home, and +which had been exercised so well and so continually by my companions at +school, as to have become the governing power of my mind. + +Schoolboys, as well as men, can find or make a party question, and +quarrel out of any thing or out of nothing. There was a Scotch pedlar, +who used to come every Thursday evening to our school to supply our +various wants and fancies. The Scotch pedlar died, and two candidates +offered to supply his place, an English lad of the name of Dutton, and +a Jew boy of the name of Jacob. Dutton was son to a man who had lived as +butler in Mowbray’s family. Lord Mowbray knew the boy to be a rogue, +but thought he was attached to the Mowbrays, and at all events was +determined to support him, as being somehow supposed to be connected +with his family. Reminding me of my early declaration at my father’s +table against the naturalization of the Jews, and the _bon-mot_ I had +made, and the toast I had drunk, and the pledge I had given, Mowbray +easily engaged me to join him against the Jew boy; and a zealous +partisan against Jacob I became, canvassing as if my life had depended +upon this point. But in spite of all our zeal, noise, violence, and +cabal, it was the least and the most simple child in the school who +decided the election. This youngster had in secret offered to exchange +a silver pencil-case for a top, or something of such inadequate value: +Jacob, instead of taking advantage of the child, explained to him that +his pencil-case was worth twenty tops. On the day of election, this +little boy, mounted upon the top of a step-ladder, appeared over the +heads of the crowd, and in a small clear voice, and with an eagerness +which fixed attention, related the history of his pencil-case, and ended +by hoping with all his heart that his friend Jacob, his honest Jacob, +might be chosen. Jacob was elected. Mowbray and I, and all our party, +vexed and mortified, became the more inveterate in our aversion to the +successful candidate; and from this moment we determined to plague and +persecute him, till we should force him to _give up_. Every Thursday +evening, the moment he appeared in the school-room, or on the +play-ground, our party commenced the attack upon “the Wandering Jew,” + as we called this poor pedlar; and with every opprobrious nickname, and +every practical jest, that mischievous and incensed schoolboy zealots +could devise, we persecuted and tortured him body and mind. We twanged +at once a hundred Jew’s-harps in his ear, and before his eyes we paraded +the effigy of a Jew, dressed in a gabardine of rags and paper. In the +passages through which he was to pass, we set stumbling-blocks in his +way, we threw orange-peel in his path, and when he slipped or fell, we +laughed him to scorn, and we triumphed over him the more, the more he +was hurt, or the more his goods were injured. “We laughed at his losses, +mocked at his gains, scorned his nation, thwarted his bargains, cooled +his friends, heated his enemies--and what was our reason? he was a Jew.” + +But he was as unlike to Shylock as it is possible to conceive. Without +one thought or look of malice or revenge, he stood before us Thursday +after Thursday, enduring all that our barbarity was pleased to inflict; +he stood patient and long-suffering, and even of this patience and +resignation we made a jest, and a subject of fresh reproach and taunt. + +How I, who was not in other cases a cruel or an ill-natured boy, could +be so inhuman to this poor, unprotected, unoffending creature I cannot +conceive; but such in man or boy is the nature of persecution. At +the time it all appeared to me quite natural and proper; a just and +necessary war. The blame, if blame there were, was divided among so +many, that the share of each, my share at least, appeared to me so +small, as not to be worth a moment’s consideration. The shame, if we had +any, was carried away in the tide of popular enthusiasm, and drowned +and lost in the fury and noise of the torrent. In looking back upon this +disgraceful scene of our boyish days--boyish indeed I can scarcely call +them, for I was almost, and Mowbray in his own opinion was quite, a +man--I say, in looking back upon this time, I have but one comfort. But +I have _one_, and I will make the most of it: I think I should never +have done so _much_ wrong, had it not been for Mowbray. We were both +horribly to blame; but though I was full as wrong in action, I flatter +myself that I was wrong upon better or upon less bad motives. My +aversion to the Jew, if more absurd and violent, was less interested and +malignant than Mowbray’s. I never could stand as he did to parley, and +barter, and chaffer with him--if I had occasion to buy any thing, I was +high and haughty, and at a word; he named his price, I questioned not, +not I--down was thrown my money, my back was turned--and away! As for +stooping to coax him as Mowbray would, when he had a point to gain, I +could not have done it. To ask Jacob to lend me money, to beg him to +give me more time to pay a debt, to cajole and bully him by turns, to +call him alternately usurer and _my honest fellow_, extortioner and +_my friend Jacob_--my tongue could not have uttered the words, my soul +detested the thought; yet all this, and more, could Mowbray do, and did. + +Lord Mowbray was deeply in Jacob’s debt, especially for two watches +which he had taken upon trial, and which he had kept three months, +making, every Thursday, some fresh excuse for not paying for them; at +last Jacob said that he must have the money, that his employer could +wait no longer, and that he should himself be thrown into prison. +Mowbray said this was only a trick to work upon his compassion, and that +the Jew might very well wait for his money, because he asked twice as +much for the watches as they were worth. Jacob offered to leave the +price to be named by any creditable watchmaker. Lord Mowbray swore +that he was as good a judge as any watchmaker in Christendom. Without +pretending to dispute that point, Jacob finished by declaring, that his +distress was so urgent that he must appeal to some of the masters. “You +little Jewish tell-tale, what do you mean by that pitiful threat? Appeal +to the higher powers if you dare, and I’ll make you repent it, you +usurer! Only do, if you dare!” cried he, clenching his hand and opening +it, so as to present, successively, the two ideas of a box on the +ear, and a blow on the stomach. “That was logic and eloquence,” added +Mowbray, turning to me. “Some ancient philosopher, _you_ know, or _I_ +know, has compared logic to the closed fist, and eloquence to the open +palm. See what it is, Harrington, to make good use of one’s learning.” + +This was all very clever, at least our party thought so, and at the +moment I applauded with the rest, though in my secret soul I thought +Jacob was ill used, and that he ought to have had justice, if he had +not been a Jew. His fear of a prison proved to be no pretence, for it +surmounted his dread of Mowbray’s logic and eloquence, and of all the +unpopularity which he was well aware must be the consequence of his +applying to the higher powers. Jacob appealed, and Lord Mowbray was +summoned to appear before the head master, and to answer to the charge. +It was proved that the price set upon the two watches was perfectly +fair, as a watchmaker, who was examined on this point, declared. The +watches had been so damaged during the two months they had been in +his lordship’s possession, that Jacob declined taking them back. Lord +Mowbray protested that they were good for nothing when he first had +them. + +Then why did he not return them after the first week’s trial, when +Jacob had requested either to have them back or to be paid for them? His +lordship had then, as half a dozen of the boys on the Jew’s side were +ready to testify, refused to return the watches, declaring they went +very well, and that he would keep them as long as he pleased, and pay +for them when he pleased, and no sooner. + +This plain tale put down the Lord Mowbray. His wit and his party now +availed him not; he was publicly reprimanded, and sentenced to pay Jacob +for the watches in a week, or to be expelled from the school. Mowbray +would have desired no better than to leave the school, but he knew that +his mother would never consent to this. + +His mother, the Countess de Brantefield, was a Countess in her own +right, and had an estate in her own power;--his father, a simple +commoner, was dead, his mother was his sole guardian. + +“That mother of mine,” said he to us, “would not hear of her son’s being +_turned out_--so I must set my head to work against the head of the head +master, who is at this present moment inditing a letter to her ladyship, +beginning, no doubt, with, ‘_I am sorry to be obliged to take up my +pen_,’ or, ‘_I am concerned to be under the necessity of sitting down to +inform your ladyship_.’ Now I must make haste and inform my lady mother +of the truth with my own pen, which luckily is the pen of a ready +writer. You will see,” continued he, “how cleverly I will get myself out +of the scrape with her. I know how to touch her up. There’s a folio, at +home, of old Manuscript Memoirs of the De Brantefield family, since the +time of the flood, I believe: it’s the only book my dear mother ever +looks into; and she has often made me read it to her, till--no offence +to my long line of ancestry--I cursed it and them; but now I bless it +and them for supplying my happy memory with a case in point, that +will just hit my mother’s fancy, and, of course, obtain judgment in my +favour. A case, in the reign of Richard the Second, between a Jew and my +great, great, great, six times great grandfather, whom it is sufficient +to name to have all the blood of all the De Brantefields up in arms for +me against all the Jews that ever were born. So my little Jacob, I have +you.” + +Mowbray, accordingly, wrote to his mother what he called a +_chef-d’oeuvre_ of a letter, and next post came an answer from Lady de +Brantefield with the money to pay her son’s debt, and, as desired and +expected, a strong reproof to her son for his folly in ever dealing with +a Jew. How could he possibly expect not to be cheated, as, by his +own confession, it appeared he had been, grossly? It was the more +extraordinary, since he so well recollected the ever to be lamented case +of Sir Josseline de Brantefield, that her son could, with all his family +experience, be, at this time of day, a dupe to one of a race branded +by the public History of England, and private Memoirs of the De +Brantefields, to all eternity! + +Mowbray showed this letter in triumph to all his party. It answered the +double purpose of justifying his own bad opinion of the tribe of Israel, +and of tormenting Jacob. + +The next Thursday evening after that on which judgment had been given +against Mowbray, when Jacob appeared in the school-room, the anti-Jewish +party gathered round him, according to the instructions of their leader, +who promised to show them some good sport at the Jew’s expense. + +“Only give me fair play,” said Mowbray, “and stick close, and don’t +let him off, for your lives don’t let him break through you, till I’ve +_roasted_ him well.” + +“There’s your money,” cried Mowbray, throwing down the money for the +watches--“take it--ay, count it--every penny right--I’ve paid you by the +day appointed; and, thank Heaven and my friends, the pound of flesh next +my heart is safe from your knife, Shylock!” + +Jacob made no reply, but he looked as if he felt much. + +“Now tell me, honest Jacob,” pursued Mowbray, “honest Jacob, patient +Jacob, tell me, upon your honour, if you know what that word means--upon +your conscience, if you ever heard of any such thing--don’t you think +yourself a most pitiful dog, to persist in coming here to be made game +of for twopence? ‘Tis wonderful how much your thoroughbred Jew will +do and suffer for gain. We poor good Christians could never do as much +now--could we any soul of us, think you, Jacob?” + +“Yes,” replied Jacob, “I think you _could_, I think you _would.”_ + +Loud scornful laughter from our party interrupted him; he waited calmly +till it was over, and then continued, “Every soul of you good Christians +would, I think, do as much for a father, if he were in want and dying, +as mine is.” There was a silence for the moment: we were all, I believe, +struck, or touched, except Mowbray, who, unembarrassed by feeling, went +on with the same levity of tone as before: “A father in want! Are you +sure now he is not a father of straw, Jacob, set up for the nonce, to +move the compassion of the generous public? Well, I’ve little faith, but +I’ve some charity--here’s a halfpenny for your father, to begin with.” + +“Whilst I live, my father shall ask no charity, I hope,” said the son, +retreating from the insulting alms which Mowbray still proffered. + +“Why now, Jacob, that’s bad acting, out o’ character, Jacob, my Jew; +for when did any son of Israel, any one of your tribe, or your twelve +tribes, despise a farthing they could get honestly or dishonestly? Now +this is a halfpenny--a good halfpenny. Come, Jacob, take it--don’t be +too proud--pocket the affront--consider it’s for your father, not for +yourself--you said you’d do much for your father, Jacob.” + +Jacob’s countenance continued rigidly calm, except some little +convulsive twitches about the mouth. + +“Spare him, Mowbray,” whispered I, pulling back Mowbray’s arm; “Jew as +he is, you see he has some feeling about his father.” + +“Jew as he is, and fool as you are, Harrington,” replied Mowbray, aloud, +“do you really believe that this hypocrite cares about his father, +supposing he has one? Do _you_ believe, boys, that a Jew pedlar _can_ +love a father gratis, as we do?” + +“As we do!” repeated some of the boys: “Oh! no, for his father can’t be +as good as ours--he is a Jew!” + +“Jacob, is your father good to you?” said one of the little boys. + +“He is a good father, sir--cannot be a better father, sir,” answered +Jacob: the tears started into his eyes, but he got rid of them in an +instant, before Mowbray saw them, I suppose, for he went on in the same +insulting tone. + +“What’s that he says? Does he say he has a good father? If he’d swear +it, I would not believe him--a good father is too great a blessing for a +Jew.” + +“Oh! for shame, Mowbray!” said I. And “For shame! for shame, Mowbray!” + echoed from the opposite, or, as Mowbray called it, from the Jewish +party: they had by this time gathered in a circle at the outside of that +which we had made round Jacob, and many had brought benches, and were +mounted upon them, looking over our heads to see what was going on. + +Jacob was now putting the key in his box, which he had set down in the +middle of the circle, and was preparing to open it. + +“Stay, stay, honest Jacob! tell us something more about this fine +father; for example, what’s his name, and what is he?” “I cannot tell +you what he is, sir,” replied Jacob, changing colour, “nor can I tell +you his name.” + +“Cannot tell me the name of his own father! a precious fellow! Didn’t +I tell you ‘twas a sham father? So now for the roasting I owe you, Mr. +Jew.” There was a large fire in the school-room; Mowbray, by a concerted +movement between him and his friends, shoved the Jew close to the fire, +and barricadoed him up, so that he could not escape, bidding him speak +when he was too hot, and confess the truth. + +Jacob was resolutely silent; he would not tell his father’s name. He +stood it, till I could stand it no longer, and I insisted upon Mowbray’s +letting him off. + +“I could not use a dog so,” said I. + +“A dog, no! nor I; but this is a Jew.” + +“A fellow-creature,” said I. + +“A fine discovery! And pray, Harrington, what has made you so +tender-hearted all of a sudden for the Jews?” + +“Your being so hard-hearted, Mowbray,” said I: “when you persecute and +torture this poor fellow, how can I help speaking?” + +“And pray, sir,” said Mowbray, “on _which_ side are you speaking?” + +“On the side of humanity,” said I. + +“Fudge! On _whose_ side are you?” + +“On yours, Mowbray, if you won’t be a tyrant.” + +“_If!_ If you have a mind to rat, rat _sans phrase_, and run over to the +Jewish side. I always thought you were a Jew at heart, Harrington.” + +“No more a Jew than yourself, Mowbray, nor so much,” said I, standing +firm, and raising my voice, so that I could be heard by all. + +“No more a Jew than myself! pray how do you make that out?” + +“By being more of a Christian--by sticking more to the maxim ‘Do as you +would be done by.’” + +“That is a good maxim,” said Jacob: a cheer from all sides supported me, +as I advanced to liberate the Jew; but Mowbray, preventing me, +leaped upon Jacob’s box, and standing with his legs stretched out, +Colossus-like, “Might makes right,” said he, “all the world over. You’re +a mighty fine preacher, Master Harrington; let’s see if you can preach +me down.” + +“Let’s see if I can’t _pull_ you down!” cried I, springing forward: +indignation giving me strength, I seized, and with one jerk pulled the +Colossus forward and swung him to the ground. + +“Well done, Harrington!” resounded from all sides. Mowbray, the instant +he recovered his feet, flew at me, furious for vengeance, dealing his +blows with desperate celerity. He was far my overmatch in strength and +size; but I stood up to him. Between the blows, I heard Jacob’s voice +in tones of supplication. When I had breath I called out to him, “Jacob! +Escape!” And I heard the words, “Jacob! Jacob! Escape!” repeated near +me. + +But, instead of escaping, he stood stock still, reiterating his prayer +to be heard: at last he rushed between us--we paused--both parties +called to us, insisting that we should hear what the Jew had to say. + +“Young Lord--,” said he, “and _dear_ young gentleman,” turning to me, +“let poor Jacob be no more cause now, or ever, of quarrel between you. +He shall trouble you never more. This is the last day, the last minute +he will ever trouble you.” + +He bowed. Looking round to all, twice to the upper circle, where his +friends stood, he added, “Much obliged--for all kindness--grateful. +Blessings!--Blessings on all!--and may--” + +He could say no more; but hastily taking up his box, he retired through +the opening crowd. The door closed after him. Both parties stood silent +for a moment, till Mowbray exclaimed, “Huzza! Dutton for ever! We’ve won +the day. Dutton for Thursday! Huzza! Huzza! Adieu! Adieu!--_Wandering +Jew!_” + +No one echoed his adieu or his huzzas. I never saw man or boy look more +vexed and mortified. All further combat between us ceased, the boys one +and all taking my part and insisting upon peace. The next day Mowbray +offered to lay any wager that Jacob the Jew would appear again on the +ensuing Thursday; and that he would tell his father’s name, or at least +come provided, as Mowbray stated it, with a name for his father. These +wagers were taken up, and bets ran high on the subject. Thursday was +anxiously expected--Thursday arrived, but no Jacob. The next Thursday +came--another, and another--and no Jacob! + +When it was certain that poor Jacob would appear no more--and when +his motive for resigning, and his words at taking leave were +recollected--and when it became evident that his balls, and his tops, +and his marbles, and his knives, had always been better and _more +reasonable_ than Dutton’s, the tide of popularity ran high in his +favour. _Poor Jacob_ was loudly regretted; and as long as schoolboys +could continue to think about the same thing, we continued conjecturing +why it was that Jacob would not tell us his father’s name. We made many +attempts to trace him, and to discover his secret; but all our inquiries +proved ineffectual: we could hear no more of Jacob, and our curiosity +died away. + +Mowbray, who was two or three years my senior, left school soon +afterwards. We did not meet at the university; he went to Oxford, and I +to Cambridge. + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +When the mind is full of any one subject, that subject seems to recur +with extraordinary frequency--it appears to pursue or to meet us at +every turn: in every conversation that we hear, in every book we open, +in every newspaper we take up, the reigning idea recurs; and then we are +surprised, and exclaim at these wonderful coincidences. Probably such +happen every day, but pass unobserved when the mind is not intent upon +similar ideas, or excited by any strong analogous feeling. + +When the learned Sir Thomas Browne was writing his Essay on the Gardens +of Cyrus, his imagination was so possessed by the idea of a quincunx, +that he is said to have seen a quincunx in every object in nature. +In the same manner, after a Jew had once made an impression on my +imagination, a Jew appeared wherever I went. + +As I was on my road to Cambridge, travelling in a stagecoach, whilst we +were slowly going up a steep hill, I looked out of the window, and saw +a man sitting under a hawthorn-bush, reading very intently. There was +a pedlar’s box beside him; I thought I knew the box. I called out as we +were passing, and asked the man, “What’s the mile-stone?” He looked +up. It was poor Jacob. The beams of the morning sun dazzled him; but he +recognized me immediately, as I saw by the look of joy which instantly +spread over his countenance. I jumped out of the carriage, saying that I +would walk up the hill, and Jacob, putting his book in his pocket, took +up his well-known box, and walked along with me. I began, not by asking +any question about his father, though curiosity was not quite dead +within me, but by observing that he was grown very studious since we +parted; and I asked what book he had been reading so intently. He showed +it to me; but I could make nothing of it, for it was German. He told me +that it was the Life of the celebrated Mendelssohn, the Jew. I had never +heard of this celebrated man. He said that if I had any curiosity about +it, he could lend me a translation which he had in his pack; and with +all the alacrity of good-will, he set down the box to look for the book. + +“No, don’t trouble yourself--don’t open it,” said I, putting my hand on +the box. Instantly a smile, and a sigh, and a look of ineffable kindness +and gratitude from Jacob, showed me that all the past rushed upon his +heart. + +“Not trouble myself! Oh, Master Harrington,” said he, “poor Jacob is not +so ungrateful as that would come to.” + +“You’re only too grateful,” said I; “but walk on--keep up with me, and +tell me how your affairs are going on in the world, for I am much +more interested about them than about the life of the celebrated +Mendelssohn.” + +Is that possible! said his looks of genuine surprised simplicity. +He thanked me, and told me that he was much better in the world than +formerly; that a good friend of his, a London jeweller of his own +tribe, who had employed him as a pedlar, and had been satisfied with his +conduct, had assisted him through his difficulties. This was the last +time he should go his rounds in England as a pedlar; he said he was +going into another and a much better way of business. His friend, the +London jeweller, had recommended him to his brother, a rich Israelite, +who had a valuable store in Gibraltar, and who wanted a young man to +assist him, on whom he could entirely depend. Jacob was going out to +Gibraltar in the course of the next week. “And now, Mr. Harrington,” + said he, changing his tone and speaking with effort, as if he were +conquering some inward feeling, “now it is all over, Mr. Harrington, and +that I am leaving England, and perhaps may never see you again; I wish +before I take leave of you, to tell you, sir, who my father was--_was_, +for he is no more. I did not make a mystery of his name merely to excite +curiosity, as some of the young gentlemen thought, nor because I was +ashamed of my low birth. My father was Simon the old clothes-man. I knew +you would start, Mr. Harrington, at hearing his name. I knew all that +you suffered in your childhood about him, and I once heard you say to +Lord Mowbray who was taunting you with something about _old Simon_, that +you would not have that known, upon any account, to your school-fellows, +for that they would plague you for ever. From that moment I was +determined that _I_ would never be the cause of recalling or publishing +what would be so disagreeable to you. This was the reason why I +persisted in refusing to tell my father’s name, when Lord Mowbray +pressed me so to declare it before all your school-fellows. And now, +I hope,” concluded he, “that Mr. Harrington will not hate poor Jacob, +though he is the son of--” + +He paused. I assured him of my regard: I assured him that I had long +since got rid of all the foolish prejudices of my childhood. I thanked +him for the kindness and generosity he had shown in bearing Mowbray’s +persecution for my sake, and in giving up his own situation, rather than +say or do what might have exposed me to ridicule. + +Thanking me again for taking, as he said, such a kind interest in the +concerns of a poor Jew like him, he added, with tears in his eyes, that +he wished he might some time see me again: that he should to the +last day of his life remember me, and should pray for my health and +happiness, and that he was sorry he had no way of showing me his +gratitude. Again he recurred to his box, and would open it to show me +the translation of Mendelssohn’s Life; or, if that did not interest me, +he begged of me to take my choice from among a few books he had with +him; perhaps one of them might amuse me on my journey, for he knew I was +a _reading young gentleman_. + +I could not refuse him. As he opened the packet of books, I saw one +directed to Mr. Israel Lyons, Cambridge. I told Jacob that I was going +to Cambridge. He said he should be there in a few days, for that he took +Cambridge in his road; and he rejoiced that he should see me again. I +gave him a direction to my college, and for his gratification, in truth, +more than for my own, I borrowed the magazine containing the life of +Mendelssohn, which he was so anxious to lend me. We had now reached the +coach at the top of the hill; I got in, and saw Jacob trudging after me +for some time; but, at the first turn of the road, I lost sight of him, +and then, as my two companions in the coach were not very entertaining, +one of them, a great fat man, being fast asleep and snoring, the other, +a pale spare woman, being very sick and very cross, I betook myself to +my magazine. I soon perceived why the life of Mendelssohn had so deeply +interested poor Jacob. Mendelssohn was a Jew, born like himself in +abject poverty, but, by perseverance, he made his way through incredible +difficulties to the highest literary reputation among the most eminent +men of his country and of his age; and obtained the name of the +Jewish Socrates. In consequence of his early, intense, and misapplied +application in his first Jewish school, he was seized at ten years old +with some dreadful nervous disease; this interested me, and I went on +with his history. Of his life I should probably have remembered nothing, +except what related to the nervous disorder; but it so happened, that, +soon after I had read this life, I had occasion to speak of it, and +it was of considerable advantage in introducing me to good company +at Cambridge. A few days after I arrived there, Jacob called on me: I +returned his book, assuring him that it had interested me very much. +“Then, sir,” said he, “since you are so fond of learning and learned +men, and so kind to the Jews, there is a countryman of mine now at +Cambridge, whom it will be well worth your while to be acquainted with; +and who, if I may be bold enough to say so, has been prepossessed in +your favour, by hearing of your humanity to poor Jacob.” + +Touched as I was by his eagerness to be of use to me, I could not help +smiling at Jacob’s simplicity and enthusiasm, when he proceeded to +explain, that this person with whom he was so anxious to make me +acquainted was a learned rabbi, who at this time taught Hebrew to +several of the gownsmen of Cambridge. He was the son of a Polish Jew, +who had written a Hebrew grammar, and was himself author of a treatise +on fluxions (since presented to, and accepted by the university), and +moreover the author of a celebrated work on botany. At the moment Jacob +was speaking, certainly my fancy was bent on a phaeton and horses, +rather than on Hebrew or fluxions, and the contrast was striking, +between what he conceived my first objects at Cambridge would be, and +what they really were. However, I thanked him for his good opinion, and +promised to make myself acquainted with his learned countryman. To make +the matter secure, as Jacob was to leave Cambridge the next day, and as +the rabbi was at the house of one of his scholars in the country, and +was not to return to Cambridge till the ensuing week, Jacob left with me +a letter for him, and the very parcel which I had seen directed to +Mr. Israel Lyons: these I engaged to deliver with my own hands. Jacob +departed satisfied--happy in the hope that he had done me a service; and +so in fact it proved. Every father, and every son, who has been at the +university, knows how much depends upon the college companions with whom +a young man first associates. There are usually two sets: if he should +join the dissipated set, it is all over with him, he learns nothing; but +if he should get into the set with whom science and literature are in +fashion, he acquires knowledge, and a taste for knowledge; with all +the ardour inspired by sympathy and emulation, with all the facility +afforded by public libraries and public lectures--the collected and +combined information of the living and the dead--he pursues his studies. +He then fully enjoys the peculiar benefits of a university education, +the union of many minds intent upon the same object, working, with +all the advantages of the scientific division of labour, in a literary +manufactory. + +When I went to deliver my packet to Mr. Lyons, I was surprised by seeing +in him a man as different as possible from my preconceived notion of a +Jewish rabbi; I never should have guessed him to be either a rabbi, or +a Jew. I expected to have seen a man nearly as old as Methuselah, with +a reverend beard, dirty and shabby, and with a blue pocket handkerchief. +Instead of which I saw a gay looking man, of middle age, with quick +sparkling black eyes, and altogether a person of modern appearance, +both in dress and address. I thought I must have made a mistake, and +presented my packet with some hesitation, reading aloud the direction to +Mr. Israel Lyons--“I am the man, sir,” said he; “our honest friend +Jacob has described you so well, Mr. Harrington--_Mr. William Harrington +Harrington_ (you perceive that I am well informed)--that I feel as if +I had had the pleasure of being acquainted with you for some time. I am +very much obliged by this visit; I should have done myself the honour +to wait upon you, but I returned only yesterday from the country, and +my necessary engagements do not leave as much time for my pleasures as I +could wish.” + +I perceived by the tone of his address, that, though he was a Hebrew +teacher, he was proud of showing himself to be a man of the world. I +found him in the midst of his Hebrew scholars, and moreover with some +of the best mathematicians, and some of the first literary men in +Cambridge. I was awe-struck, and should have been utterly at a loss, +had it not been for a print of Mendelssohn over the chimney-piece, which +recalled to my mind the life of this great man; by the help of that I +had happily some ideas in common with the learned Jew, and we; entered +immediately into conversation, much to our mutual relief and delight. +Dr. Johnson, in one of his letters, speaking of a first visit from a +young gentleman who had been recommended to his acquaintance, says, +that “the initiatory conversation of two strangers is seldom pleasing +or instructive;” but I am sure that I was both pleased and instructed +during this initiatory conversation, and Mr. Lyons did not appear to be +oppressed or encumbered by my visit. I found by his conversation, that +though he was the son of a great Hebrew grammarian, and himself a great +Hebrew scholar, and though he had written a treatise on fluxions, and a +work on botany, yet he was not a mere mathematician, a mere grammarian, +or a mere botanist, nor yet a dull pedant. In despite of the assertion, +that + + “----Hebrew roots are always found + To flourish best on barren ground,” + +this Hebrew scholar was a man of a remarkably fertile genius. This visit +determined my course, and decided me as to the society which I kept +during the three happy and profitable years I afterwards spent at +Cambridge. + +Mr. Israel Lyons is now no more. I hope it is no disrespect to his +memory to say that he had his foibles. It was no secret among our +contemporaries at Cambridge that he was like too many other men +of genius, a little deficient in economy--shall I say it? a little +extravagant. The difficulties into which he brought himself by his +improvidence were, however, always to him matters of jest and raillery; +and often, indeed, proved subjects of triumph, for he was sure to +extricate himself, by some of his many talents, or by some of his many +friends. + +I should be very sorry, however, to support the dangerous doctrine, that +men of genius are privileged to have certain faults. I record with quite +a different intention these _facts_, to mark the effect of circumstances +in changing my own prepossessions. + +The faults of Israel Lyons were not of that species which I expected to +find in a Jew. Perhaps he was aware that the Hebrew nation is in general +supposed to be too _careful_, and he might, therefore, be a little +vain of his own carelessness about money matters. Be this as it may, +I confess that, at the time, I rather liked him the better for it. His +disregard, on all occasions, of pecuniary interest, gave me a conviction +of his liberal spirit. I was never fond of money, or remarkably careful +of it myself; but I always kept out of debt; and my father gave me such +a liberal allowance, that I had it in my power to assist a friend. Mr. +Lyons’ lively disposition and manners took off all that awe which I +might have felt for his learning and genius. I may truly say, that these +three years, which I spent at Cambridge, fixed my character, and the +whole tone and colour of my future life. I do not pretend to say that I +had not, during my time at the university, and afterwards in London, my +follies and imprudences; but my soul did not, like many other souls of +my acquaintance, “embody and embrute.” When the time for my quitting +Cambridge arrived, I went to take leave of my learned friend Mr. Israel +Lyons, and to offer him my grateful acknowledgments. In the course of +the conversation I mentioned the childish terror and aversion with which +I had been early taught to look upon a Jew. I rejoiced that, even while +a schoolboy, I had conquered this foolish prejudice; and that at +the university, during those years which often decide our subsequent +opinions in life, it had been my good fortune to become acquainted with +one, whose superior abilities and kindness of disposition, had formed in +my mind associations of quite an opposite nature. Pleased with this +just tribute to his merit, and with the disposition I showed to think +candidly of persons of his persuasion, Mr. Lyons wished to confirm me in +these sentiments, and for this purpose gave me a letter of introduction +to a friend, with whom he was in constant correspondence, Mr. Montenero, +a Jewish gentleman born in Spain, who had early in life quitted that +country, in consequence of his horror of tyranny and persecution. He had +been fortunate enough to carry his wealth, which was very considerable, +safely out of Spain, and had settled in America, where he had enjoyed +perfect toleration and freedom of religious opinion; and as, according +to Mr. Lyons’ description of him, this Spanish Jew must, I thought, be +a most accomplished and amiable person, I eagerly accepted the offered +letter of introduction, and resolved that it should be my first business +and pleasure, on arriving in London, to find and make myself acquainted +with Mr. Montenero. + + + +CHAPTER V. + +People like myself, of lively imagination, may have often felt that +change of place suddenly extinguishes, or gives a new direction to, +the ardour of their enthusiasm. Such persons may, therefore, naturally +suspect, that, as “my steps retired from Cam’s smooth margin,” my +enthusiasm for my learned rabbi might gradually fade away; and that, +on my arrival in London, I should forget my desire to become acquainted +with the accomplished Spanish Jew. But it must be observed that, with my +mother’s warmth of imagination, I also had, I will not say, I inherited, +some of my father’s “_intensity of will_,”--some of that firmness of +adhesion to a preconceived notion or purpose, which in a good cause is +called resolution, in a bad cause obstinacy; and which is either a curse +or a blessing to the possessor, according to the degree or habit of +exercising the reasoning faculty with which he may be endowed. + +On my arrival in London, a variety of petty unforeseen obstacles +occurred to prevent my accomplishing my visit to the Spanish Jew. New +and never-ending demands upon my time arose, both in and out of my own +family, so that there seemed a necessity for my spending every hour +of the day and night in a manner wholly independent of my will. There +seemed to be some fatality that set at nought all my previous plans and +calculations. Every morning for a week after my arrival, I regularly +put my letter of introduction to Mr. Montenero into my pocket, resolving +that I would that day find him out, and pay my visit; but after walking +all the morning, to bear and to forbear various engagements, to execute +promised commissions, and to fulfil innumerable duties, I regularly +came home as I went out, with my letter in my pocket, and with the sad +conviction that it was utterly impossible to deliver it that day. These +obstacles, and this contrariety of external circumstances, instead of +bending my will, or making me give up my intention, fixed it more firmly +in my mind, and strengthened my determination. Nor was I the least +shaken from the settled purpose of my soul, by the perversity with which +every one in our house opposed or contemned that purpose. One morning, +when I had my letter and my hat in my hand, I met my father, who after +looking at the direction of the letter, and hearing that I was going on +a visit to a Spanish Jew, asked what business upon earth I could have +with a Jew--cursed the whole race--rejoiced that he had five-and-twenty +years ago voted against their naturalization in England, and ended as +he began, by wondering what in the name of Heaven could make me scrape +acquaintance with such fellows. When, in reply, I mentioned my friend, +Mr. Israel Lyons, and the high character he had drawn of Mr. Montenero, +my father laughed, saying that he would answer for it my friend Israel +was not an Israelite without guile; for that was a description of +Israelite he had never yet seen, and he had seen a confounded deal of +the world. He decided that my accomplished Spanish Jew would prove +an adventurer, and he advised me, a young man, heir to a good English +fortune, to keep out of his foreign clutches: in short, he stuck to the +advice he gave me, and only wished I would stick to the promise I gave +him, when I was ten years old, to have _no dealings with the Jews_. +It was in vain that I endeavoured to give my explanation of the word +_dealings_. My father’s temper, naturally positive, had, I observed, +become, as he advanced in years, much more dogmatic and intolerant. I +avoided contradicting his assertions; but I determined to pursue my +own course in a matter where there could be nothing really wrong or +improper. That morning, however, I must, I perceived, as in duty bound, +sacrifice to my father; he took me under the arm, and carried me away +to introduce me to some commonplace member of parliament, who, as he +assured me, was a much fitter and more profitable acquaintance for me +than any member of the synagogue could possibly be. + +The next morning, when, firm to my purpose, I was sallying forth, my +mother, with a face of tender expostulation and alarm, stopped me, and +entreated me to listen to her. My mother, whose health had always been +delicate, had within these three last years fallen into what is called a +very nervous state, and this, with her natural timidity and sensibility, +inclined her now to a variety of superstitious feelings--to a belief in +_presentiments_ and presages, omens and dreams, added to her original +belief in sympathies and antipathies. Some of these her peculiarities of +opinion and feeling had perhaps, at first, only been assumed, or yielded +to in her season of youth and beauty, to interest her admirers and +to distinguish herself in society; but as age advanced, they had been +confirmed by habit and weakness, so that what in the beginning might +have been affectation, was in the end reality. She was alarmed, she +said, by the series of strange coincidences which, from my earliest +childhood, had occurred, seeming to connect my fate, in some +extraordinary manner, with these Jews. She recalled all the +circumstances of my illness when I was a child: she confessed that she +had retained a sort of antipathy to the idea of a Jew--a weakness it +might be--but she had had dreams and _presentiments_, and my fortune +had been told her while I was at Cambridge; and some evil, she had been +assured, hung over me within the five ensuing years--some evil connected +with a Jew: in short, she did not absolutely believe in such prophecies, +but still it was extraordinary that the first thing my mind should +be intent upon, in coming to town, should be a Spanish Jew, and she +earnestly wished that I would avoid rather than seek the connexion. + +Knowing my mother’s turn for the romantic, I had anticipated her +delight at the idea of making acquaintance with a noble-minded travelled +Spaniard; but unluckily her imagination had galloped off in a contrary +direction to mine, and now my only chance was to make her hear reason, +and a very bad chance I knew this to be. I endeavoured to combat her +_presentiment_, and to explain whatever appeared extraordinary in +my love and hatred of the Jews, by recalling the slight and natural +circumstances at school and the university, which had changed my early +prejudice; and I laboured to show that no natural antipathy could have +existed, since it had been completely conquered by humanity and reason; +so that now I had formed what might rather appear a natural sympathy +with the race of Israel. I laboured these points in vain. When I urged +the literary advantages I had reaped from my friendship with Mr. Israel +Lyons, she besought me not to talk of friendship with persons of that +sort. I had now awakened another train of associations, all unfavourable +to my views. My mother _wondered_--for both she and my father were great +_wonderers_, as are all, whether high or low, who have lived only +with one set of people--my mother wondered that, instead of seeking +acquaintance in the city with old Jews and persons of whom nobody had +ever heard, I could not find companions of my own age and rank in life: +for instance, my schoolfellow and friend, Lord Mowbray, who was now in +town, just returned from abroad, a fine young officer, “much admired +here by the ladies, I can assure you, Harrington,” added my mother. +This, as I had opportunity of seeing, was perfectly true; four, nearly +five years had made a great apparent change in Mowbray for the better; +his manners were formed; his air that of a man of fashion--a military +man of fashion. He had served a campaign abroad, had been at the siege +of Gibraltar, had much to say, and could say it well. We all know +what astonishing metamorphoses are sometimes wrought even on the most +hopeless subjects, by seeing something of the world, by serving a +campaign or two. How many a light, empty shell of a young man comes home +full, if not of sense, at least of something bearing the semblance of +sense! How many a heavy lout, a dull son of earth, returns enlivened +into a conversable being, who can tell at least of what it has seen, +heard, and felt, if not understood; and who for years, perhaps for ever +afterwards, by the help of telling of other countries, may pass in his +own for a man of solid judgment! Such being the advantages to be derived +by these means, even in the most desperate cases, we may imagine the +great improvement produced in a young man of Lord Mowbray’s abilities, +and with his ambition both to please and to shine. In youth, and by +youth, improvement in appearance and manner is easily mistaken for +improvement in mind and principle. All that I had disliked in the +schoolboy--the tyrannical disposition--the cruel temper--the insolent +tone--had disappeared, and in their place I saw the deportment which +distinguished a gentleman. Whatever remained of party spirit, so +different from the wrangling, overbearing, mischievous party spirit of +the boy, was in the man and the officer so happily blended with love of +the service, and with _l’esprit de corps_, that it seemed to add a +fresh grace, animation, and frankness to his manner. The evil spirit of +persecution was dislodged from his soul, or laid asleep within him, and +in its place appeared the conciliating spirit of politeness. He showed +a desire to cultivate my friendship, which still more prepossessed me in +his favour. + +Mowbray happened to call upon me soon after the conversation I had +with my mother about the Spanish Jew. I had not been dissuaded from my +purpose by her representations; but I had determined to pay my visit +without saying any thing more about the matter, and to form my own +judgment of the man. A new difficulty, however, occurred: my letter of +introduction had disappeared. I searched my pockets, my portfolios, +my letter-case, every conceivable place, but it was not to be found. +Mowbray obligingly assisted me in this search; but after emptying half +a dozen times over portfolios, pockets, and desks, I was ashamed to give +him more trouble, and I gave up the letter as lost. When Mowbray heard +that this letter, about which I was so anxious, was an introduction to +a Jewish gentleman, he could not forbear rallying me a little, but in a +very agreeable tone, upon the constancy of my Israelitish taste, and the +perfect continuance of my identity. + +“I left you, Harrington, and I find you, after four years’ absence, +intent upon a Jew; boy and man you are one and the same; and in your +case, ‘tis well that the boy and man should an individual make; but for +my part, I am glad to change my identity, like all other mortals, once +in seven years; and I hope you think I have changed for the better.” + +It was impossible to think otherwise, especially at that moment. In a +frank, open-hearted manner, he talked of his former tyrannical nature, +and blamed himself for our schoolboy quarrel. I was charmed with him, +and the more so, when he entered so warmly or so politely into my +present distress, and sympathized with my madness of the moment. He +suggested all that was possible to be done to supply the loss of the +letter. Could not I get another in its stead? The same friend who gave +me one letter of introduction could write another. No; Mr. Israel Lyons +had left Cambridge, and I knew not where to direct to him. Could not I +present myself to Mr. Montenero without a letter? That might be +rather an awkward proceeding, but I was not to be stopped by any nice +observances, now that I had set my mind upon the matter. Unluckily, +however, I could by no means recollect the exact address of Mr. +Montenero. I was puzzled among half a dozen different streets and +numbers: Mowbray offered to walk with me, and we went to each of these +streets, and to all the variety of numbers I suggested, but in vain; no +Mr. Montenero was to be found. At last, tired and disappointed, as I was +returning home, Mowbray said he thought he could console me for the loss +of my chance of seeing my Spanish Jew, by introducing me to the most +celebrated Jew that ever appeared in England. Then turning into a street +near one of the play-houses, he knocked at the door of a house where +Macklin the actor lodged. Lord Mowbray was well acquainted with him, and +I was delighted to have an opportunity of seeing this celebrated man. He +was at this time past the meridian of ordinary life, but he was in the +zenith of his extraordinary course, and in the full splendour and vigour +of his powers. + +“Here,” said Mowbray, presenting me to Macklin, “is a young gentleman, +who is ambitious of being acquainted with the most celebrated Jew +that ever appeared in England. Allow me to introduce him to the real, +original Jew of Venice: + + ‘This is the Jew + That Shakspeare drew!’ + +Whose lines are those, Harrington? do you know?” + +“_Yours_, I suppose.” + +“Mine! you do me much honour: no, they are Mr. Pope’s. Then you don’t +know the anecdote? + +“Mr. Pope, in the decline of life, was persuaded by Bolingbroke to go +once more to the play-house, to see Mr. Macklin in the character of +Shylock. According to the custom of the time, Pope was seated among +the critics in the pit. He was so much struck and transported with +admiration, that in the middle of the play, he started up, and repeated +that distich. + +“Now, was not I right when I told you, Harrington, that I would +introduce you to the most celebrated Jew in all England, in all +Christendom, in the whole civilized world?” + +No one better than Mowbray knew the tone of enthusiastic theatric +admiration in which the heroes of the stage like, or are supposed to +like, to be addressed. Macklin, who was not asy to please, was pleased. +The _lines_, or as Quin insisted upon their being called, the _cordage_ +of his face relaxed. He raised, turned, and settled his wig, in sign +of satisfaction; then with a complacent smile gave me a little nod, and +suffered Lord Mowbray to draw him out by degrees into a repetition of +the history of his first attempt to play the character of Shylock. A +play altered from Shakespeare’s, and called “The Jew of Venice,” had +been for some time in vogue. In this play, the Jew had been represented, +by the actors of the part, as a ludicrous and contemptible, rather than +a detestable character; and when Macklin, recurring to Shakespeare’s +original Shylock, proposed, in the revived Merchant of Venice, to play +the part in a serious style, he was scoffed at by the whole company of +his brother actors, and it was with the utmost difficulty he could screw +the manager’s courage to the sticking-place, and prevail upon him to +hazard the attempt. Take the account in Macklin’s own words. [Footnote: +Vide Macklin’s Life.] + +“When the long expected night at last arrived, the house was crowded +from top to bottom, with the first company in town. The two front rows +of the pit, as usual, were full of critics. I eyed them,” said Macklin, +“I eyed them, sir, through the slit in the curtain, and was glad to +see them there; as I wished, in such a cause, to be tried by a _special +jury_. When I made my appearance in the green-room, dressed for the +part, with my red hat on my head, my piqued beard, my loose black gown, +and with a confidence which I had never before assumed, the performers +all stared at one another, and evidently with a stare of disappointment. +Well, sir, hitherto all was right, till the last bell rung; then, I +confess, my heart began to beat a little: however, I mustered up all the +courage I could, and recommending my cause to Providence, threw myself +boldly on the stage, and was received by one of the loudest thunders of +applause I ever before experienced. The opening scenes being rather tame +and level, I could not expect much applause; but I found myself listened +to: I could hear distinctly in the pit, the words ‘_Very well--very +well indeed! this man seems to know what he is about_.’ These encomiums +warmed me, but did not overset me. I knew where I should have the pull, +which was in the third act, and accordingly at this period I threw out +all my fire; and as the contrasted passions of joy for the merchant’s +losses, and grief for the elopement of Jessica, open a fine field for an +actor’s powers, I had the good fortune to please beyond my most sanguine +expectations. The whole house was in an uproar of applause; and I was +obliged to pause between the speeches to give it vent, so as to be +heard. The _trial scene_ wound up the fulness of my reputation. Here +I was well listened to, and here I made such a silent yet forcible +impression on my audience, that I retired from this great attempt most +perfectly satisfied. On my return to the green-room, after the play was +over, it was crowded with nobility and critics, who all complimented +me in the warmest and most unbounded manner; and the situation I +felt myself in, I must confess, was one of the most flattering and +intoxicating of my whole life. No money, no title, could purchase what +I felt. By G--, sir, though I was not worth fifty pounds in the world +at that time, yet let me tell you, I was _Charles the Great_ for that +night.” + +The emphasis and enthusiasm with which Macklin spoke, pleased +me--enthusiastic people are always well pleased with enthusiasm. My +curiosity too was strongly excited to see him play Shylock. I returned +home full of the Jew of Venice; but, nevertheless, not forgetting my +Spanish Jew.--At last, my mother could no longer bear to see me perplex +and vex myself in my fruitless search for the letter, and confessed that +while we were talking the preceding day, finding that no arguments or +persuasions of hers had had any effect, she had determined on what she +called a pious fraud: so, while I was in the room--before my face--while +I was walking up and down, holding forth in praise of my Jewish friend +whom I did know, and my Jewish friend whom I did not know, she had taken +up Mr. Israel Lyons’ letter of introduction to Mr. Montenero, and had +thrown it into the fire. + +I was very much provoked; but to my mother, and a mother who was so fond +of me, what could I say? After all, I confessed there was a good deal of +fancy in the case on my side as well as on hers. I endeavoured to forget +my disappointment. My imagination turned again to Shylock and Macklin; +and, to please me, my mother promised to make a large party to go with +me to see the Merchant of Venice the next night that Macklin should act; +but, unfortunately, Macklin had just now quarrelled with the manager, +and till this could be made up, there was no chance of his condescending +to perform. + +Meantime my mother having, as she thought, fairly got rid of the Jews, +and Mowbray having, as he said, cured me of my present fit of Jewish +insanity, desired to introduce me to his mother and sister. They had +now just come to town from the Priory--Brantefield Priory, an ancient +family-seat, where, much to her daughter’s discomfiture, Lady de +Brantefield usually resided eight months of the year, because there +she felt her dignity more safe from contact, and herself of more +indisputable and unrivalled consequence, than in the midst of the +jostling pretensions and modern innovations of the metropolis. At +the Priory every thing attested, recorded, and flattered her pride of +ancient and illustrious descent. In my childhood I had once been with my +mother at the Priory, and I still retained a lively recollection of the +antique wonders of the place. Foremost in my memory came an old picture, +called “Sir Josseline going to the Holy Land,” where Sir Josseline de +Mowbray stood, in complete armour, pointing to a horrid figure of a +prostrate Jew, on whose naked back an executioner, with uplifted whip, +was prepared to inflict stripes for some shocking crime.--This picture +had been painted in times when the proportions of the human figure were +little attended to, and when foreshortening was not at all understood: +this added to the horrible effect, for the executioner’s arm and scourge +were of tremendous size; Sir Josseline stood miraculously tall, and the +Jew, crouching, supplicating, sprawling, was the most distorted squalid +figure, eyes ever beheld, or imagination could conceive. + +After having once beheld it, I could never bear to look upon it again, +nor did I ever afterwards enter the tapestry chamber:--but there were +some other of the antique rooms in which I delighted, and divers pieces +of old furniture which I reverenced. There was an ancient bed, with +scolloped tester, and tarnished quilt, in which Queen Elizabeth had +slept; and a huge embroidered pincushion done by no hands, as you may +guess, but those of the unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots, who, during +her captivity, certainly worked harder than ever queen worked before or +since. + +Then there was an old, worm-eaten chair, in which John of Gaunt had +sat; and I remember that while Lady de Brantefield expressed her just +indignation against the worms, for having dared to attack this precious +relique, I, kneeling to the chair, admired the curious fretwork, the +dusty honeycombs, which these invisible little workmen had excavated. +But John of Gaunt’s chair was nothing to King John’s table. There was +a little black oak table, too, with broken legs, which was +invaluable--for, as Lady de Brantefield confidently affirmed, King John +of France, and the Black Prince, had sat and supped at it. I marvelled +much in silence--for I had been sharply reproved for some observation +I had unwittingly made on the littleness and crookedness of a dark, +corner-chimneyed nook shown us for the banqueting-room; and I had fallen +into complete disgrace for having called the winding staircases, leading +to the turret-chambers, _back stairs._ + +Of Lady de Brantefield, the _touch-me-not_ mistress of the mansion, I +had retained a sublime, but not a beautiful idea--I now felt a desire to +see her again, to verify my old notion. + +Of Lady Anne Mowbray, who at the time I had been at the Priory, was a +little child, some years younger than myself, I could recollect nothing, +except that she wore a pink sash, of which she was very vain, and that +she had been ushered into the drawing-room after dinner by Mrs. Fowler, +at the sight of whom my inmost soul had recoiled. I remember, indeed, +pitying her little ladyship for being under such dominion, and longing +to ask her whether Fowler had told her the story of Simon the Jew. But +I could never commune with Lady Anne; for either she was up in the +nursery, or Fowler was at her back in the drawing-room, or little Lady +Anne was sitting upright on her stool at her mother’s feet, whom I +did not care to approach, and in whose presence I seldom ventured to +speak--consequently my curiosity on this point had, from that hour, +slumbered within me; but it now wakened, upon my mother’s proposing +to present me to Lady Anne, and the pleasure of asking and the hope +of obtaining an answer to my long-meditated question, was the chief +gratification I promised myself from the renewal of our acquaintance +with her ladyship. + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +My recollection of Lady de Brantefield proved wonderfully correct; +she gave me back the image I had in my mind--a stiff, haughty-looking +picture of a faded old beauty. Adhering religiously to the fashion of +the times when she had been worshipped, she made it a point to wear +the old head-dress exactly. She was in black, in a hoop of vast +circumference, and she looked and moved as if her being Countess +de Brantefield in her own right, and concentring in her person five +baronies, ought to be for ever present to the memory of all mankind, as +it was to her own. + +My mother presented me to her ladyship. The ceremony of introduction +between a young gentleman and an old lady of those times, performed on +his part with a low bow and look of profound deference, on hers, with +back stepping-curtsy and bridled head, was very different from the +nodding, bobbing trick of the present day. As soon as the _finale_ of +Lady de Brantefield’s sentence, touching honour, happiness, and family +connexion, would permit, I receded, and turned from the mother to the +daughter, little Lady Anne Mowbray, a light fantastic figure, bedecked +with “daisies pied,” covered with a profusion of tiny French flowers, +whose invisible wire stalks kept in perpetual motion as she turned her +pretty head from side to side. Smiling, sighing, tittering, flirting +with the officers round her, Lady Anne appeared, and seemed as if she +delighted in appearing, as perfect a contrast as possible to her august +and formidable mother. The daughter had seen the ill effect of the +mother’s haughty demeanour, and, mistaking reverse of wrong for right, +had given reserve and dignity to the winds. Taught by the happy example +of Colonel Topham, who preceded me, I learned that the low bow would +have been here quite out of place. The sliding bow was for Lady Anne, +and the way was to dash into nonsense with her directly, and full +into the midst of nonsense I dashed. Though her ladyship’s perfect +accessibility seemed to promise prompt reply to any question that could +be asked; yet the single one about which I felt any curiosity, I could +not contrive to introduce during the first three hours I was in her +ladyship’s company. There was such a quantity of preliminary nonsense +to get through, and so many previous questions to be disposed of: for +example, I was first to decide which of three colours I preferred, all +of them pronounced to be the _prettiest_ in, the universe, _boue de +Paris, oeil de l’empereur_, and a _suppressed sigh_. + +At that moment, Lady Anne wore the _suppressed sigh_, but I did not +know it--I mistook it for _boue de Paris_--conceive my ignorance! No two +things in nature, not a horse-chestnut and a chestnut-horse, could be +more different. + +Conceive my confusion! and Colonels Topham and Beauclerk standing by. +But I recovered myself in public opinion, by admiring the slipper on her +ladyship’s little foot. Now I showed my taste, for this slipper had +but the night before arrived express from Paris, and it was called a +_venez-y voir_; and how a slipper, with a heel so high, and a quarter +so low, could be kept on the foot, or how the fair could walk in it, I +could not conceive, except by the special care of her guardian sylph. + +After the _venez-y voir_ had fixed all eyes as desired, the lady turning +alternately to Colonels Topham and Beauclerk, with rapid gestures of +ecstasy, exclaimed, “The _pouf!_ the _pouf!_ Oh! on Wednesday I shall +have the _pouf_!” + +Now what manner of thing a _pouf!_ might be, I had not the slightest +conception. “It requireth,” said Bacon, “great cunning for a man in +discourse to seem to know that which he knoweth not.” Warned by _boue de +Paris_ and the _suppressed sigh_, this time I found safety in silence. I +listened, and learned, first that _un pouf_ was the most charming thing +in the creation; next, that nobody upon earth could be seen in Paris +without one; that one was coming from Mademoiselle Berlin, per favour of +Miss Wilkes, for Lady Anne Mowbray, and that it would be on her head +on Wednesday; and Colonel Topham swore there would be no resisting her +ladyship in the _pouf_, she would look so killing. + +“So killing,” was the colonel’s last. + +I now thought that I had Lady Anne’s ear to myself; but she ran on to +something else, and I was forced to follow as she skimmed over fields of +nonsense. At last she did stop to take breath, and I did get in my one +question: to which her ladyship replied, “Poor Fowler frighten me? Lord! +No. Like her? oh! yes--dote upon Fowler! didn’t you?--No, you hated her, +I remember. Well, but I assure you she’s the best creature in the world; +I could always make her do just what I pleased. Positively, I must make +you make it up with her, if I can remember it, when she comes up to +town--she is to come up for my birthday. Mamma, you know, generally +leaves her at the Priory, to take care of all the old trumpery, and show +the place--you know it’s a _show place_. But I tell Colonel Topham, when +I’ve a place of my own, I positively will have it modern, and all +the furniture in the very newest style. I’m so sick of old reliques! +Natural, you know, when _I have been having_ a surfeit all my life of +old beds and chairs, and John of Gaunt and the Black Prince. But the +Black Prince, I remember, was always a vast favourite of yours. Well, +but poor Fowler, you must like her, too--I assure you she always speaks +with tenderness of you; she is really the best old soul! for she’s +growing oldish, but so faithful, and so sincere too. Only flatters mamma +sometimes so, I can hardly help laughing in her face; but then you know +mamma, and old ladies, when they come to that pass, must be flattered to +keep them up--‘tis but charitable--really right. Poor Fowler’s daughter +is to be my maid.” + +“I did not know Fowler had a daughter, and a daughter grown up.” + +“Nancy Fowler! not know! Oh! yes, quite grown up, fit to be +married--only a year younger than I am. And there’s our old apothecary +in the country has taken such a fancy to her! But he’s too old and +_wiggy_--but it would make a sort of lady of her, and her mother will +have it so--but she sha’n’t--I’ve no notion of compulsion. Nancy shall +be my maid, for she is quite out of the common style; can copy verses +for one--I’ve no time, you know--and draws patterns in a minute. I +declare I don’t know which I love best--Fowler or Nancy--poor old +Fowler, I think. Do you know she says I’m so like the print of the Queen +of France. It never struck me; but I’ll go and ask Topham.” + +I perceived that Fowler, wiser grown, had learned how much more secure +the reign of flattery is, than the reign of terror. She was now, as +I found, supreme in the favour of both her young and old lady. The +specimen I have given of Lady Anne Mowbray’s conversation, or rather +of Lady Anne’s mode of talking, will, I fancy, be amply sufficient +to satiate all curiosity concerning her ladyship’s understanding +and character. She had, indeed, like most of the young ladies her +companions--“no character at all.” + +Female conversation in general was, at this time, very different from +what it is in our happier days. A few bright stars had risen, and shone, +and been admired; but the useful light had not diffused itself. Miss +Talbot’s and Miss Carter’s learning and piety, Mrs. Montague’s genius, +Mrs. Vesey’s elegance, and Mrs. Boscawen’s [Footnote: See Bas-Bleu.] +“polished ease,” had brought female literature into fashion in certain +favoured circles; but it had not, as it has now, become general in +almost every rank of life. Young ladies had, it is true, got beyond the +Spectator and the Guardian: Richardson’s novels had done much towards +opening a larger field of discussion. One of Miss Burney’s excellent +novels had appeared, and had made an era in London conversation; but +still it was rather venturing out of the safe course for a young lady to +talk of books, even of novels; it was not, as it is now, expected that +she should know what is going on in the literary world. The Edinburgh +and Quarterly Reviews, and varieties of literary and scientific +journals, had not + + “Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.” + +Before there was a regular demand and an established market, there were +certain hawkers and pedlars of literature, fetchers and carriers of +bays, and at every turn copies of impromptus, charades, and lines by the +honourable Miss C----, and the honourable Mrs. D----, were put into my +hands by young ladies, begging for praise, which it was seldom in my +power conscientiously to bestow. I early had a foreboding--one of my +mother’s _presentiments_--that I should come to disgrace with Lady Anne +Mowbray about some of these cursed scraps of poetry. Her ladyship had +one--shall I say?--_peculiarity_. She could not bear that any one should +differ from her in matters of taste; and though she regularly disclaimed +being a reading lady, she was most assured of what she was most +ignorant. With the assistance of Fowler’s flattery, together with +that of all the hangers-on at Brantefield Priory, her temper had been +rendered incapable of bearing contradiction. But this defect was not +immediately apparent: on the contrary, Lady Anne was generally thought +a pleasant, good-humoured creature, and most people wondered that the +daughter could be so different from the mother. Lady de Brantefield was +universally known to be positive and prejudiced. Her prejudices were +all old-fashioned, and ran directly counter to the habits of her +acquaintance. Lady Anne’s, on the contrary, were all in favour of the +present fashion, whatever it might be, and ran smoothly with the +popular stream. The violence of her temper could, therefore, scarcely +be suspected, till something opposed the current: a small obstacle would +then do the business--would raise the stream suddenly to a surprising +height, and would produce a tremendous noise. It was my ill fortune +one unlucky day to cross Lady Anne Mowbray’s humour, and to oppose her +opinion. It was about a trifle; but trifles, indeed, made, with her, +the sum of human things. She came one morning, as it was her custom, to +loiter away her time at my mother’s till the proper hour for going +out to visit. For five minutes she sat at some fashionable kind of +work--_wafer work_, I think it was called, a work which has been long +since consigned to the mice; then her ladyship yawned, and exclaiming, +“Oh, those lines of Lord Chesterfield’s, which Colonel Topham gave me; +I’ll copy them into my album. Where’s my _album_?--Mrs. Harrington, I +lent it to you. Oh! here it is. Mr. Harrington, you will finish copying +this for me.” So I was set down to the _album_ to copy--_Advice to a +Lady in Autumn_. + + “Asses’ milk, half a pint, take at seven, or before.” + +My mother, who saw that I did not relish the asses’ milk, put in a word +for me. + +“My dear Lady Anne, it is not worth while to write these lines in +your _album_, for they were in print long ago, in every lady’s old +memorandum-book, and in Dodsley’s Collection, I believe.” + +“But still that was quite a different thing,” Lady Anne said, “from +having them in her _album_; so Mr. Harrington must be so very good.” I +did not understand the particular use of copying in my illegible hand +what could be so much better read in print; but it was all-sufficient +that her ladyship chose it. When I had copied the verses I must, Lady +Anne said, read the lines, and admire them. But I had read them twenty +times before, and I could not say that they were as fresh the twentieth +reading as at the first. Lord Mowbray came in, and she ran to her +brother:--“Mowbray! can any thing in nature be prettier than these +verses of Lord Chesterfield? Mowbray, you, who are a judge, listen to +these two lines: + + ‘The dews of the evening moat carefully shun, + Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun.’ + +_Now_, here’s your friend, Mr. Harrington, says it’s only a +_prettiness_, and something about Ovid. I’m sure I wish you’d advise +some of your friends to leave their classics, as you did, at the musty +university. What have we to do with Ovid in London? You, yourself, Mr. +Harrington, who set up for such a critic, what fault can you find, pray, +with + + ‘Keep all cold from your breast, there’s already too much?’” + +By the lady’s tone of voice, raised complexion, and whole air of the +head, I saw the danger was imminent, and to avoid the coming storm, I +sheltered myself under the cover of modesty; but Mowbray dragged me out +to make sport for himself. + +“Oh! Harrington, that will never do. No critic! No judge! You! with all +your college honours fresh about you. Come, come, Harrington, pronounce +you must. Is this poetry or not? + + ‘_Keep all cold from your breast, there’s already too much_.’” + +“Whether prose or poetry, I pronounce it to be very good advice.” + +“Good advice! the thing of all others I have the most detested from my +childhood,” cried Lady Anne; “but I insist upon it, it is good poetry, +Mr. Harrington.” + +“And equally good grammar, and good English, and good sense,” cried her +brother, in an ironical tone. “Come, Harrington, acknowledge it all, +man--all equally. Never stop half way, when a young--and such a young +lady, summons you to surrender to her your truth, taste, and common +sense. Gi’ her a’ the plea, or you’ll get na good of a woman’s hands.” + +“So, sir!--So, my lord, you are against me too, and you are mocking me +too, I find. I humbly thank you, gentlemen,” cried Lady Anne, in a high +tone of disdain; “from a colonel in the army, and a nobleman who has +been on the continent, I might have expected more politeness. From a +Cambridge scholar no wonder!” + +My mother laid down her netting in the middle of a row, and came to +keep the peace. But it was too late; Lady Anne was deaf and blind with +passion. She confessed she could not see of what use either of the +universities were in this world, except to make bears and bores of young +men. + +Her ladyship, fluent in anger beyond conception, poured, as she turned +from her brother to me, and from me to her brother, a flood of nonsense, +which, when it had once broken bounds, there was no restraining in its +course. Amazed at the torrent, my mother stood aghast; Mowbray burst +into unextinguishable laughter: I preserved my gravity as long as +I possibly could; I felt the risible infection seizing me, and that +malicious Mowbray, just when he saw me in the struggle--the agony--sent +me back such an image of my own length of face, that there was no +withstanding it. I, too, breaking all bounds of decorum, gave way to +visible and audible laughter; and from which I was first recovered by +seeing the lady burst into tears, and by hearing, at the same moment, +my mother pronounce in a tone of grave displeasure, “Very ill-bred, +Harrington!” My mother’s tone of displeasure affecting me much more than +the young lady’s tears, I hastened to beg pardon, and I humbled myself +before Lady Anne; but she spurned me, and Mowbray laughed the more. +Mowbray, I believe, really wished that I should like his sister; yet +he could not refrain from indulging his taste for ridicule, even at her +expense. My mother wondered how Lord Mowbray could tease his sister in +such a manner; and as for Harrington, she really thought he had known +that the first law of good-breeding is never to say or do any thing that +can hurt another person’s feelings. + +“Never _intentionally_ to hurt another’s feelings, ma’am,” said I; “I +hope you will allow me to plead the innocence of my intentions.” + +“Oh, yes! there was no malicious _intent_: Not guilty--Not guilty!” + cried Mowbray. “Anne, you acquit him there, don’t you, Anne?” + +Anne sobbed, but spoke not. + +“It is little consolation, and no compensation, to the person who is +hurt,” said my mother, “that the offender pleads he did not mean to say +or do any thing rude: a rude thing is a rude thing--the intention is +nothing--all we are to judge of is the fact.” + +“Well, but after all, in fact,” said Mowbray, “there was nothing to make +any body seriously angry.” + +“Of that every body’s own feelings must be the best judge,” said my +mother, “the best and the sole judge.” + +“Thank Heaven! that is not the law of libel _yet_, not the law of the +land _yet_,” said Mowbray; “no knowing what we may come to. Would it not +be hard, ma’am, to constitute the feelings of one person _always_ sole +judge of the intentions of another? though in cases like the present I +submit. Let it be a ruled case, that the sensibility of a lady shall be +the measure of a gentleman’s guilt.” + +“I don’t judge of these things by rule and measure,” said my mother: +“try my smelling-bottle, my dear.” Very few people, especially women of +delicate nerves and quick feelings, could, as my mother observed, bear +to be laughed at; particularly by those they loved; and especially +before other people who did not know them perfectly. My mother was +persuaded, she said, that Lord Mowbray had not reflected on all this +when he had laughed so inconsiderately. + +Mowbray allowed that he certainly had not reflected when he had laughed +inconsiderately. “So come, come. Anne, sister Anne, be friends!” then +playfully tapping his sister on the back, the pretty, but sullen back +of the neck, he tried to raise the drooping head; but finding the chin +resist the upward motion, and retire resentfully from his touch, he +turned upon his heel, and addressing himself to me, “Well! Harrington,” + said he, “the news of the day, the news of the theatre, which I was +bringing you full speed, when I stumbled upon this cursed half-pint +of asses’ milk, which Mrs.. Harrington was so angry with me for +overturning--” + +“But what’s the news, my lord?” said my mother. + +“News! not for you, ma’am, only for Harrington; news of the Jews.” + +“The Jews!” said my mother. + +“The Jews!” said I, both in the same breath, but in very different +tones. + +“_Jews_, did I say?” replied Mowbray: “Jew, I should have said.” + +“Mr. Montenero?” cried I. + +“Montenero!--Can you think of nothing but Mr. Montenero, whom you’ve +never seen, and never will see?” + +“Thank you for that, my lord,” said my mother; “one touch from you is +worth a hundred from me.” + +“But of what Jew then are you talking? and what’s your news, my lord?” + said I. + +“My news is only--for Heaven’s sake, Harrington, do not look expecting +a mountain, for ‘tis only a mouse. The news is, that Macklin, the honest +Jew of Venice, has got the pound, or whatever number of pounds he wanted +to get from the manager’s heart; the quarrel’s made up, and if you keep +your senses, you may have a chance to see, next week, this famous Jew of +Venice.” + +“I am heartily glad of it!” cried I, with enthusiasm. + +“And is that all?” said my mother, coldly. + +“Mr. Harrington,” said Lady Anne, “is really so enthusiastic about some +things, and so cold about others, there is no understanding him; he is +very, very _odd_.” + +Notwithstanding all the pains my mother took to atone for my offence, +and notwithstanding that I had humbled myself to the dust to obtain +pardon, I was not forgiven. + +Lady de Brantefield, Lady Anne, and some other company, dined with us; +and Mowbray, who seemed to be really sorry that he had vexed his sister, +and that he had in the heyday of his spirit unveiled to me her defects +of temper, did every thing in his power to make up matters between us. +At dinner he placed me beside Anne, little sister Anne; but no caressing +tone, no diminutive of kindness in English, or soft Italian, could touch +her heart, or move the gloomy purpose of her soul. Her sulky ladyship +almost turned her back upon me, as she listened only to Colonel Topham, +who was on the other side. Mowbray coaxed her to eat, but she refused +every thing he offered--would not accept even his compliments--his +compliments on her _pouf_--would not allow him to show her off, as he +well knew how to do, to advantage; would not, when he exerted himself +to prevent her silence from being remarked, smile at any one of the many +entertaining things he said; she would not, in short, even passively +permit his attempts to cover her ill-humour, and to make things pass off +well. + +In the evening, when the higher powers drew off to cards, and when Lady +Anne had her phalanx of young ladies round her; and whilst I stood a +defenceless young man at her mercy, she made me feel her vengeance. She +talked _at_ me continually, and at every opening gave me sly cuts, which +she flattered herself I felt sorely. + +Mowbray turned off the blows as fast as they were aimed, or treated them +all as playful traits of lover-like malice, tokens of a lady’s favour. + +“Ha! a good cut, Harrington!--Happy man!--Up to you there, Harrington! +High favour, when a lady condescends to remember and retaliate. Paid you +for old scores!--Sign you’re in her books now!--‘No more to say to you, +Mr. Harrington’--a fair challenge to say a great deal more to her.” + +And all the time her ladyship was aiming to vex, and hoping that I was +heartily mortified, as from my silence and melancholy countenance she +concluded that I was; in reality I stood deploring that so pretty a +creature had so mean a mind. The only vexation I felt was at her having +destroyed the possibility of my enjoying that delightful illusion which +beauty creates. + +My mother, who had been, as she said, quite nervous all this evening, at +last brought Lady Anne to terms, and patched up a peace, by prevailing +on Lady de Brantefield, who could not be prevailed on by any one else, +to make a party to go to some new play which Lady Anne was _dying_ to +see. It was a sentimental comedy, and I did not much like it; however, I +was all complaisance for my mother’s sake, and she in return renewed her +promise to go with me to patronize Shylock. By the extraordinary anxiety +my mother showed, and by the pains she took that there should be peace +betwixt Lady Anne and me, I perceived, what had never before struck me, +that my mother wished me to be in love with her ladyship. + +Now I could sooner have been in love with Lady de Brantefield. Give her +back a decent share of youth and beauty, I think I could sooner have +liked the mother than the daughter. + +By the force and plastic power of my imagination, I could have turned +and moulded Lady de Brantefield, with all her repulsive haughtiness, +into a Clelia, or a Princess de Cleves, or something of the Richardson +full-dressed heroine, with hoop and fan, and _stand off, man_!--and then +there would be cruelty and difficulty, and incomprehensibility-something +to be conquered--something to be wooed and won. But with Lady Anne +Mowbray my imagination had nothing to work upon, no point to dwell on, +nothing on which a lover’s fancy could feed: there was no doubt, no +hope, no fear, no reserve of manner, no dignity of mind. + +My mother, I believe, now saw that it would not do, at least for the +present; but she had known many of Cupid’s capricious turns. Lady Anne +was extremely pretty, and universally allowed to be so; her ladyship was +much taken notice of in public, and my mother knew that young men are +vain of having their mistresses and wives admired by our sex. But my +mother calculated ill as to my particular character. To the Opera and to +Ranelagh, to the Pantheon, and to all the fashionable public places of +the day, I had had the honour of attending Lady Anne; and I had had the +glory of hearing “Beautiful!” “Who is she?”--and “Who is with her?” My +vanity, I own, had been flattered, but no further. My imagination was +always too powerful, my passions too sincere and too romantic, to be +ruled by the opinions of others, or to become the dupe of personal +vanity. My mother had fancied that a month or two in London would +have brought my imagination down to be content with the realities of +fashionable life. My mother was right as to the fact, but wrong in +her conclusion. This did not incline me more towards Lady Anne, but it +disinclined me towards marriage. + +My exalted ideas of love were lowered--my morning visions of life +fled--I was dispirited. + +Mowbray had rallied me on my pining for Cambridge, and on preferring +Israel Lyons, the Jew, to him and all the best company in London. + +He had hurried me about with him to all manner of gaieties, but still I +was not happy; my mind--my heart wanted something more. + +In this my London life, I found it irksome that I could never, as at +dear Cambridge, pause upon my own reflections. If I stopped awhile, “to +plume contemplation’s wings, so ruffled and impaired,” some of the low +realities, some of the impertinent necessities of fashionable life, +would tread on my heels. The order of the day or night was for ever +pressed upon me--and the order of the day was now to go to this new +sentimental comedy--my mother’s favourite actor, the silver-toned +Barry, was to play the lover of the piece; so she was sure of as many +fashionable young ladies as her box could possibly hold. At this period, +in England, every fashionable belle declared herself the partisan +of some actor or actress; and every fashionable beau aspired to the +character of a dramatic critic. Mowbray, of course, was distinguished +in that line, and his pretty little sister, Lady Anne, was, at least in +face, formed to grace the front box. The hours of the great world were +earlier then than they are now, and nothing interfered, indeed nothing +would have been suffered to interfere, with the hour for the play. As a +veteran wit described it, “There were at this time four estates in +the English Constitution, kings, lords, commons, and the theatre.” + Statesmen, courtiers, poets, philosophers, crowded pell mell with +the white-gloved beaux to the stage box and the pit. It was thought +well-bred, it was _the thing_ to be in the boxes before the third act, +even before the second, nay, incredible as it may in these times appear, +before the first act began. Our fashionable party was seated some +minutes before the curtain drew up. + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +The beaux and belles in the boxes of the crowded theatre had bowed and +curtsied, for in those days beaux did bow and belles did curtsy; the +impatient sticks in the pit, and shrill catcalls in the gallery, had +begun to contend with the music in the orchestra; and thrice had we +surveyed the house to recognize every body whom any body knew, when the +door of the box next to ours, the only box that had remained empty, was +thrown open, and in poured an over-dressed party, whom _nobody knew_. +Lady de Brantefield, after one reconnoitring glance, pronounced them to +be city Goths and Vandals; and without resting her glass upon them for +half a moment, turned it to some more profitable field of speculation. +There was no gentleman of this party, but a portly matron, towering +above the rest, seemed the principal mover and orderer of the group. The +awkward bustle they made, facing and backing, placing and changing of +places, and the difficulty they found in seating themselves, were in +striking contrast with the high-bred ease of the ladies of our party. +Lady Anne Mowbray looked down upon their operations with a pretty air +of quiet surprise, tinctured with horror; while my mother’s shrinking +delicacy endeavoured to suggest some idea of propriety to the city +matron, who having taken her station next to us in the second row, had +at last seated herself so that a considerable portion of the back part +of her head-dress was in my mother’s face: moreover, the citizen’s +huge arm, with its enormous gauze cuff, leaning on the partition which +divided, or ought to have divided, her from us, considerably passed the +line of demarcation. Lady de Brantefield, with all the pride of all +the De Brantefields since the Norman Conquest concentrated in her +countenance, threw an excommunicating, withering look upon the arm--but +the elbow felt it not--it never stirred. The lady seemed not to be made +of penetrable stuff. In happy ignorance she sat fanning herself for a +few seconds; then suddenly starting and stretching forward to the front +row, where five of her young ladies were wedged, she aimed with her fan +at each of their backs in quick succession, and in a more than audible +whisper asked, “Cecy! Issy! Henny! Queeney! Miss Coates, where’s +Berry?”--All eyes turned to look for Berry--“Oh! mercy, behind in the +back row! Miss Berry, that must not be--come forward, here’s my place +or Queeney’s,” cried Mrs. Coates, stretching backwards with her utmost +might to seize some one in the farthest corner of the back row, who +had hitherto been invisible. We expected to see in Miss Berry another +vulgarian produced, but to our surprise, we beheld one who seemed of a +different order of beings from those by whom she was surrounded. Lord +Mowbray and I looked at each other, struck by the same sentiment, pained +for this elegant timid young creature, as we saw her, all blushing and +reluctant, forced by the irresistible fat orderer of all things to “step +up on the seat,” to step forward from bench to bench, and then wait in +painful pre-eminence while Issy, and Cecy, and Queeney, and Miss Coates, +settled how they could make room, or which should vacate her seat in her +favour. In spite of the awkwardness of her situation she stood with such +quiet, resigned, yet dignified grace, that ridicule could not touch her. +The moment she was seated with her back to us, and out of hearing, Lady +de Brantefield turned to her son and asked “Who is she?” + +“An East Indian, I should guess, by her dark complexion,” whispered Lady +Anne to me. + +Some feather or lappet intercepted my view of her face, but from +the glimpse I caught of it as she passed, it struck me as uncommonly +interesting, though with a peculiar expression and foreign air--whether +she was handsome or not, though called upon to decide, I could not +determine. But now our attention was fixed on the stage. It was +announced to the audience that, owing to the sudden illness of the actor +who was to have performed the principal part in the comedy advertised +for this night, there was a necessity for changing the play, and they +should give in its stead the Merchant of Venice. + +The Merchant of Venice and Macklin the Jew!--Murmurs of discontent from +the ladies in my box, who regretted their sentimental comedy and their +silver-toned Barry, were all lost upon me; I rejoiced that I should see +Macklin in Shylock. Before the performance began, my attention was again +caught by the proceedings of the persons in the next box. There seemed +to be some sudden cause of distress, as I gathered from exclamations +of “How unlucky!--How distressing!--What shall we do?--What can we +do?--Better go away--carriage gone!--must sit it out--May be she won’t +mind--Oh! she will--Shylock!--Jessica!--How unfortunate!--poor Miss +Berry!” + +“Jessica!” whispered Mowbray to me, with an arch look: “let me pass,” + added he, just touching my shoulder. He made his way to a young lady at +the other end of the box; and I, occupying immediately the ceded place, +stationed myself so that I had a better view of my object, and could +observe her without being seen by any one. She was perfectly still, and +took no notice of the whispering of the people about her, though, from +an indescribable expression in the air of the back of her head and neck, +I was convinced that she heard all that passed among the young and old +ladies in her box. The play went on--Shylock appeared--I forgot every +thing but him.--Such a countenance!--Such an expression of latent malice +and revenge, of every thing detestable in human nature! Whether speaking +or silent, the Jew fixed and kept possession of my attention. It was an +incomparable piece of acting: much as my expectations had been raised, +it far surpassed any thing I had conceived--I forgot it was Macklin, I +thought only of Shylock. In my enthusiasm I stood up, I pressed forward, +I leaned far over towards the stage, that I might not lose a word, a +look, a gesture. When the act finished, as the curtain fell, and the +thunders of applause died away, I heard a soft low sigh near me; I +looked, and saw the Jewess! She had turned away from the young ladies +her companions, and had endeavoured to screen herself behind the pillar +against which I had been leaning. I had, for the first time, a full view +of her face and of her countenance, of great sensibility, painfully, +proudly repressed. She looked up while my eyes were fixed upon her--a +sudden and deep colour spread over her face and mounted to her temples. +In my confusion I did the very thing I should not have done, and said +the thing of all others I should not have said. I expressed a fear +that I had been standing in such a manner as to prevent her from seeing +Shylock; she bowed mildly, and was, I believe, going to speak. + +“You have indeed, sir,” interrupted Mrs. Coates, “stood so that nobody +could see nothing but yourself. So, since you mention it, and speak +without an introduction, excuse me if I suggest, against the next act, +that this young lady has never been at a play before in her life--in +Lon’on, at least. And though it i’n’t the play I should have chose for +her, yet since she is here, ‘tis better she should see something +than nothing, if gentlemen will give her leave.” I bowed in sign of +submission and repentance; and was retiring, so as to leave my place +vacant, and a full opening to the stage. But in a sweet, gentlewomanlike +voice, seeming, perhaps, more delightful from contrast, the young lady +said that she had seen and could see quite as much as she wished of the +play; and she begged that I would not quit my place. “I should oblige +her,” she added, in a lower tone, “if I would continue to stand as I had +done.” I obeyed, and placed myself so as to screen her from observation +during the whole of the next act. But now, my pleasure in the play was +over. I could no longer enjoy Macklin’s incomparable acting; I was so +apprehensive of the pain which it must give to the young Jewess. At +every stroke, characteristic of the skilful actor, or of the master +poet, I felt a strange mixture of admiration and regret. I almost wished +that Shakspeare had not written, or Macklin had not acted the part so +powerfully: my imagination formed such a strong conception of the pain +the Jewess was feeling, and my inverted sympathy, if I may so call +it, so overpowered my direct and natural feelings, that at every fresh +development of the Jew’s villany I shrunk as though I had myself been a +Jew. + +Each exclamation against this dog of a Jew, and still more every general +reflection on Jewish usury, avarice, and cruelty, I felt poignantly. No +power of imagination could make me pity Shylock, but I felt the force of +some of his appeals to justice; and some passages struck me in quite a +new light on the Jewish side of the question. + + “Many a time, and oft, + In the Rialto, you have rated me, + About my moneys and my usances; + Still have I borne it with a patient shrug; + For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe. + You call me misbeliever! cut-throat dog! + And spit upon my Jewish gabardine; + And all, for use of that which is my own. + Well, then, it now appears you need my help. + Go to, then--you come to me, and you say, + Shylock, we would have moneys; you say so. + Shall I bend low, and in a bondsman key, + With bated breath, and whisp’ring humbleness, Say this: + Fair sir, you spit on me last Wednesday; + You spurned me such a day; another time + You called me dog; and for these courtesies + I’ll lend you thus much moneys?” + +As far as Shylock was concerned, I was well content he should be used in +such a sort; but if it had been any other human creature, any other Jew +even--if it had been poor Jacob, for instance, whose image crossed my +recollection--I believe I should have taken part with him. Again, I +was well satisfied that Antonio should have hindered Shylock of half +a million, should have laughed at his losses, thwarted his bargains, +cooled his friends, heated his enemies; Shylock deserved all this: but +when he came to, + +“_What’s his reason?--I am a Jew_. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew +hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the +same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, +healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and +summer as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you strike us, +do not we die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like +you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a +Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, +what should his sufferance be, by Christian example? Why, revenge.” + +I felt at once horror of the individual Shylock, and submission to the +strength of his appeal. During the third act, during the Jessica +scenes, I longed so much to have a look at the Jewess, that I took an +opportunity of changing my position. The ladies in our box were now so +happily occupied with some young officers of the guards, that there was +no farther danger of their staring at the Jewess. I was so placed that +I could see her, without being seen; and during the succeeding acts, my +attention was chiefly directed to the study of all the changes in +her expressive countenance. I now saw and heard the play solely with +reference to her feelings; I anticipated every stroke which could touch +her, and became every moment more and more interested and delighted with +her, from the perception that my anticipations were just, and that I +perfectly knew how to read her soul, and interpret her countenance. I +saw that the struggle to repress her emotion was often the utmost she +could endure; and at last I saw, or fancied I saw, that she grew so +pale, that, as she closed her eyes at the same instant, I was certain +she was going to faint; and quite forgetting that I was an utter +stranger to her, I started forward--and then unprovided with an apology, +could only turn to Mrs. Coates, and fear that the heat of the house was +too much for this young lady. Mrs. Coates, alarmed immediately, wished +they could get her out into the air, and regretted that her gentlemen +were not with their party to-night--there could be no getting servants +or carriage--what could be done? I eagerly offered my services, which +were accepted, and we conducted the young lady out. She did not +faint; she struggled against it; and it was evident that there was no +affectation in the case; but, on the contrary, an anxious desire not +to give trouble, and a great dread of exposing herself to public +observation. The carriage, as Mrs. Coates repeated twenty times, was +ordered not to come till after the farce, and she kept on hoping and +hoping that Miss Berry would be stout enough to go back to see “The Maid +of the Oaks.” Miss Berry did her utmost to support herself; and said she +believed she was now quite well, and could return; but I saw she wished +to get away, and I ran to see if a chair could be had. Lord Mowbray, who +had assisted in conducting the ladies out, now followed me; he saw, and +called to one of his footmen, and despatched him for a chair. + +“There, now,” said Mowbray, “we may leave the rest to Mrs. Coates, who +can elbow her own way through it. Come back with me--Mrs. Abingdon plays +Lady Bab Lardoon, her favourite character--she is incomparable, and I +would not miss it for the world.” + +I begged Mowbray to go back, for I could not leave these ladies. + +“Well,” said he, parting from me, and pursuing his own way, “I see how +it is--I see how it will be. These things are ruled in heaven above, or +hell beneath. ‘Tis in vain struggling with one’s destiny--so you to your +Jewess, and I to my little Jessica. We shall have her again, I hope, in +the farce, the prettiest creature I ever saw.” + +Mowbray hastened back to his box, and how long it might be between my +return to the Jewess, and the arrival of the chair, I do not know: it +seemed to me not above two minutes, but Mowbray insisted upon it, that +it was a full quarter of an hour. He came to me again, just as I had +received one look of silent gratitude; and while I was putting the young +lady into the chair, and bustling Mrs. Coates was giving her orders and +address to the servant, Mowbray whispered me that my mother was in an +agony, and had sent him out to see what was become of me. Mrs. Coates, +all thanks, and apologies, and hurry, now literally elbowed her way back +to her box, expressing her reiterated fears that we should lose the best +part of “The Maid of the Oaks,” which was the only farce she made it a +rule ever to stay for. In spite of her hurry and her incessant talking, +I named the thing I was intent upon. I said, that with her permission +I should do myself the honour of calling upon her the next morning to +inquire after Miss Berry’s health. + +“I am sure, sir,” she replied, “Mr. Alderman Coates, and myself, will be +particularly glad of the honour of seeing you tomorrow, or any time; +and moreover, sir, the young lady,” added she, with a shrewd, and to +me offensive smile, “the young lady no doubt’s well worth inquiring +after--a great heiress, as the saying is, as rich as a Jew she’ll be, +Miss Montenero.” + +“Miss Montenero!” repeated Lord Mowbray and I, in the same instant. “I +thought,” said I, “this young lady’s name was Berry. + +“Berry, yes--Berry, we call her, we who are intimate, I call her +for short--that is short for Berenice, which is her out o’ the way +Christian, that is, Jewish name. Mr. Montenero, the father, is a Spanish +or American Jew, I’m not clear which, but he’s a charming man for a Jew, +and the daughter most uncommon fond of him, to a degree! Can’t, now, +bear any reflections the most distant, now, sir, upon the Jews, which +was what distressed me when I found the play was to be this Jew of +Venice, and I would have come away, only that I couldn’t possibly.” Here +Mrs. Coates, without any mercy upon my curiosity about Mr. Montenero and +his daughter, digressed into a subject utterly uninteresting to me, and +would explain to us the reasons why Mr. Alderman Coates and Mr. Peter +Coates her son were not this night of her party. This lasted till we +reached her box, and then she had so much to say to all the Miss Issys, +Cecys, and Hennys, that it was with the utmost difficulty I could, even +by carefully watching my moment, obtain a card with her own, and another +with Miss Montenero’s address. This time there was no danger of my +losing it. I rejoiced to see that Miss Montenero did not live with Mrs. +Coates. + +For all further satisfaction of my curiosity, I was obliged to wait till +the next morning. + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +During the whole of the night, sleeping or waking, the images of the +fair Jewess, of Shylock, and of Mrs. Coates, were continually recurring, +and turning into one another in a most provoking manner. At breakfast my +mother did not appear; my father said that she had not slept well, and +that she would breakfast in her own apartment; this was not unusual; but +I was particularly sorry that it happened this morning, because, being +left _tête-à-tête_ with my father, and he full of a debate on the +malt-tax, which he undertook to read to me from the rival papers, and to +make me understand its merits, I was compelled to sit three-quarters of +an hour longer after breakfast than I had intended; so that the plan +I had formed of waiting upon Mr. Montenero very early, before he could +have gone out for the day, was disconcerted. When at last my father had +fairly finished, when he had taken his hat and his cane, and departing +left me, as I thought, happily at liberty to go in search of my Jewess, +another detainer came. At the foot of the stairs my mother’s woman +appeared, waiting to let me know that her lady begged I would not go out +till she had seen me--adding, that she would be with me in less than a +quarter of an hour. + +I flung down my hat, I believe, with rather too marked an expression of +impatience; but five minutes afterwards came a knock at the door. Mr. +Montenero was announced, and I blessed my mother, my father, and the +malt-tax, for having detained me at home. The first appearance of Mr. +Montenero more than answered my expectations. He had that indescribable +air, which, independently of the fashion of the day, or the mode of any +particular country, distinguishes a gentleman--dignified, courteous, and +free from affectation. From his features, he might have been thought +a Spaniard--from his complexion, an East Indian; but he had a peculiar +cast of countenance, which seemed not to belong to either nation. He had +uncommonly black penetrating eyes, with a serious, rather melancholy, +but very benevolent expression. He was past the meridian of life. +The lines in his face were strongly marked; but they were not the +common-place wrinkles of ignoble age, nor the contractions of any of the +vulgar passions: they seemed to be the traces of thought and feeling. He +entered into conversation directly and easily. I need not say that this +conversation was immediately interesting, for he spoke of Berenice. His +thanks to me were, I thought, peculiarly gentlemanlike, neither too +much nor too little. Of course, I left him at liberty to attribute her +indisposition to the heat of the playhouse, and I stood prepared to +avoid mentioning Shylock to Jewish ears; but I was both surprised and +pleased by the openness and courage with which he spoke on the very +subject from which I had fancied he would have shrunk. Instead of +looking for any excuse for Miss Montenero’s indisposition, he at once +named the real cause; she had been, he said, deeply affected by the +representation of Shylock; that detestable Jew, whom the genius of the +greatest poet that ever wrote, and the talents of one of the greatest +actors who had ever appeared, had conspired to render an object of +public execration. “But recently arrived in London,” continued Mr. +Montenero, “I have not had personal opportunity of judging of this +actor’s talent; but no Englishman can have felt more strongly than I +have, the power of your Shakspeare’s genius to touch and rend the human +heart.” + +Mr. Montenero spoke English with a foreign accent, and something of a +foreign idiom; but his ideas and feelings forced their way regardless of +grammatical precision, and I thought his foreign accent agreeable. To an +Englishman, what accent that conveys the praise of Shakspeare can +fail to be agreeable? The most certain method by which a foreigner +an introduce himself at once to the good-will and good opinion of an +Englishman, is by thus doing homage to this national object of idolatry. +I perceived that Mr. Montenero’s was not a mere compliment--he spoke +with real feeling. “In this instance,” resumed he, “we poor Jews have +felt your Shakspeare’s power to our cost--too severely, and, considering +all the circumstances, rather unjustly, you are aware.” + +“_Considering all the circumstances_,” I did not precisely understand; +but I endeavoured, as well as I could, to make some general apology for +Shakspeare’s severity, by adverting to the time when he wrote, and the +prejudices which then prevailed. + +“True,” said he; “and as a dramatic poet, it was his business, I +acknowledge, to take advantage of the popular prejudice as a _power_--as +a means of dramatic pathos and effect; yet you will acknowledge that we +Jews must feel it peculiarly hard, that the truth of the story on which +the poet founded his plot should have been completely sacrificed to +fiction, so that the characters were not only misrepresented, but +reversed.” + +I did not know to what Mr. Montenero meant to allude: however, I +endeavoured to pass it off with a slight bow of general acquiescence, +and the hundred-times-quoted remark, that poets always succeed better +in fiction than in truth. Mr. Montenero had quick penetration--he saw my +evasion, and would not let me off so easily. He explained. + +“In the _true_ story, [Footnote: See Stevens’ Life of Sixtus V., +and Malone’s Shakspeare.] from which Shakspeare took the plot of the +Merchant of Venice, it was a Christian who acted the part of the Jew, +and the Jew that of the Christian; it was a Christian who insisted +upon having the pound of flesh from next the Jew’s heart. But,” as +Mr. Montenero repeated, “Shakspeare was right, as a dramatic poet, in +reversing the characters.” + +Seeing me struck, and a little confounded, by this statement, and even +by his candour, Mr. Montenero said, that perhaps his was only the Jewish +version of the story, and he quickly went on to another subject, one far +more agreeable to me--to Berenice. He hoped that I did not suspect her +of affectation from any thing that had passed; he was aware, little +as he knew of fine ladies, that they sometimes were pleased to make +themselves noticed, perhaps rather troublesome, by the display of their +sensibility; but he assured me that his Berenice was not of this sort. + +Of this I was perfectly convinced. The moment he pronounced the name of +Berenice, he paused, and looked as if he were afraid he should say too +much of her; and I suppose I looked as I felt--afraid that he would not +say enough. He gently bowed his head and went on. “There are reasons why +she was peculiarly touched and moved by that exhibition. Till she came +to Europe--to England--she was not aware, at least not practically +aware, of the strong prepossessions which still prevail against us +Jews.” He then told me that his daughter had passed her childhood +chiefly in America, “in a happy part of that country, where religious +distinctions are scarcely known--where characters and talents are all +sufficient to attain advancement--where the Jews form a respectable part +of the community--where, in most instances, they are liberally educated, +many following the honourable professions of law and physic with credit +and ability, and associating with the best society that country affords. +Living in a retired village, her father’s the only family of Israelites +who resided in or near it, all her juvenile friendships and attachments +had been formed with those of different persuasions; yet each had looked +upon the variations of the other as things of course, or rather as +things which do not affect the moral character--differences which take +place in every society.”--“My daughter was, therefore, ill prepared,” + said Mr. Montenero, “for European prepossessions; and with her feeling +heart and strong affection for those she loves, no wonder that she has +often suffered, especially on my account, since we came to England; and +she has become, to a fault, tender and susceptible on this point.” + +I could not admit that there was any fault on her part; but I regretted +that England should be numbered among the countries subject to such +prejudices. I hoped, I added, that such illiberality was now confined to +the vulgar, that is, the ill-educated and the ill-informed. + +The well-educated and well-informed, he answered, were, of course, +always the most liberal, and were usually the same in all countries. He +begged pardon if he had expressed himself too generally with respect +to England. It was the common fault of strangers and foreigners to +generalize too quickly, and to judge precipitately of the whole of a +community from a part. The fact was, that he had, by the business which +brought him to London, been unfortunately thrown among some vulgar +rich of contracted minds, who, though they were, as he was willing +to believe, essentially good and good-natured persons, had made his +Berenice suffer, sometimes more than they could imagine, by their want +of delicacy, and want of toleration. + +As Mr. Montenero spoke these words, the image of vulgar, ordering Mrs. +Coates--that image which had persecuted me half the night, by ever +obtruding between me and the fair Jewess--rose again full in my view. I +settled immediately, that it was she and her tribe of Issys, and Cecys, +and Hennys, and Queeneys, were “the vulgar rich” to whom Mr. Montenero +alluded. I warmly expressed my indignation against those who could +have been so brutal as to make Miss Montenero suffer by their vile +prejudices. + +“_Brutal_,” Mr. Montenero repeated, smiling at my warmth, “is too strong +an expression: there was no brutality in the case. I must have expressed +myself ill to give rise to such an idea. There was only a little want of +consideration for the feelings of others--a little want of liberality.” + +Even so I could not bear the thought that Miss Montenero should have +been, on her first arrival in England, thrown among persons who might +give her quite a false idea of the English, and a dislike to the +country. + +“There is no danger of that sort,” he replied. “Had she been disposed to +judge so rashly and uncharitably, the humane and polite attentions she +met with last night from a gentleman who was an utter stranger to her, +and who could only know that she was a foreigner in want of assistance, +must have been to her at once conviction and reproof.” (I bowed, +delighted with Mr. Montenero and with myself.) “But I hope and believe,” + continued he, “that my Berenice is not disposed to form uncharitable +judgments either of individuals or nations; especially not of the +English, of whom she has, from their history and literature, with which +we are not wholly unacquainted, conceived the highest ideas.” I bowed +again, though not quite so much delighted with this general compliment +to my nation as by that peculiar to myself. I expressed my hopes that +the English would justify this favourable prepossession, and that on +farther acquaintance with different societies in London, Mr. and Miss +Montenero would find, that among the higher classes in this country +there is no want of liberality of opinion, and certainly no want of +delicacy of sentiment and manner--no want of attention to the feelings +of those who are of a different persuasion from ourselves. Just at this +moment my mother entered the room. Advancing towards Mr. Montenero, she +said, with a gracious smile, “You need not introduce us to each other, +my dear Harrington, for I am sure that I have the pleasure of seeing Mr. +Clive, from India.” + +“Mr. Montenero, from America, ma’am.” + +“Mr. Montenero! I am happy to have the honour--the pleasure--I am very +happy--” + +My mother’s politeness struggled against truth; but whilst I feared that +Mr. Montenero’s penetration would discern that there was no pleasure +in the honour, a polite inquiry followed concerning Miss Montenero’s +indisposition. Then, after an ineffectual effort to resume the ease and +cordiality of her manner, my mother leaned back languidly on the sofa, +and endeavoured to account for the cloud which settled on her brow by +adverting to the sleepless night she had passed, and to the fears of an +impending headache; assuring Mr. Montenero at the same time that society +and conversation were always of service to her. I was particularly +anxious to detain, and to draw him out before my mother, because I felt +persuaded that his politeness of manner, and his style of conversation, +would counteract any _presentiment_ or prejudice she had conceived +against him and his race. He seemed to lend himself to my views, and +with benevolent politeness exerted himself to entertain my mother. A Don +Quixote was on the table, in which there were some good prints, and from +these he took occasion to give us many amusing and interesting accounts +of Spain, where he had passed the early part of his life. From Don +Quixote to Gil Blas--to the Duc de Lerma--to the tower of Segovia--to +the Inquisition--to the Spanish palaces and Moorish antiquities, he let +me lead him backwards and forwards as I pleased. My mother was very fond +of some of the old Spanish ballads and Moorish romances: I led to the +_Rio Verde_, and the fair Zaida, and the Moor Alcanzor, with whom both +in their Moorish and English dress Mr. Montenero was well acquainted, +and of whom he was enthusiastically fond. + +My mother was fond of painting: I asked some questions concerning the +Spanish painters, particularly about Murillo; of one of his pictures +we had a copy, and my mother had often wished to see the original. Mr. +Montenero said he was happy in having it in his power to gratify her +wish; he possessed the original of this picture. But few of Murillo’s +paintings had at this time found their way out of Spain; national and +regal pride had preserved them with jealous care; but Mr. Montenero +had inherited some of Murillo’s master-pieces. These, and a small but +valuable collection of pictures which he had been many years in forming, +were now in England: they were not yet arranged as he could wish, but +an apartment was preparing for them; and in the mean time, he should +be happy to have the honour of showing them to us and to any of our +friends. He particularly addressed himself to my mother; she replied in +those general terms of acquiescence and gratitude, which are used when +there is no real intention to accept an invitation, but yet a wish to +avoid such an absolute refusal as should appear ill-bred. I, on the +contrary, sincerely eager to accept the offered favour, fixed instantly +the time, and the soonest possible. I named the next day at one o’clock. +Mr. Montenero then took his leave, and as the door closed after him, I +stood before my mother, as if waiting for judgment; she was silent. + +“Don’t you think him agreeable, ma’am?” + +“Very agreeable.” + +“I knew you would think so, my dear mother; an uncommonly agreeable +man.” + +“But--” + +“But what, ma’am?” + +“But so much the worse.” + +“How so, ma’am? Because he is a Jew, is he forbidden to be agreeable?” + said I, smiling. + +“Pray be serious, Harrington--I say the more agreeable this man is, the +better his manner, the more extensive his information, the higher the +abilities he possesses, the greater are his means of doing mischief.” “A +conclusive argument,” said. I, “against the possession of good manners, +information, abilities, and every agreeable and useful quality! and an +argument equally applicable to Jews and Christians.” + +“Argument!” repeated my mother: “I know, my dear, I am not capable +of arguing with you--indeed I am not fond of arguments, they are so +unfeminine: I seldom presume to give even my opinion, except on subjects +of sentiment and feeling; there ladies may venture, I suppose, to have +a voice as well as gentlemen, perhaps better, sometimes. In the present +case, it may be very ridiculous; but I own that, notwithstanding this +Mr. Montenero is what you’d call an uncommonly agreeable man, there is +a something about him--in short, I feel something like an antipathy +to him--and in the whole course of my life I have never been misled by +these _antipathies_. I don’t say they are reasonable, I only say that +I can’t help feeling them; and if they never mislead us, you know +they have all the force of instincts, and in some cases instincts are +superior even to that reason of which man is so proud.” + +I did not advert to the _if_, on which this whole reasoning rested, but +I begged my mother would put herself out of the question for one moment, +and consider to what injustice and intolerance such antipathies would +lead in society. + +“Perhaps in general it might be so,” she said; “but in this particular +instance she was persuaded she was right and _correct_; and after all, +is there a human being living who is not influenced at first sight by +countenance! Does not Lavater say that even a cockchafer and a dish of +tea have a physiognomy?” + +I could not go quite so far as to admit the cockchafer’s physiognomy in +our judgment of characters. “But then, ma’am,” concluded I, “before we +can judge, before we can decide, we should see what is called the play +of the countenance--we should see the working of the muscles. Now, for +instance, when we have seen Mr. Montenero two or three times, when we +have studied the muscles of his countenance--” + +“I! I study the muscles of the man’s countenance!” interrupted my +mother, indignantly; “I never desire to see him or his muscles again! +Jew, Turk, or _Mussulman_, let me hear no more about him. Seriously, my +dear Harrington, this is the subject on which I wished to speak to you +this morning, to warn you from forming this dangerous acquaintance. +I dreamed last night--but I know you won’t listen to dreams; I have a +_presentiment_--but you have no faith in _presentiments_: what shall I +say to you?--Oh! my dear Harrington, I appeal to your own heart--your +own feelings, your own conscience, must tell you all I at this moment +foresee and dread. Oh! with your ardent, too ardent imagination--your +susceptibility! Surely, surely, there is an absolute fatality in these +things! At the very moment I was preparing to warn you, Mr. Montenero +appears, and strengthens the dangerous impression. And after all the +pains I took to prevent your ever meeting, is it not extraordinary that +you should meet his daughter at the playhouse? Promise me, I conjure +you,” cried she, turning and seizing both my hands, “promise me, my dear +son, that you will see no more of this Jew and Jewess.” + +It was a promise I could not, would not make:--some morning visitors +came in and relieved me. My mother’s imagination was as vivacious, but +not as tenacious as my own. There was in her a feminine mobility, which, +to my masculine strength of passion, and consequent tenacity of purpose, +appeared often inconceivable, and sometimes provoking. In a few minutes +her fancy turned to old china and new lace, and all the fears which had +so possessed and agitated her mind subsided. + +Among the crowd of morning visitors, Lady Anne Mowbray ran in and +ran out; fortunately she could not stay one minute, and still more +fortunately my mother did not hear a word she said, or even see her +ladyship’s exit and entrance, so many ladies had encompassed my +mother’s sofa, displaying charming bargains of French lace. The subject +abstracted their attention, and engrossed all their faculties. Lady Anne +had just called to tell me a secret, that her mother had been saying +all the morning to every body, how odd it was of Mr. Harrington to take +notice whether a Jewess fainted or not. Lady Anne said, for her part, +she had taken my part; she did not think it _so_ odd of me, but she +thought it odd and ridiculous of the Jewess to faint about Shylock. But +the reason she called was, because she was dying with curiosity to know +if I had heard any more about the Jewess. Was she an heiress or not? I +must find out and tell: she had heard--but she could not stay now--going +to ride in the park. + +I had often observed that my mother’s _presentiments_ varied from day +to day, according to the state of her nerves, or of some slight external +circumstances. I was extremely anxious to prevail upon her to accompany +me to see the Spanish pictures, and I therefore put off my visit for +a day, when I found my mother had engaged herself to attend a party of +fair encouragers of smugglers to a cheap French lace shop. I wrote an +apology to Mr. Montenero, and Heaven knows how much it cost me. But +my heroic patience was of no avail; I could not persuade my mother to +accompany me. To all her former feelings, the pride of opinion and the +jealousy of maternal affection were now added; she was piqued to prove +herself in the right, and vexed to see that, right or wrong, I would not +yield to her entreaties. I thought I acted solely from the dictates of +pure reason and enlightened philanthropy. + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +Mowbray was curious, he said, to know how the Jewess would look by +daylight, and he begged that he might accompany me to see the pictures. +As I had told him that I had permission to take with me any of my +friends, I could not refuse his request, though I must own that I would +rather have gone without him. I was a little afraid of his raillery, and +of the quickness of his observation. During our walk, however, he with +address--with that most irresistible kind of address, which assumes +an air of perfect frankness and cordiality, contrived to dissipate my +feelings of embarrassment; and by the time we got to Mr. Montenero’s +door, I rejoiced that I had with me a friend and supporter. + +“A handsome house--a splendid house, this,” said Mowbray, looking up +at the front, as we waited for admission. “If the inside agree with the +out, faith, Harrington, your Jewish heiress will soon be heard of +on ‘Change, and at court too, you’ll see. Make haste and secure your +interest in her, I advise you.” + +To our great disappointment the servant told us that neither Mr. nor +Miss Montenero was at home. But orders had been left with a young man +of his to attend me and my company. At this moment I heard a well-known +voice on the stairs, and Jacob, poor Jacob, appeared: joy flashed in +his face at the sight of me; he flew down stairs, and across the hall, +exclaiming, “It is--it is my own good Mr. Harrington!” + +But he started back at the sight of Mowbray, and his whole countenance +and manner changed. In an embarrassed voice, he began to explain why +Mr. Montenero was not at home; that he had waited yesterday in hopes of +seeing me at the appointed time, till my note of apology had arrived. +I had not positively named any day for my visit, and Mr. Montenero had +particular business that obliged him to go out this morning, but that he +would be back in an hour: “Meantime, sir, as Mr. Montenero has desired,” + said Jacob, “I shall have the honour of showing the pictures to you and +your friend.” + +It was not till he came to the words _your friend_, that Jacob +recollected to bow to Lord Mowbray, and even then it was a stiff-necked +bow. Mowbray, contrary to his usual assurance, looked a little +embarrassed, yet spoke to Jacob as to an old acquaintance. + +Jacob led us through several handsome, I might say splendid, apartments, +to the picture-room. + +“Good! Good!” whispered Mowbray, as we went along, till the moment +we entered the picture-room; then making a sudden stop, and start of +recollection, and pulling out his watch, he declared that he had till +that minute forgotten an indispensable engagement--that he must come +some other day to see these charming pictures. He begged that I would +settle that for him--he was excessively sorry, but go he must--and off +he went immediately. + +The instant he was out of sight, Jacob seemed relieved from the +disagreeable constraint under which he laboured, and his delight was +manifest when he had me to himself. I conceived that Jacob still +felt resentment against Mowbray, for the old quarrel at school. I was +surprised at this, and in my own mind I blamed Jacob. + +I have always found it the best way to speak openly, and to go to the +bottom of mysteries and quarrels at once: so turning to Jacob, I asked +him, whether, in right of our former acquaintance, I might speak to him +with the freedom of one who heartily wished him well? The tears came +into his eyes, and he could only say, “Speak, pray--and thank you, sir.” + +“Then, Jacob,” said I, “I thought you could not for such a number of +years bear malice for a schoolboy’s offence; and yet your manner just +now to Lord Mowbray--am I mistaken?--set me right, if I am--did I +misinterpret your manner, Jacob?” + +“No, sir,” said he, looking up in my face, with his genuine expression +of simplicity and openness; “no, sir, you do not mistake, nor +misinterpret Jacob’s manner; you know him too well, and his manner tells +too plainly; you do not misinterpret the feeling, but you mistake the +cause; and since you are so kind as to desire me to set you right, I +will do so; but it is too long a story to tell while you are standing.” + +“Not at all--I am interested--go on.” + +“I should not,” said Jacob, “be worthy of this interest--this regard, +which it is joy to my very heart to see that you still feel for me--I +should not be worthy in the least of it, if I could bear malice so many +years for a schoolboy’s offence. + +“No, Mr. Harrington, the schoolboy young lord is forgotten. But long +since that time, since this young lord has been grown into a man, and an +officer--at Gibraltar--” + +The recollection of whatever it was that happened at Gibraltar seemed to +come at this instant so full upon Jacob’s feelings, that he could not go +on. He took up his story farther back. He reminded me of the time when +we had parted at Cambridge; he was then preparing to go to Gibraltar, +to assist in keeping a store there, for the brother and partner of +his friend and benefactor, the London jeweller, Mr. Manessa, who had +ventured a very considerable part of his fortune upon this speculation. + +About that time many Jews had enriched themselves at Gibraltar, by +keeping stores for the troops; and during the siege it was expected that +it would be a profitable business. Mr. Manessa’s store under Jacob’s +care went on prosperously till the day when Lord Mowbray arrived at +Gibraltar with a regiment, of which, young as he was, he had been +appointed lieutenant-colonel: “He recognized me the first time we met; +I saw he was grown into a fine-looking officer; and indeed, Mr. +Harrington, I saw him, without bearing the least malice for any little +things that had passed, which I thought, as you say, were only schoolboy +follies. But in a few minutes I found, to my sorrow, that he was not +changed in mind towards me. + +“His first words at meeting me in the public streets were, ‘So! are +you here, _young Shylock?_ What brings you to Gibraltar? You are of the +tribe of Gad, I think, _thou Wandering Jew!_’ + +“Lord Mowbray’s servants heard, and caught their lord’s witticism: the +serjeants and soldiers repeated the colonel’s words, and the nicknames +spread through the regiment, and through the garrison; wherever I +turned, I heard them echoed: poor Jacob was called _young Shylock_ by +some, and by others the _Wandering Jew_. It was a bitter jest, and soon +became bitter earnest. + +“The ignorant soldiers really believed me to be that Jew whom Christians +most abominate. [Footnote: See Percy’s Reliques of Ancient Poetry, for +the ballad of the Wandering Jew.] + +“The common people felt a superstitious dread of me: the mothers charged +their children to keep out of my way; and if I met them in the streets, +they ran away and hid themselves. + +“You may think, sir, I was not happy. I grew melancholy; and my +melancholy countenance, they said, was a proof that I was what I was +said to be. I was ashamed to show my face. I lost all relish for my +food, and began to pine away. My master noticed it, and he was sorry +for me; he took my part, and spoke to the young lord, who thereupon grew +angry, and high words passed; the young lord cursed at my master for an +insolent Jew dog. As to me, his lordship swore that he knew me from a +boy; that he had known enough of my tricks, and that of course for that +I must bear him malice; and he vowed I should not bear it to him for +nothing. + +“From that day there was a party raised against us in the garrison. Lord +Mowbray’s soldiers of course took his part; and those who were most +his favourites abused us the most. They never passed our store any day +without taunt and insult; ever repeating the names their colonel had +given me. It was hard to stand still and mute, and bear every thing, +without reply. But I was determined not to bring my master into any +quarrel, so I bore all. Presently the time came when there was great +distress for provisions in the garrison; then the cry against the Jews +was terrible: but I do not wish to say more of what followed than is +necessary to my own story. You must have heard, sir, of the riot at +Gibraltar, the night when the soldiery broke into the spirit stores?” + +I had read accounts of some such thing in the newspapers of the day; +I had heard of excesses committed by the soldiery, who were enraged +against the Jew merchants; and I recollected some story [Footnote: +Drinkwater’s Siege of Gibraltar.] of the soldiers having roasted a pig +before a Jew’s door, with a fire made of the Jew’s own cinnamon. + +“That fire, sir,” said Jacob, “was made before our door: it was kindled +by a party of Lord Mowbray’s soldiers, who, madly intoxicated with +the spirits they had taken from the stores, came in the middle of that +dreadful night to our house, and with horrible shouts, called upon my +master to give up to them the _Wandering Jew_. My master refusing to do +this, they burst open his house, pillaged, wasted, destroyed, and burnt +all before our eyes! We lost every thing! I do not mean to say _we--I_, +poor Jacob, had little to lose. It is not of that, though it was my all, +it is not of that I speak--but my master! From a rich man in one hour he +became a beggar! The fruit of all his labour lost--nothing left for +his wife or children! I never can forget his face of despair by that +fire-light. I think I see it now! He did not recover it, sir,--he died +of a broken heart. He was the best and kindest of masters to me. And can +you wonder now, Mr. Harrington, or do you blame Jacob, that he could +not look upon that lord with a pleased eye, nor smile when he saw him +again?” + +I did not blame Jacob--I liked him for the warmth of his feeling for his +master. When he was a little composed, however, I represented that his +affection and pity might have raised his indignation too strongly, +and might have made him impute to Lord Mowbray a greater share than he +really had in their misfortunes. Lord Mowbray was a very young officer +at that time, too young to be trusted with the command of men in such +difficult circumstances. His lordship had been exceedingly blamable in +giving, even in jest, the nicknames which had prejudiced his soldiers +against an innocent individual; but I could not conceive that he had a +serious design to injure; nor could he, as I observed, possibly foresee +the fatal consequences that afterwards ensued. As to the excesses of +his soldiers, for their want of discipline he was answerable; but Jacob +should recollect the distress to which the soldiers had been previously +reduced, and the general prejudice against those who were supposed to be +the cause of the scarcity. Lord Mowbray might be mistaken like others; +but as to his permitting their outrages, or directing them against +individual Jews whom he disliked, I told Jacob it was impossible for me +to believe it. Why did not the Jew merchant state his complaint to the +general, who had, as Jacob allowed, punished all the soldiers who +had been convicted of committing outrages? If Lord Mowbray had been +complained of by Mr. Manessa, a court-martial would have been held; +and if the charges had been substantiated, his title of colonel or lord +would have availed him nothing--he would have been broke. Jacob +said, his poor master, who was ruined and in despair, thought not of +courts-martial--perhaps he had no legal proofs--perhaps he dreaded, with +reason, the popular prejudice in the garrison, and dared not, being a +Jew, appear against a Christian officer. How that might have been, Jacob +said, he did not know--all he knew was that his master was very ill, and +that he returned to England soon afterwards. + +But still, argued I, if Lord Mowbray had not been brought to a +court-martial, if it had been known among his brother officers that he +had been guilty of such unofficer-like conduct, no British officer would +have kept company with him. I was therefore convinced that Jacob +must have been misinformed and deceived by exaggerated reports, and +prejudiced by the warmth of his own feelings for the loss of his master. +Jacob listened to me with a look of incredulity, yet as if with a wish +to believe that I was right: he softened gradually--he struggled with +his feelings. + +“He knew,” he said, “that it was our Christian precept to forgive our +enemies--a very good precept: but was it easy? Did all Christians find +it easy to put it in practice? And you, Mr. Harrington, you who can have +no enemies, how can you judge?” + +Jacob ended by promising, with a smile, that he would show me that a Jew +could forgive. + +Then, eager to discard the subject, he spoke of other things. I thanked +him for his having introduced me to Mr. Israel Lyons:--he was delighted +to hear of the advantage I had derived from this introduction at +Cambridge, and of its having led to my acquaintance with Mr. Montenero. + +He had been informed of my meeting Miss Montenero at the theatre: and +he told me of his hopes and fears when he heard her say she had been +assisted by a gentleman of the name of Harrington. + +I did not venture, however, to speak much of Miss Montenero; but I +expatiated on the pleasure I had in Mr. Montenero’s conversation, and on +the advantages I hoped to derive from cultivating his society. + +Jacob, always more disposed to affection and gratitude than to suspicion +or revenge, seemed happy to be relieved from the thoughts of Lord +Mowbray, and he appeared inspired with fresh life and spirit when he +talked of Mr. Montenero and his daughter. He mentioned their kindness +to the widow and children of his deceased master, and of Mr. Montenero’s +goodness to the surviving brother and partner, the London jeweller, +Mr. Manessa, Jacob’s first benefactor. The Manessas had formerly been +settled in Spain, at the time Mr. Montenero had lived there; and when +he was in some difficulties with the Inquisition, they had in some +way essentially served him, either in assisting his escape from that +country, or in transmitting his property. Jacob was not acquainted with +the particulars, but he knew that Mr. Montenero was most grateful for +the obligation, whatever it had been; and now that he was rich and the +Manessas in distress, he seemed to think he could never do enough for +them. Jacob became first acquainted, as he told me, with Mr. Montenero +in consequence of his connexion with this family. The widow had +represented him as being a faithful friend, and the two children of +his deceased master were fond of him. Mr. Montenero’s attachment to the +Manessas immediately made him take notice of Jacob. Jacob told me that +he was to go to their house in the city, and to take charge of their +affairs, as soon as they could be settled; and that Mr. Montenero +had promised if possible to obtain for him a share in the firm of the +surviving brother and partner. In the mean time Jacob was employed +by Mr. Montenero in making out catalogues of his books and pictures, +arranging his library and cabinet of medals, &c., to all which he was +fully competent. Jacob said he rejoiced that these occupations would +keep him a little while longer at Mr. Montenero’s, as he should there +have more frequent opportunities of seeing me, than he could hope for +when he should be at the other end of the town. “Besides,” added he, +“I don’t know how I shall ever be able to do without the kindness Mr. +Montenero shows me; and as for Miss Montenero--!” Jacob’s countenance +expanded, and his voice was by turns softened into tenderness, and +raised to enthusiasm, as he again spoke of the father and daughter: +and when my mind was touched and warmed by his panegyric of +Berenice--pronounced with the true eloquence of the heart--she, leaning +on her father’s arm, entered the room. The dignified simplicity, +the graceful modesty of her appearance, so unlike the fashionable +forwardness or the fashionable bashfulness, or any of the various airs +of affectation, which I had seen in Lady Anne Mowbray and her class of +young ladies, charmed me perhaps the more from contrast and from the +novelty of the charm. There was a timid sensibility in her countenance +when I spoke to her, which joined to the feminine reserve of her whole +manner, the tone of her voice, and the propriety and elegance of the +very little she said, pleased me inexpressibly. I wished only that she +had said more. However, when her father spoke, it seemed to be almost +the same as if she spoke herself--her sympathy with him appeared so +strongly. He began by speaking of Jacob: he was glad to find that I was +_the_ Mr. Harrington whom Jacob had been so eager to see. It was evident +that they knew all the good that grateful young man could tell of me; +and the smile which I received from the father and daughter at this +instant would have overpaid me for any obligations I could have +conferred. Jacob retired, observing that he had taken up all the time +with the history of his own private affairs, and that I had not yet +seen any of the pictures. Mr. Montenero immediately led me to one of +Murillo’s, regretting that he had not the pleasure of showing it to my +mother. I began to speak of her sorrow at not being able to venture out; +I made some apology, but whatever it was, I am sure I did not, I could +not, pronounce it well. Mr. Montenero bowed his head courteously, +removed his eyes from my face, and glanced for one moment at Miss +Montenero with a look of regret, quickly succeeded by an expression in +his countenance of calm and proud independence. He was sorry, he +said, that he could not have the honour of seeing Mrs. Harrington--the +pleasure of presenting his daughter to her. + +I perceived that he was aware of what I had hoped had escaped his +penetration--my mother’s prepossession against him and his daughter. I +saw that he attributed it to a general prejudice against his race and +religion, and I perceived that this hurt his feelings much, though his +pride or his philosophy quickly repressed his sensibility. He never +afterwards spoke of my mother--never hoped to see her another day--nor +hoped even that the cold, which had prevented her from venturing out, +would be better. I was the more vexed and ashamed that I had not been +able to bring my mother with me. I turned the conversation as quickly as +I could to Mr. Israel Lyons. + +I observed, by what Mr. Montenero said, that from the information he had +received from Mr. Lyons and from Jacob, he was thoroughly aware of my +early prejudices and antipathy to the Jews. He observed to his daughter, +that Mr. Harrington had double merit in his present liberality, since he +had conquered what it is so difficult, scarcely possible, completely to +conquer--an early prepossession, fostered perhaps by the opinion of many +who must have had great influence on his mind. Through this compliment, +I thought I saw in Mr. Montenero’s, and still more in the timid +countenance of his daughter, a fear that I might relapse; and that +_these early prepossessions, which were so difficult, scarcely possible, +completely to conquer_, might recur. I promised myself that I should +soon convince them they were mistaken, if they had formed any such +notion, and I was flattered by the fear, as it implied that I had +inspired some interest. We went on with the pictures. Not being a +connoisseur, though fond of the arts, I was relieved and pleased to find +that Mr. Montenero had none of the jargon of connoisseurship: while his +observations impressed me with a high idea of his taste and judgment, +they gave me some confidence in my own. I was delighted to find that I +understood, and could naturally and truly agree with all he said, and +that my untutored preferences were what they ought to be, according to +the right rules of art and science. In short, I was proud to find that +my taste was in general the same as his and his daughter’s. What pleased +me far more than Mr. Montenero’s taste, was the liberality and the +enlargement of mind I saw in all his opinions and sentiments. There was +in him a philosophic calmness and moderation; his reason seemed to have +worked against great natural sensibility, perhaps susceptibility, till +this calm had become the unvarying temper of his mind. I fancied, also, +that I perceived a constant care in him to cultivate the same temper in +his daughter, and to fortify her against that extreme sensibility to +the opinion of others, and that diffidence of herself, to which, as I +recollected, he had formerly adverted. + +After having admired some of Murillo’s pictures, we came to one which I, +unpractised as I was in judging of painting, immediately perceived to be +inferior. + +“You are quite right,” said Mr. Montenero; “it is inferior to Murillo, +and the sudden sense of this inferiority absolutely broke the painter’s +heart. This picture is by a painter of the name of Castillo, who had +thought comfortably well of himself, till he saw the master-pieces +of Murillo’s genius; Castillo surveyed them for some time in absolute +silence, then turning away, exclaimed _Castillo is no more!_ and soon +Castillo was no more. From that moment he pined away, and shortly +afterwards died: not from envy,” continued Mr. Montenero; “no, he was a +man of mild, amiable temper, incapable of envy; but he fell a victim +to excessive sensibility--a dangerous, though not a common vice of +character.” + +“Weakness, not vice, I hope,” I heard Miss Montenero say in a low voice. + +The father answered with a sigh, “_that_, however, cannot be called a +virtue, which incapacitates from the exercise of independent virtue, and +which, as you find, not only depresses genius, but may extinguish life +itself.” + +Mr. Montenero then turned to me, and with composure went on speaking of +the pictures. Ever since I knew I was to see these, I had been studying +Cumberland’s Lives of the Spanish Painters, and this I honestly told +Mr. Montenero, when he complimented me upon my knowing all the names and +anecdotes to which he alluded: he smiled--so did his daughter; and he +was so good as to say that he liked me better for telling him this +so candidly, than if I had known all that the connoisseurs and +anecdote-mongers, living or dead, had ever said or written. We came to +a picture by Alonzo Cano, who, excelling in architecture, statuary, and +painting, has been called the Michael Angelo of Spain. + +“He at least was not deficient in a comfortably good opinion of himself, +Mr. Montenero,” said I. “Is not it recorded of Cano, that having +finished a statue of Saint Antonio de Padua for a Spanish counsellor, +the tasteless lawyer and niggardly devotee hesitated to pay the artist +his price, observing that Cano, by his own account, had been only +twenty-five days about it? The counsellor sat down, with stupid +self-sufficiency, to calculate, that at a hundred pistoles, divided by +twenty-five days, the artist would be paid at a higher rate than he was +himself for the exercise of his talents. ‘Wretch! talk to me of your +talents!’ exclaimed the enraged artist; ‘I have been fifty years +learning to make this statue in twenty-five days!’ And as he spoke, +Cano dashed his statue to pieces on the pavement of the academy. The +affrighted counsellor fled from the house with the utmost precipitation, +concluding that the man who was bold enough to destroy a saint, would +have very little remorse in destroying a lawyer. + +“Happily for Cano, this story did not reach the ears of the +Inquisition,” said Mr. Montenero, “or he would have been burnt alive.” + +Mr. Montenero then pointed out some exquisite pieces by this artist, and +spoke with enthusiasm of his genius. I perceived some emotion, of which +I could not guess the cause, in the countenance of his daughter; +she seemed touched by what her father said about this painter or his +pictures. + +Mr. Montenero concluded his panegyric on Cano’s genius by saying, +“Besides being a great genius, we are told that he was very religious, +and, some few peculiarities excepted, very charitable.” + +“You are very charitable, I am sure,” said Miss Montenero, looking at +her father, and smiling: “I am not sure that I could speak so charitably +of that man.” A sigh quickly followed her smile, and I now recollected +having heard or read that this painter bore such an antipathy to the +Jews, that he considered every touch of theirs as contamination; and, if +he accidentally came in contact with them, would cast off and give away +his clothes, forbidding the servant to whom he gave them, on any account +to wear them. + +Miss Montenero saw that I recollected to what she alluded--that I had +a just feeling of the benevolent magnanimity of her father’s character. +This raised me, I perceived, in the daughter’s opinion. Though scarcely +a word passed at the moment, yet I fancied that we felt immediately +better acquainted. I ventured to go and stand beside her, from doing +which I had hitherto been prevented by I know not what insurmountable +difficulty or strange spell. + +We were both opposite to a Spanish copy of Guido’s Aurora Surgens. +I observed that the flame of the torch borne by the winged boy, +representing Lucifer, points westward, in a direction contrary to that +in which the manes of the horses, the drapery of Apollo, and that of the +dancing Hours, are blown, which seemed to me to be a mistake. + +Berenice said that Guido had taken this picture from Ovid’s description, +and that he had, with great art, represented, by the very circumstance +to which I objected, the swiftness of the motion with which the chariot +was driven forward. The current of the morning wind blowing from the +east was represented by the direction of the hair of Lucifer, and of the +flame of his torch; while the rapidity of the motion of the chariot was +such, that, notwithstanding the eastern wind, which would otherwise have +blown them towards the west, the manes of the horses, and the drapery of +the figures, were driven backwards, by the resistance of the air against +which they were hurried. She then repeated, in a pleasing but timid +manner, in support of her opinion, these two beautiful lines of +Addison’s translation: + + “With winged speed outstrips the eastern wind, + And leaves the breezes of the morn behind.” + +I need not say that I was delighted with this criticism, and with the +modest manner in which it was spoken: but I could not honestly help +remarking that, to the description immediately alluded to in Ovid, +Addison had added the second beautiful line, + + “And leaves the breezes of the morn behind.” + +Mr. Montenero looked pleased, and said to me, “It is very true, in the +immediate passage describing the chariot of the Sun issuing from the +gates of Heaven, this line is not in the original; but if you look +further back in the fable, you will find that the idea is still more +strongly expressed in the Latin than in the English.” + +It was with the utmost difficulty that I at last forced myself away, nor +was I in the least aware of the unconscionable length of my visit. What +particularly pleased me in the conversation of Miss Montenero was, that +she had none of those fashionable phrases which fill each vacuity of +sense, and which level all distinctions of understanding. There was none +of that commonplace stuff which passes for conversation in the world, +and which we hear and repeat till we are equally tired of others and of +ourselves. + +There were, besides, in her manner and countenance, indications of +perfect sweetness of temper, a sort of feminine gentleness and softness +which art cannot feign nor affectation counterfeit; a gentleness which, +while it is the charm of female manners, is perfectly consistent with +true spirit, and with the higher or the stronger qualities of the mind. +All I had seen of Miss Montenero in this first visit inspired me with +the most ardent desire to see more. Here was a woman who could fill my +whole soul; who could at once touch my heart and my imagination. I felt +inspired with new life--I had now a great object, a strong and lively +interest in existence. At parting, Mr. Montenero shook hands with me, +which, he said, he knew was the English mode of showing kindness: he +expressed an earnest, but proudly guarded wish, that I might be _so +circumstanced_, and so inclined, as to allow him the pleasure he much +desired, of cultivating my acquaintance. + + + +CHAPTER X + +The interest which Berenice inspired, so completely absorbed my mind, +that I never thought again of Jacob and his story, till I met Lady Anne +and her brother the next morning, when I went to take a ride in the +park: they were with Colonel Topham, and some people of her ladyship’s +acquaintance. + +Lady Anne, after the usual preliminary quantity of nonsense, and after +she had questioned and cross-questioned me, to the best of her slender +abilities, about the Jewess, told me a long story about herself, and her +fears, and the fears of her mare, and a horse-laugh of Mowbray’s which +Colonel Topham said no horse could stand: not much applause ensuing +from me, she returned to the witty colonel, and left me to her brother. +Mowbray directly began to talk about Jacob. He said he supposed Jacob +had not failed to make his Gibraltar story good; but that “Hear both +sides” was an indispensable maxim, even where such a favourite as Jacob +was concerned. “But first let us take one other good gallop,” said +Mowbray; “Anne, I leave you here with Mrs. Carrill and Colonel Topham;” + and away he galloped. When he thought, as he said, that he had shaken +off some of my prejudices, he drew up his horse, and talked over the +Gibraltar affair. + +His dashing, jocular, military mode of telling the thing, so different +from Jacob’s plain, mercantile, matter-of-fact method, quite changed my +view and opinion of the transaction. Mowbray blamed himself with such a +good grace, and wished so fervently that he could make any reparation to +“the poor devils who had suffered,” that I acquitted him of all malice, +and forgave his imprudence. + +The frankness with which he spoke to Jacob, when they met, was proof +conclusive to me that he was incapable, as he declared, of harbouring +any malice against Jew or Christian. He inquired most particularly into +Jacob’s own losses at Gibraltar, called for pen, ink, and paper, and in +his off-hand manner wrote a draft on his banker, and put it into Jacob’s +hand. “Here, my honest Jacob, you are a Jew whose accounts I can take +at your word. Let this settle the balance between us. No scruples, +Jacob--no present, this--nothing but remuneration for your losses.” + +Jacob accepted Lord Mowbray’s apologies, but could not by any means be +prevailed upon to accept from him any present or remuneration. He +seemed willing to forgive, but not to trust Lord Mowbray. All trace of +resentment was cleared from his countenance, but no condescension of +his lordship could move Jacob to throw off his reserve beyond a certain +point. He conquered aversion, but he would not pretend to like. Mr. +Montenero came into the room while we were speaking, and I presented +Lord Mowbray to him. There was as marked a difference as politeness +would allow in Mr. Montenero’s manner towards his lordship and towards +me, which I justly attributed to Jacob’s previous representations. We +looked at the pictures, and talked, and loitered, but I turned my eyes +in vain to the door every time it opened--no Miss Montenero appeared. +I was so much preoccupied with my object that I was silent, and left +Mowbray to make his own way, which no one was more capable of doing. In +a few minutes he was in full conversation. He went over again, without +my attending to it, his _pièce justificative_ about the riot at +Gibraltar, and Jacob, and the Manessas; and between the fits of my +reverie, I perceived Mowbray was talking of the Due de Crillon and +General Elliot, and red-hot balls; but I took no interest in the +conversation, till I heard him speak of an officers’ ball at Gibraltar, +and of dancing with a Jewess. The very night he had first landed at +Gibraltar, there happened to be a ball to which he went with a friend, +who was also just landed, and a stranger. It was the custom to draw lots +for partners. His friend, a true-born Englishman, took fright at the +foreign-sounding name of the lady who fell to his lot--Mowbray changed +tickets with him, and had, he said, great reason to rejoice. The lady +with the foreign name was a Jewess, the handsomest, the most graceful, +the most agreeable woman in the room. He was the envy of every man, +and especially of his poor friend, who too late repented his rash +renunciation of his ticket. Lord Mowbray, by several other slight +anecdotes, which he introduced with happy effect, contrived to please +Mr. Montenero; and if any unfavourable prepossession had existed against +him, it was, I thought, completely removed. For my own part, I was +delighted with his presence of mind in recollecting all that was best +worth seeing in London, and arranging parties in which we could have the +honour of attending Miss Montenero, and the pleasure of being of some +use to her. + +Mr. Montenero’s own acquaintance in London was chiefly with the families +of some of the foreign ambassadors, and with other foreigners of +distinction; but his daughter was not yet acquainted with any English +ladies, except the lady of General B----, with whom the Monteneros had +been intimate in America. Lady Emily B---- was detained in the country +by the illness of one of her family, and Miss Montenero, having declined +going into public with Mrs. Coates, would wait quietly at home till +her English friends should come to town. Again shame for my mother’s +remissness obliged me to cast down my eyes in awkward silence. But +Mowbray, Heaven bless him for it! went on fluently. This was the moment, +he said, before Miss Montenero should appear in public, and get into the +whirl of the great world, before engagements should multiply and +press upon her, as inevitably they would as soon as she had made her +début--this was the moment, and the only moment probably she would +ever have to herself, to see all that was worth a stranger’s notice in +London. Mr. Montenero was obliged to Mowbray, and I am sure so was I. + +Miss Montenero, infinitely more desirous to see than to be seen, was +pleased with the parties we arranged for her and from this time forward, +scarcely a day passed without our having the pleasure of attending +the father and daughter. My mother sighed and remonstrated in vain; my +father, absorbed in the House of Commons, was satisfied with seeing me +regularly at breakfast. He usually dined at clubs, and it was happily +his principle to let his son amuse himself his own way. But I assured +her, and truly, that I was only amusing myself, and that I had not +formed any serious intentions. I wished to see more of the lady. +Mowbray, with ready invention, continually suggested something +particularly well worth seeing or hearing, some delightful pretext for +our being together. Sometimes he accompanied us, sometimes he +excused himself--he had indispensable engagements. His _indispensable +engagements_ I knew were usually with ladies of a very different sort +from Miss Montenero. Mowbray was desperately in love with the young +actress who had played the part of Jessica, and to her he devoted every +moment he could command. I regretted for his sake his dissipated +tastes, but I felt the more obliged to him for the time he sacrificed to +friendship; and perhaps, to tell things just as they were, I was glad he +was safely in love with a Jessica of his own, as it secured me from all +apprehension of his rivalling or wishing to rival me. Miss Montenero +he confessed was not in the least to his taste. In this instance I was +quite satisfied that our tastes should completely differ. I never +liked him so well--we went on most happily together. I felt uncommonly +benevolent towards the whole world; my heart expanded with increased +affection for all my friends--every thing seemed to smile upon me--even +the weather. The most delicious morning I ever remember was that on +which we rowed along the banks of the Thames with Miss Montenero. I +always enjoyed every beautiful object in nature with enthusiasm, but now +with new delight--with all the enchantment of a first love, and of hope +that had never known disappointment. + +I was almost angry with my dear friend Mowbray, for not being as +enthusiastic this day as I was myself. + +There were certain points of taste and character on which we never could +agree; my romantic imagination and enthusiastic manner of expressing +myself, were often in contrast with his worldly comic mode of seeing and +talking. He hurt, sometimes, my feelings by his raillery--he pulled me +down too suddenly from my flights of imagination. By the flashes of his +wit he showed, perhaps too clearly, the danger of my fall from “high +sublime to deep absurd;” but, after all, I was satisfied that Miss +Montenero preferred my style, and in general I was content that he +should enjoy his dear wit and gay rhetoric--even a little at my expense. + +The morning we went to Westminster Abbey, I own I was provoked with him, +for pointing out to my observation, at the moment when my imagination +was struck with the sense of sublimity at the sight of the awful pile, +the ridiculous contrast of the showman and his keys, who was impatiently +waiting till I had finished my exclamations; but I soon forgot both the +showman and the wit, while at every step, among the illustrious dead, +my enthusiasm was raised, and some anecdote of their lives, or some +striking quotation from their works, rushed upon my mind. I was inspired +and encouraged by the approbation of the father, and the sympathy of the +daughter. + +As we were quitting the Abbey, Mr. Montenero stopped, turned to me, and +said, “You have a great deal of enthusiasm, I see, Mr. Harrington: so +much the better, in my opinion--I love generous enthusiasm.” + +And at the moment I flattered myself that the eyes of his daughter +repeated “I love generous enthusiasm,” her father caught the expression, +and immediately, with his usual care, moderated and limited what he had +said. + +“Enthusiasm well governed, of course, I mean--as one of your English +noblemen lately said, ‘There is an enthusiasm of the head, and that is +genius--there is an enthusiasm of the heart, and that is virtue--there +is an enthusiasm of the temper, and that is--’” + +Miss Montenero looked uneasy, and her father perceiving this, checked +himself again, and, changing his tone, added, “But with all its dangers +and errors, enthusiasm, in either man or woman, is more amiable and +respectable than selfishness. Enthusiasm is not the vice of the young +men or women of the present day.” + +“Certainly not,” said Mowbray, who was now very attentive to every thing +that passed. I forgave him the witticisms with which he had crossed my +humour this morning, for the kind sympathy he showed with the pleasure I +felt at this moment. Afterwards, when Mowbray and I were alone together, +and _compared notes_, as we were in the habit of doing, upon all +that had been said, and had been looked, during the day, Mowbray +congratulated me upon the impression I had made by my eloquence. +“Enthusiasm, you see, is the thing both with father and daughter: you +succeed in that line--follow it up!” + +I was incapable of affecting enthusiasm, or of acting any part to show +myself off; yet Mowbray’s opinion and my own observations coinciding, +unconsciously and involuntarily, I afterwards became more at my ease in +yielding to my natural feelings and habitual expressions. + +Miss Montenero had not yet seen the Tower, and Mowbray engaged himself +to be of our party. But at the same time, he privately begged me to keep +it a dead secret from his sister. Lady Anne, he said, would never cease +to ridicule him, if she were to hear of his going to the Tower, after +having been too lazy to go with her, and all the fashionable world, the +night before, to the Fantoccini. + +Though I had lived in London half my childhood, my nervous disease +had prevented my being taken to see even the sights that children are +usually shown; and since my late arrival in town, when I had been my own +master, engagements and emotions had pressed upon me too fast to leave +time or inclination to think of such things. My object, of course, was +now merely to have the pleasure of accompanying Berenice. + +I was unexpectedly struck, on entering the armoury at the Tower. The +walls, three hundred feet in length, covered with arms for two hundred +thousand men, burnished arms, glittering in fancy figures on the walls, +and ranged in endless piles from the ceiling to the floor of that long +gallery; then the apartment with the line of ancient kings, clad +in complete armour, mounted on their steeds fully caparisoned--the +death-like stiffness of the figures--the stillness--the silence of the +place--altogether awe the imagination, and carry the memory back to the +days of chivalry. When among these forms of kings and heroes who had +ceased to be, I beheld the Black Prince, lance couched, vizor down, with +the arms he wore at Cressy and Poictiers, my enthusiasm knew no bounds. +The Black Prince, from my childhood, had been the object of my idolatry. +I kneeled--I am ashamed to confess it--to do homage to the empty armour. + +Mr. Montenero, past the age of romantic extravagance, could not +sympathize with this enthusiasm, but he bore with it. + +We passed on to dark Gothic nooks of chambers, where my reverence for +the beds on which kings had slept, and the tables at which kings had +sat, much increased by my early associations formed of Brantefield +Priory, was expressed with a vehemence which astonished Mr. Montenero; +and, I fear, prevented him from hearing the answers to various +inquiries, upon which he, with better regulated judgment, was intent. + +An orator is the worst person to tell a plain fact; the very worst +guide, as Mowbray observed, that a foreigner can have. Still Mr. +Montenero had patience with me, and supplied the elisions in my +rhetoric, by what information he could pick up from the guide, and from +Mowbray, with whom, from time to time, he stopped to see and hear, after +I had passed on with Berenice. To her quickness and sympathy I flattered +myself that I was always intelligible. + +We came at last to the chamber where Clarence and the young princes had +been murdered. Here, I am conscious, I was beyond measure exuberant in +exclamations, and in quotations from Shakspeare. + +Mr. Montenero came in just as I was ranting, from Clarence’s dream-- + +“Seize on him, furies! take him to your torments!-- With that, +methought, a legion of foul fiends Environ’d me, and howled in mine +ears” Such hideous cries! that with the very noise I made, I prevented +poor Mr. Montenero from hearing the answer to some historic question he +was asking. Berenice’s eye warned me to lower my voice, and I believe +I should have been quiet, but that unluckily, Mowbray set me off in +another direction, by reminding me of the tapestry-chamber and +Sir Josseline. I remember covering my face with both my hands, and +shuddering with horror. + +Mr. Montenero asked, “What of the tapestry-chamber?” + +And immediately recollecting that I should not, to him, and before his +daughter, describe the Jew, who had committed a deed without a name, +I with much embarrassment said, that “it was nothing of any +consequence--it was something I could not explain.” + +I left it to Mowbray’s superior presence of mind, and better address, to +account for it, and I went on with Berenice. Whenever my imagination was +warmed, verses poured in upon my memory, and often without much apparent +connexion with what went before. I recollected at this moment the +passage in Akenside’s “Pleasures of the Imagination” describing the +early delight the imagination takes in horrors:--the children closing +round the village matron, who suspends the infant audience with her +tales breathing astonishment; and I recited all I recollected of + + “Evil spirits! of the deathbed call + Of him who robb’d the widow, and devour’d + The orphan’s portion--of unquiet souls + Ris’n from the grave, to ease the heavy guilt + Of deeds in life conceal’d--of shapes that walk + At dead of night, and clank their chains, and wave + The torch of Hell around the murderer’s bed!” + +Mowbray and Mr. Montenero, who had stayed behind us a few minutes, came +up just as I was, with much emphasis and gesticulation, + + “Waving the torch of Hell.” + +I am sure I must have been a most ridiculous figure. I saw Mowbray on +the brink of laughter; but Mr. Montenero looked so grave, that he fixed +all my attention. I suddenly stopped. + +“We were talking of ‘The Pleasures of Imagination,’” said Berenice to +her father. “Mr. Harrington is a great admirer of Akenside.” + +“Is he?” replied Mr. Montenero coldly, and with a look of absence. “But, +my dear, we can have the pleasures of the imagination another time. Here +are some realities worthy of our present attention.” + +He then drew his daughter’s arm within his. I followed; and all the time +he was pointing out to her the patterns of the Spanish instruments of +torture, with which her politic majesty Queen Elizabeth frightened her +subjects into courage sufficient to repel all the invaders on board the +invincible armada--I stood silent, pondering on what I might have said +or done to displease him whom I was so anxious to please. First, I +thought he suspected me of what I most detested, the affectation of +taste, sensibility, and enthusiasm; next, I fancied that Mowbray, +in explaining about the tapestry-chamber, Sir Josseline, and the +bastinadoed Jew, had said something that might have hurt Mr. Montenero’s +Jewish pride. From whichever of these causes his displeasure arose, +it had the effect of completely sobering my spirits. My poetic fit was +over. I did not even dare to speak to his daughter. + +During our drive home, Berenice, apropos to something which Mowbray had +said, but which I did not hear, suggested to her father some lines of +Akenside, which she knew he particularly admired, on the nature and +power of the early association of ideas. Mr. Montenero, with all the +warmth my heart could wish, praised the poetic genius, and the intimate +and deep knowledge of the human mind displayed in this passage. His +gravity gradually wore off, and I began to doubt whether the displeasure +had ever existed. At night, before Mowbray and I parted, when we talked +over the day, he assured me that he had said nothing that could make Mr. +Montenero displeased with me or any living creature; that they had been +discussing some point of English History, on which old Montenero had +posed him. As to my fears, Mowbray rallied me out of them effectually. +He maintained that Montenero had not been at all displeased, and that I +was a most absurd _modern self-tormentor._ “Could not a man look grave +for two minutes without my racking my fancy for two hours to find a +cause for it? Perhaps the man had the toothache; possibly the headache; +but why should I, therefore, insist upon having the heartache?” + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +Mowbray’s indifference was often a happy relief to my anxiety of temper; +and I had surely reason to be grateful to him for the sacrifices he +continued daily to make of his own tastes and pleasures, to forward my +views. + +One morning in particular, he was going to a rehearsal at Drury-lane, +where I knew his heart was; but finding me very anxious to go to the +Mint and the Bank with Mr. Montenero and Berenice, Mowbray, who had +a relation a Bank director, immediately offered to accompany us, and +procured us the means of seeing every thing in the best possible manner. + +Nothing could, as he confessed, be less to his taste; and he was +surprised that Miss Montenero chose to be of the party. A day spent in +viewing the Mint and the Bank, it may perhaps be thought, was a day lost +to love--quite the contrary; I had an opportunity of feeling how the +passion of love can throw its enchantment over scenes apparently least +adapted to its nature. + +Before this time I had twice gone over every part of these magnificent +establishments. I had seen at the Bank the spirit of order operating +like predestination, compelling the will of man to act necessarily and +continually with all the precision of mechanism. I had beheld human +creatures, called clerks, turned nearly into arithmetical machines. + +But how new did it all appear in looking at it with Berenice! How would +she have been delighted if she had seen those machines, “instinct with +spirit,” which now perform the most delicate manoeuvres with more than +human dexterity--the self-moving balance which indefatigably weighs, +accepts, rejects, disposes of the coin, which a mimic hand perpetually +presents! + +What chiefly pleased me in Miss Montenero was the composure, the +_sincerity_ of her attention. She was not anxious to display herself: I +was the more delighted when I discovered her quickness of comprehension. +I was charmed too by the unaffected pleasure she showed in acquiring new +ideas, and surprised by the judicious _proportion_ of the admiration she +expressed for all that was in various degrees excellent in arrangement, +or ingenious in contrivance: in short.... + +“In short, man,” as Mowbray would say, “in short, man, you were in love, +and there’s an end of the matter: if your Berenice had hopped forty +paces in the public streets, it would have been the same with you.” + +That I deny--but I will go on with my story. + +As we were going away, Mr. Montenero, after thanking Lord Mowbray and +his cousin, the Bank director, who had shown and explained every thing +to us with polite and intelligent patience, observed that the Bank was +to him a peculiarly interesting sight. + +“You know,” said he, “that we Jews were the first inventors of bills of +exchange and bank-notes--we were originally the bankers and brokers of +the world.” + +Then, as we walked to the carriage, he continued addressing himself +to his daughter, in a lowered voice, “You see, Berenice, here, as in a +thousand instances, how general and permanent good often results from +partial and temporary evil. The persecutions even to which we Jews +were exposed--the tyranny which drove us from place to place, and +from country to country, at a moment’s or without a moment’s warning, +compelled us, by necessity, to the invention of a happy expedient, by +which we could convert all our property into a scrap of paper, that +could be carried unseen in a pocket-book, or conveyed in a letter +unsuspected.” + +Berenice thanked Heaven that the times of persecution were over; and +added, that she hoped any prejudice which still existed would soon die +away. + +Mowbray exclaimed against the very idea of the existence of such +prejudices at this time of day in England, among the higher classes. + +He did not recollect his own mother, I believe, when he said this; but I +know I had a twinge of conscience about mine, and I did not dare to +look at Mr. Montenero; nor did I know well which way to look, when his +lordship, persisting in his assertion, asked Miss Montenero if she could +possibly imagine that any such vulgar prejudices existed among well-bred +persons. Berenice mildly answered, that she had really as yet enjoyed so +few opportunities of seeing the higher classes of society in London that +she could not form a judgment. She was willing to take upon trust his +lordship’s opinion, who must have means of knowing. + +I imagined that Mr. Montenero’s eye was upon me, and that he was +thinking of my mother’s never having made the slightest advance towards +an acquaintance with his daughter. I recollected the speeches I had +made on his first visit, pledging my mother to that which she had never +performed. I felt upon the rack--and a pause, that ensued afterwards, +increased my misery. I longed for somebody to say something--any thing. +I looked for assistance to Mowbray. He repeated, confidently, that +Miss Montenero might entirely rely upon what he said as to London and +England--indeed he had been a good deal abroad _too_. He seemed to be +glad to get to the continent again--I followed him as fast as I could, +and inquired whether he did not think that the French and Germans were +much improved in liberality, and a spirit of toleration. + +“Give me leave,” said Mr. Montenero, “to answer for the improvement of +the Germans. Fifteen years ago, I remember, when I was travelling in +Germany, I was stopped at a certain bridge over the Rhine, and, being +a Jew, was compelled to pay rather an ignominious toll. The Jews were +there classed among cloven-footed beasts, and as such paid toll. But, +within these few years, sixteen German princes, enlightened and inspired +by one great writer, and one good minister, have combined to abolish +this disgraceful tax. You see, my dear Berenice, your hope is quickly +fulfilling--prejudices are dying away fast. Hope humbly, but hope +always.” + +The playful tone in which Mr. Montenero spoke, put me quite at my ease. + +The next day I was determined on an effort to make my mother acquainted +with Miss Montenero. If I could but effect a meeting, a great point +I thought would be gained. Mowbray undertook to manage it, and he, +as usual, succeeded. He persuaded his mother to go to an auction of +pictures, where he assured her she would be likely to meet with a +Vandyke of one of her ancestors, of whose portrait she had long been +in search. Lady de Brantefield engaged my mother to be of the party, +without her having any suspicion that she would meet the Monteneros. +We arrived in time to secure the best places, before the auction +began. Neither Mr. nor Miss Montenero were there; but, to my utter +discomfiture, a few minutes after we were seated, vulgar Mrs. Coates and +all her tribe appeared. She elbowed her difficult way onward towards us, +and nodding to me familiarly, seated herself and her Vandals on a line +with us. Then, stretching herself across the august Lady de Brantefield, +who drew back, far as space would permit, “Beg your pardon, ma’am, but I +just want to say a word to this lady. A’n’t you the lady--yes--that sat +beside me at the play the other night--the Merchant of Venice and +the Maid of the Oaks, was not it, Izzy? I hope you caught no cold, +ma’am--you look but poorly, I am sorry to notice--but what I wanted +to say, ma’am, here’s an ivory fan Miss Montenero was in a pucker and +quandary about.” _Pucker and quandary!_--Oh! how I groaned inwardly! + +“I was in such a fuss about her, you know, sir, that I never found out, +till I got home, I had pocketed a strange fan--here it is, ma’am, if it +is yours--it’s worth any body’s owning, I am sure.” + +The fan was my mother’s, and she was forced to be much obliged. Lady de +Brantefield, still painfully holding back, did not resume her position +till some seconds had elapsed after Mrs. Coates had withdrawn her fat +bust--till it might be supposed that the danger of coming into contact +with her was fairly over. My mother, after a decent interval, asked me +if it were possible to move to some place where they could have more +air, as the crowd was increasing. Lord Mowbray and I made way for her +to a seat by an open window; but the persevering Mrs. Coates followed, +talking about the famous elbows of Mr. Peter Coates, on whose arm she +leaned. “When Peter chooses, there’s not a man in Lon’on knows the use +of his elbows better, and if we’d had him, Mr. Harrington, with us at +the play, the other night, we should not have given you so much trouble +with Miss Montenero, getting her out.” + +Lord Mowbray, amused by my look of suffering, could not refrain +from diverting himself further by asking a question or two about the +Monteneros. It was soon apparent, from the manner in which Mrs. Coates +answered, that she was not as well pleased with them as formerly. + +It was her maxim, she said, to speak of the bridge as she went over it; +and for her part, if she was to give her verdict, she couldn’t but +say Miss Montenero--for they weren’t on terms to call her Miss Berry +now--was a little incomprehensible sometimes. + +A look of surprise from Lord Mowbray, without giving himself the trouble +to articulate, was quite sufficient to make the lady go on. + +“Why, if it concerned any gentleman” (glancing her ill-bred eye upon +me), “if any gentleman was thinking of looking that way, it might be +of use to him to know the land. Miss Montenero, then, if truth must be +told, is a little touchy on the Jewish chapter.” + +Lord Mowbray urged Mrs. Coates on with “How, for instance?” “Oh, how! +why, my lord, a hundred times I’ve hurt her to the quick. One can’t +always be thinking of people’s different persuasions you know--and if +one asked a question, just for information’s sake, or made a natural +remark, as I did t’other day, Queeney, you know, just about Jew +butchers, and pigeons--‘It’s a pity,’ said I, ‘that Jews must always +have Jew butchers, Miss Berry, and that there is so many things they +can’t touch: one can’t have pigeons nor hares at one’s table,’ said I, +thinking only of my second course; ‘as to pork, Henny,’ says I, ‘that’s +a coarse butcher’s meat, which I don’t regret, nor the alderman, a +pinch o’ snuff’--now, you know, I thought that was kind of me; but Miss +Montenero took it all the wrong way, quite to heart so, you’ve no idear! +After all, she may say what she pleases, but it’s my notion the Jews is +both a very unsocial and a very revengeful people; for, do you know, my +lord, they wouldn’t dine with us next day, though the alderman called +himself.” + +My mother was so placed that she could not avoid hearing all that Mrs. +Coates said to Lord Mowbray; and though she never uttered a syllable, +or raised her eyes, or moved the fan she held in her hand, I knew by +her countenance the impression that was made on her mind: she would have +scorned, on any other subject of human life or manners, to have allowed +the judgment of Mrs. Coates to weigh with her in the estimation of +a single hair; yet here her opinion and _idears_ were admitted to be +decisive. + +Such is prejudice! thought I. Prejudice, even in the proudest people, +will stoop to accept of nourishment from any hand. Prejudice not only +grows on what it feeds upon, but converts every thing it meets with into +nourishment. + +How clear-sighted I was to the nature of prejudice at this moment, +and how many reflections passed in one instant, which I had never made +before in the course of my life!--Meantime Mrs. Coates had beckoned +to her son Peter, and Peter had drawn near, and was called upon by his +mother to explain to my lord the cause of the _coolness_ betwixt the +alderman and Mr. Montenero: “It was,” she said, “about the Manessas, and +a young man called Jacob.” + +Peter was not as fluent as his mother, and she went on. “It was some +money matter. Mr. Montenero had begun by acting a very generous part, +she understood, at first, by way of being the benevolent Jew, but had +not come up to the alderman’s expectations latterly, and had shown a +most illiberal partiality to the Manessas, and this Jacob, only +because they _was_ Jews; which, you know,” said Mrs. Coates, “was very +ungentleman-like to the alderman, after all the civilities we had shown +the Monteneros on their coming to Lon’on--as Peter, if he could open his +mouth, could tell you.” + +Peter had just opened his mouth, when Mr. Montenero appearing, he closed +it again. To my inexpressible disappointment, Miss Montenero was not +with her father. Mr. Montenero smiled the instant he caught my eye, but +seeing my mother as he approached, he bowed gravely, and passed on. + +“And never noticed me, I declare,” said Mrs. Coates: “that’s too good!” + +“But Miss Montenero! I thought she was to be here?” cried Mowbray. + +Mrs. Coates, after her fashion, stretching across two of her daughters, +whispered to the third, loud enough for all to hear, “Queeney, this +comes of airs!--This comes of her not choosing for to go abroad with me, +I suppose.” + +“If people doesn’t know their friends when they has ‘em,” replied +Queeney, “they may go farther and fare worse: that’s all I have to say.” + +“Hush!” said Peter, giving his sister a monitory pinch--“can’t you say +your say under your breath? _he’s_ within seven of you, and he has ears +like the devil.” + +“All them Jews has, and Jewesses too; they think one’s always talking +of them, they’re so suspicious,” said Mrs. Coates. “I am told, moreover, +that they’ve ways and means of hearing.” + +To my great relief, she was interrupted by the auctioneer, and the sound +of his hammer. The auction went on, and nothing but “Who bids more? +going!--going!--who bids more?” was heard for a considerable time. +Not being able to get near Mr. Montenero, and having failed in all my +objects, I grew excessively tired, and was going away, leaving my +mother to the care of Mowbray, but he stopped me. “Stay, stay,” said +he, drawing me aside, behind two connoisseurs, who were babbling about +a Titian, “you will have some diversion by and by. I have a picture to +sell, and you must see how it will go off. There is a painting that I +bought at a stall for nothing, upon a speculation that my mother, who is +a judge, will pay dear for; and what do you think the picture is? Don’t +look so stupid--it will interest you amazingly, and Mr. Montenero too, +and ‘tis a pity your Jewess is not here to see it. Did you ever hear of +a picture called the ‘Dentition of the Jew?’” + +“Not I.” + +“You’ll see, presently,” said Mowbray. + +“But tell me _now_,” said I. + +“Only the drawing the teeth of the Jew, by order of some one of our most +merciful lords the kings--John, Richard, or Edward.” + +“It will be a companion to the old family picture of the Jew and Sir +Josseline,” continued Mowbray; “and this will make the vile daub, which +I’ve had the luck to pick up, invaluable to my mother, and I trust very +valuable to me.” + +“There! Christie has it up! The dear rascal! hear him puff it!” + +Lady de Brantefield put up her glass, but neither she nor I could +distinguish a single figure in the picture, the light so glared upon it. + +Christie caught her ladyship’s eye, and addressed himself directly to +her. But her ladyship was deaf. Mowbray pressed forward to her ear, and +repeated all Christie roared. No sooner did she understand the subject +of the picture than she turned to her son, to desire him to bid for her; +but Mowbray substituted Topham in his stead: Topham obeyed. + +“Who bids more?” + +A bidder started up, who seemed very eager. He was, we were told, an +engraver. + +“Who bids more?” + +To our surprise, Mr. Montenero was the person to bid more--and more, +and more, and more. The engraver soon gave up the contest, but her +ladyship’s pride and passions rose when she found Mr. Montenero +continued to bid against her; and she persisted, till she came up to an +extravagant sum; and still she desired Colonel Topham to bid on. + +“Beyond my expectation, faith! Both mad!” whispered Mowbray. I thought +so too. Still Mr. Montenero went higher. + +“I’ll go no higher,” said Lady de Brantefield; “you may let it be +knocked down to that person, Colonel.” Then turning to her son, “Who is +the man that bids against me?” + +“A Jewish gentleman, ma’am, I believe.” + +“A Jew, perhaps--gentleman, I deny; no Jew ever was or ever will be a +gentleman. I am sure our family, since the time of Sir Josseline, have +had reason enough to know that.” + +“Very true, ma’am--I’ll call for your carriage, for I suppose you have +had enough of this.” + +Mowbray carried me with him. “Come off,” said he; “I long to hear +Montenero descant on the merits of the dentition. Do you speak, for you +can do it with a better face.” + +Mowbray seemed to be intent merely upon his own diversion; he must have +seen and felt how reluctant I was: but, taking my arm, he dragged me on +to Mr. Montenero, who was standing near a window, with the picture in +his hand, examining it attentively. Mowbray pushed me on close behind +Mr. Montenero--the light now falling on the picture, I saw it for the +first time, and the sight struck me with such associated feelings of +horror, that I started back, exclaiming, with vehement gestures, “I +cannot bear it! I cannot bear that picture!” + +Mr. Montenero turned, and looked at me with surprise. + +“I beg pardon, sir,” said I; “but it made me absolutely--” + +“Sick,” said Mr. Montenero, opening the window, as I leaned back against +the wall, and the eyes of all present were fixed upon me. Ashamed of the +exaggerated expression of my feelings, I stood abashed. Mr. Montenero, +with the greatest kindness of manner, and with friendly presence of +mind, said he remembered well having felt actually sick at the sight of +certain pictures. “For instance, my lord,” said he, addressing +himself to Lord Mowbray, “the famous picture of the flaying the unjust +magistrate I never could look at steadily.” + +I recovered myself--and squeezing Mr. Montenero’s hand to express my +sense of his kind politeness, I exerted myself to talk and to look at +the picture. Afraid of Mowbray’s ridicule, I never once turned my +eyes towards him--I fancied that he was laughing behind me: I did +him injustice; he was not laughing--he looked seriously concerned. He +whispered to me, “Forgive me, my dear Harrington--I aimed at _mamma_--I +did not mean to hurt you.” + +Before we quitted the subject, I expressed to Mr. Montenero my surprise +at his having purchased, at an extraordinary price, a picture apparently +of so little merit, and on such a disgusting subject. + +“Abuse the subject as much as you please,” interrupted Mowbray; “but as +to the merit of the painting, have the grace, Harrington, to consider, +that Mr. Montenero must be a better judge than you or I.” + +“You are too good a judge yourself, my lord,” replied Mr. Montenero, +in a reserved tone, “not to see this picture to be what it really is, +a very poor performance.” Then turning to me in a cordial manner, “Be +assured, Mr. Harrington, that I am at least as clear-sighted, in every +point of view, as you can possibly be, to its demerits.” + +“Then why did you purchase it?” was the question, which involuntarily +recurred to Mowbray and to me; but we were both silent, and stood with +our eyes fixed upon the picture. + +“Gentlemen, if you will do me the honour to dine with me to-morrow,” + said Mr. Montenero, “you shall know the purpose for which I bought this +picture.” + +We accepted the invitation; Mowbray waited for to-morrow with all +the eagerness of curiosity, and I with the eagerness of a still more +impatient passion. + +I pass over my mother’s remonstrances against my _dining at the +Monteneros’;_ remonstrances, strengthened as they were in vehemence, +if not in reason, by all the accession of force gathered from the +representations and insinuations of Mrs. Coates. + +The next day came. “Now we shall hear about the dentition of the Jew,” + said Mowbray, as we got to Mr. Montenero’s door. + +And now we shall see Berenice! thought I. + +We found a very agreeable company assembled, mixed of English and +foreigners. There was the Spanish ambassador and the Russian envoy--who, +by-the-by, spoke English better than any foreigner I ever heard; a +Polish Count, perfectly well bred, and his lady, a beautiful woman, with +whom Mowbray of course was half in love before dinner was over. The only +English present were General and Lady Emily B----. We soon learned, by +the course of the conversation, that Mr. Montenero stood high in the +estimation of every individual in the company, all of whom had known him +intimately at different times of his life, and in different countries. +The general had served in America during the beginning of the war; he +had been wounded there, and in great difficulties and distress. He and +his lady, under very trying circumstances, had been treated in the most +kind and hospitable manner by Mr. Montenero and his family. With that +true English warmth of gratitude, which contrasts so strongly and +agreeably with the natural reserve of English manner and habits, the +general and his wife, Lady Emily, expressed their joy at having Mr. +Montenero in England, in London, among their own friends. + +“My dear, Mr. Montenero must let us introduce him to your brother +and our other friends--how delighted they will be to see him! And +Berenice!--she was such a little creature, General, at the time you saw +her last!--but such a kind, sweet, little creature!--You remember her +scraping the lint!” + +“Remember it! certainly.” + +They spoke of her, and looked at her, as if she was their own child; and +for my part, I could have embraced both the old general and his wife. +I only wished that my mother had been present to receive an antidote to +Mrs. Coates. + +“Oh! please Heaven, we will make London--we’ll make England agreeable +to you--two years! no; that won’t do--we will keep you with us for +ever--you shall never go back to America.” + +Then, in a low voice, to Mr. Montenero, the general added, “Do you think +we have not an Englishman good enough for her?” + +I felt the blood rush into my face, and dreaded that every eye must see +it. When I had the courage to raise my head and to look round, I saw +that I was perfectly safe, and that no creature was thinking about me, +not even Mowbray, who was gallanting the Polish lady. I ventured then +to look towards Berenice; but all was tranquil there--she had not, I +was sure, heard the whisper. Mr. Montenero had his eye upon her; the +father’s eye and mine met--and such a penetrating, yet such a benevolent +eye! I endeavoured to listen with composure to whatever was going on. +The general was talking of his brother-in-law, Lord Charles; a panic +seized me, and a mortal curiosity to know what sort of a man the +brother-in-law might be. I was not relieved till the dessert came on +the table, when, apropos to something a Swedish gentleman said about +Linnaeus, strawberries, and the gout, it appeared, to my unspeakable +satisfaction, that Lord Charles had the gout at this instant, and had +been subject to it during the last nine years. I had been so completely +engrossed by my own feelings and imaginations, that I had never once +thought of that which had previously excited our curiosity--the picture, +till, as we were going into another room to drink coffee, Mowbray said +to me, “We hear nothing of the dentition of the Jew: I can’t put him in +mind of it.” + +“Certainly not,” said I. “There is a harp; I hope Miss Montenero will +play on it,” added I. + +After coffee we had some good music, in different styles, so as to +please, and interest, and join in one common sympathy, all the company, +many of whom had never before heard each other’s national music. +Berenice was asked to play some Hebrew music, the good general reminding +her that he knew she had a charming ear and a charming voice when she +was a child. She had not, however, been used to sing or play before +numbers, and she resisted the complimentary entreaties; but when the +company were all gone, except the general and his lady, Mowbray and +myself, her father requested that Berenice would try one song, and +that she would play one air on the harp to oblige her old friends: she +immediately complied, with a graceful unaffected modesty that +interested every heart in her favour--I can answer for my own; though no +connoisseur, I was enthusiastically fond of good music. Miss Montenero’s +voice was exquisite: both the poetry and the music were sublime and +touching. No compliments were paid; but when she ceased, all were +silent, in hopes that the harp would be touched again by the same hand. +At this moment, Mr. Montenero, turning to Lord Mowbray and to me, said, +“Gentlemen, I recollect my promise to you, and will perform it--I will +now explain why I bought that painting which you saw me yesterday so +anxious to obtain.” + +He rang the bell, and desired a servant to bring in the picture which +he had purchased at the auction, and to desire Jacob to come with it. As +soon as it was brought in, I retired to the farther end of the room. +In Mowbray’s countenance there was a strange mixture of contempt and +curiosity. + +Mr. Montenero kindly said to me, “I shall not insist, Mr. Harrington, on +your looking at it; I know it is not to your taste.” + +I immediately approached, resolved to stand the sight, that I might not +be suspected of affectation. + +Berenice had not yet seen the painting: she shrunk back the moment +she beheld it, exclaiming, “Oh, father! Why purchase such a horrible +picture?” + +“To destroy it,” said Mr. Montenero. And deliberately he took the +picture out of its frame and cut it to pieces, repeating, “To destroy +it, my dear, as I would, were it in my power, every record of cruelty +and intolerance. So perish all that can keep alive feelings of hatred +and vengeance between Jews and Christians!” + +“Amen,” said the good old general, and all present joined in that +_amen_. I heard it pronounced by Miss Montenero in a very low voice, but +distinctly and fervently. + +While I stood with my eyes fixed on Berenice, and while Mowbray loudly +applauded her father’s liberality, Mr. Montenero turned to Jacob and +said, “I sent for my friend Jacob to be present at the burning of this +picture, because it was he who put it in my power to prevent this horrid +representation from being seen and sold in every print-shop in London. +Jacob, who goes every where, and _sees_ wherever he goes, observed +this picture at a broker’s shop, and found that two persons had been in +treaty for it. One of them had the appearance of an amateur, the other +was an artist, an engraver. The engraver was, I suppose, the person who +bid against Colonel Topham and me; who the other gentleman was, and why +he bought in to sell it again at that auction, perhaps Jacob knows, but +I have never inquired.” + +Then, with Jacob’s assistance, Mr. Montenero burned every shred of this +abominable picture, to my inexpressible satisfaction. + +During this _auto-da-fè_, Jacob cast a glance at Mowbray, the meaning +of which I could not at first comprehend; but I supposed that he was +thinking of the fire, at which all he had in the world had been consumed +at Gibraltar. I saw, or thought I saw, that Jacob checked the feeling +this recollection excited. He turned to me, and in a low voice told me, +that Mr. Montenero had been so kind as to obtain for him a lucrative and +creditable situation in the house of Manessa, the jeweller; and the next +day he was to go to Mr. Manessa’s, and to commence business. + +“So, Mr. Harrington, you see that after all my misfortunes, I am now +established in a manner far above what could have been expected for poor +Jacob--far above his most sanguine hopes. Thanks to my good friends.” + +“And to your good self,” said I. + +I was much pleased with Mowbray at this instant, for the manner in which +he joined in my praise of Jacob, and in congratulations to him. His +lordship promised that he would recommend his house to all his family +and friends. + +“What a contrast,” said Mowbray, as soon as Jacob had left the room, +“there is between Jacob and his old rival, Dutton! That fellow has +turned out very ill--drunken, idle dog--is reduced to an old-iron +shop, I believe--always plaguing me with begging letters. Certainly, +Harrington, you may triumph in your election of Jacob.” + +I never saw Berenice and her father look so much pleased with Mowbray as +they did at this instant. + +Of the remainder of the evening I recollect nothing but Berenice, and of +my staying later than I ought to have done. Even after the general +and his wife had departed some time, I lingered. I was to go home in +Mowbray’s carriage, and twice he had touched my shoulder, telling me +that I was not aware how late it was. I could not conceive how he could +think of going so early. + +“Early!” He directed my eye to the clock on the chimneypiece. I was +ashamed to see the hour. I apologized to Mr. Montenero. He replied in a +manner that was more than polite--that was quite affectionate; and his +last words, repeated at the head of the stairs, expressed a desire to +see me again _frequently_. + +I sprang into Mowbray’s carriage one of the happiest men on earth, full +of love, hope, and joy. + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +“All gone to bed but you?” said I to the footman, who opened the door. + +“No, sir,” said the drowsy fellow, “my lady is sitting up for you, I +believe.” + +“Then, Mowbray, come in--come up with me to my mother, pray do, for one +instant.” + +Before she slept, I said, he must administer an antidote to Coates’s +poison. While the impression was still fresh in his mind, I entreated +he would say what a delightful party we had had. My mother, I knew, +had such a high idea of his lordship’s judgment in all that concerned +gentility and fashion, that a word from him would be decisive. “But let +it be to-morrow morning,” said Mowbray; “‘tis shamefully late to-night.” + +“To-night--to-night--now, now,” persisted I. He complied: “Any thing to +oblige you.” + +“Remember,” said I, as we ran up stairs, “Spanish ambassador, Russian +envoy, Polish Count and Countess, and an English general and his +lady--strong in rank we’ll burst upon the enemy.” I flung open the door, +but my spirits were suddenly checked; I saw it was no time for jest and +merriment. + +Dead silence--solemn stillness--candles with unsnuffed wicks of +portentous length. My father and mother were sitting with their backs +half turned to each other, my mother leaning her head on her hand, with +her elbow on the table, her salts before her. My father sitting in his +arm-chair, legs stretched out, feet upon the bars of the grate, back +towards us--but that back spoke anger as plainly as a back could speak. +Neither figure moved when we entered. I stood appalled; Mowbray went +forward, though I caught his arm to pull him back. But he did not +understand me, and with ill-timed gaiety and fluency, that I would have +given the world to stop, he poured forth to my mother in praise of all +we had seen and heard; and then turning to my father, who slowly rose, +shading his eyes from the candle, and looking at me under the hand, +Lord Mowbray went on with a rapturous eulogium upon Harrington’s Jew and +Jewess. + +“Then it is all true,” said my father. “It is all very well, +Harrington--but take notice, and I give you notice in time, in form, +before your friend and counsellor, Lord Mowbray, that by Jupiter--by +Jupiter Ammon, I will never leave one shilling to my son, if he marry +a Jewess! Every inch of my estate shall go from him to his cousin +Longshanks in the North, though I hate him like sin. But a Jewess for my +daughter-in-law I will never have--by Jupiter Ammon!” + +So snatching up a bougie, the wick of which scattered fire behind him, +he left the room. + +“Good Heavens! what have I done?” cried Mowbray. + +“What you can never undo,” said I. + +My mother spoke not one word, but sat smelling her salts. + +“Never fear, man,” whispered Mowbray; “he will sleep it off, or by +to-morrow we shall find ways and means.” + +He left me in despair. I heard his carriage roll away--and then +there was silence again. I stood waiting for some explanation from my +mother--she saw my despair--she dreaded my anger: in broken and scarcely +intelligible, contradictory phrases, she declared her innocence of all +intention to do me mischief, and acknowledged that all was her doing; +but reminded me, that she had prophesied it would come to this--it would +end ill--and at last, trembling with impatience as I stood, she told me +all that had happened. + +The fact was, that she had talked to her friend Lady de Brantefield, and +some other of her dear friends, of her dread that I should fall in love +with Miss Montenero; and the next person said I had fallen in love with +her; and under the seal of secresy,--it was told that I had actually +proposed for her, but that my father was to know nothing of the +matter. This story had been written in some young lady’s letter to her +correspondent in the country, and miss in the country had told it to her +brother, who had come to town this day, dined in company with my father, +got drunk, and had given a bumper toast to “Miss Montenero, the Jewish +heiress--_Mrs. Harrington, jun. that is to be!_” + +My father had come home foaming with rage; my mother had done all she +could to appease him, and to make him comprehend that above half what +he had heard was false; but it had gone the wrong way into his head, and +there was no getting it out again. My father had heard it at the most +unlucky time possible, just after he had lost a good place, and was +driven to the necessity of selling an estate that had been in his family +since the time of Richard the Second. My mother farther informed me, +that my father had given orders, in his usual sudden way when angry, for +going into the country immediately. While she was yet speaking, the door +opened, and my father, with his nightcap on, put his head in, saying, +“Remember, ma’am, you are to be off at seven to-morrow--and you sir,” + continued he, advancing towards me, “if you have one grain of sense +left, I recommend it to you to come with us. But no, I see it written +in your absurd face, that you will not--obstinate madman! I leave you +to your own discretion,” cried he, turning his back upon me; “but, by +Jupiter Ammon, I’ll do what I say, by Jupiter!” And carrying my mother +off with him, he left me to my pleasing reflections. + +All was tumult in my mind: one moment I stood motionless in utter +despair, the next struck with some bright hope. I walked up and down the +room with hasty strides--then stopped short again, and stood fixed, +as some dark reality, some sense of improbability--of impossibility, +crossed my mind, and as my father’s denunciation recurred to my ear. + +A Jewess!--her religion--her principles--my principles!--And can a +Jewess marry a Christian? And should a Christian marry a Jewess? The +horrors of family quarrels, of religious dissensions and disputes +between father and child, husband and wife--All these questions, and +fears, and doubts, passed through my imagination backwards and forwards +with inconceivable rapidity--struck me with all the amazement of +novelty, though in fact they were not new to me. The first moment I saw +her, I was told she was a Jewess; I was aware of the difficulties, and +yet I had never fixed my view upon them: I had suffered myself to waive +the consideration of them till this moment. In the hope, the joy, the +heaven of the first feelings of the passion of love, I had lost sight of +all difficulties, human or divine; and now I was called upon to decide +in one hour upon questions involving the happiness of my whole life. To +be called upon before it was necessary too--for I was not in love, not +I--at least I had formed no idea of marrying, no resolution to propose. +Then bitterly I execrated the reporters, and the gossipers, and the +letter-writing misses, whose tattling, and meddling, and idleness, and +exaggeration, and absolute falsehood, had precipitated me into this +misery. The drunken brute, too, who had blundered out to my father that +fatal toast, had his full share of my indignation; and my mother, with +her _presentiments_--and Mowbray, with his inconceivable imprudence--and +my father, with his prejudices, his violence, and his Jupiter +Ammon--every body, and every thing I blamed, except myself. And when I +had vented my rage, still the question recurred, what was to be done? +how should I resolve? Morning was come, the grey light was peeping +through the shutters: I opened the window to feel the fresh calm air. +I heard the people beginning to stir in the house: my father and mother +were to be called at half after six. Six struck; I must decide at least, +whether I would go with them or not. No chance of my father sleeping it +off! Obstinate beyond conception; and by Jupiter Ammon once sworn, never +revoked. But after all, where was the great evil of being disinherited? +The loss of my paternal estate, in this moment of enthusiasm, appeared a +loss I could easily endure. Berenice was an heiress--a rich heiress, and +I had a small estate of my own, left to me by my grandfather. I could +live with Berenice upon any thing--upon nothing. Her wishes were +moderate, I was sure--I should not, however, reduce her to poverty; no, +her fortune would be sufficient for us both. It would be mortifying +to my pride--it would be painful to receive instead of to give--I had +resolved never to be under such an obligation to a wife; but with such +a woman as Berenice!--I would submit--submit to accept her and her +fortune. + +Then, as to her being a Jewess--who knows what changes love might +produce? Voltaire and Mowbray say, “qu’une femme est toujours de la +religion de son amant.” + +At this instant I heard a heavy foot coming down the back stairs; the +door opened, and a yawning housemaid appeared, and started at the sight +of me. + +“Gracious! I didn’t think it was so late! Mistress bid me ask the first +thing I did--but I didn’t know it was so late--Mercy! there’s master’s +bell--whether you go or not, sir?” + +“Certainly not,” said I; and after having uttered this determination, I +was more at ease. I sat down, and wrote a note to my father, in the most +respectful and eloquent terms I could devise, judging that it was better +to write than to speak to him on the subject. Then I vacated the room +for the housemaid, and watched in my own apartment till all the noises +of preparation and of departure were over; and till I heard the sound of +the carriage driving away. I was surprised that my mother had not come +to me to endeavour to persuade me to change my determination; but my +father, I heard, had hurried her into the carriage--my note I found on +the table torn down the middle. + +I concluded that my cousin Longshanks was in a fair way to have the +estate; but I went to bed and to sleep, and I was consoled with dreams +of Berenice. + +Mowbray was with me in the morning before I was dressed. I had felt so +angry with him, that I had resolved a hundred times during the night +that I would never more admit him into my confidence--however, he +contrived to prevent my reproaches, and dispel my anger, by the great +concern he expressed for his precipitation. He blamed himself so much, +that, instead of accusing, I began to comfort him. I assured him that +he had, in fact, done me a service instead of an injury, by bringing my +affairs suddenly to a crisis: I had thus been forced to come at once +to a decision. “What decision?” he eagerly asked. My heart was at this +instant in such immediate want of sympathy, that it opened to him. +I told him all that had passed between my father and me, told him my +father’s vow, and my resolution to continue, at all hazards, my pursuit +of Berenice. He heard me with astonishment: he said he could not tell +which was most rash, my father’s vow, or my resolution. + +“And your father is gone, actually gone,” cried Mowbray; “and, in spite +of his Jupiter Ammon, you stand resolved to brave your fate, and to +pursue the fair Jewess?” + +“Even so,” said I: “this day I will know my fate--this day I will +propose for Miss Montenero.” + +Against this mad precipitation he argued in the most earnest manner. + +“If you were the first duke in England, Harrington,” said he, “with the +finest estate, undipped, unencumbered, unentailed; if, consequently, +you had nothing to do but to ask and have any woman for a wife; still +I should advise you, if you meant to secure the lady’s heart as well as +her hand, not to begin in this novice-like manner, by letting her see +her power over you: neither woman nor man ever valued an easy conquest. +No, trust me, keep your mind to yourself till the lady is dying to know +it--keep your own counsel till the lady can no longer keep hers: when +you are sure of her not being able to refuse you, then ask for her heart +as humbly as you please.” + +To the whole of this doctrine I could not, in honour, generosity, or +delicacy accede. Of the wisdom of avoiding the danger of a refusal I was +perfectly sensible; but, in declaring my attachment to Miss Montenero, I +meant only to ask permission to address her. To win her heart I was +well aware must be a work of time; but the first step was to deserve her +esteem, and to begin by conducting myself towards her, and her father, +with perfect sincerity and openness. The more I was convinced of my +father’s inflexibility, the more desperate I knew my circumstances were, +the more I was bound not to mislead by false appearances. They would +naturally suppose that I should inherit my father’s fortune--I knew that +I should not, if-- + +“So, then,” interrupted Mowbray, “with your perfect openness and +sincerity, you will go to Mr. Montenero, and you will say, ‘Sir, that +you are a Jew, I know; that you are as rich as a Jew, I hope; that +you are a fool, I take for granted: at all events, I am a madman and +a beggar, or about to be a beggar. My father, who is a good and a most +obstinate Christian, swore last night by Jupiter Ammon, the only oath +which he never breaks, that he will disinherit me if I marry a Jewess: +therefore, I come this morning to ask you, sir, for your daughter, who +is a Jewess, and as I am told, a great heiress--which last circumstance +is, in my opinion, a great objection, but I shall overcome it in favour +of your daughter, if you will be pleased to give her to me. Stay, sir, I +beg your pardon, sir, excuse the hurry of the passions, which, probably, +you have long since forgotten; the fact is, I do not mean to ask you +for your daughter,--I came simply to ask your permission to fall in love +with her, which I have already done without your permission; and I trust +she has, on her part, done likewise; for if I had not a shrewd suspicion +that your Jessica was ready, according to the custom of Jews’ daughters, +to jump out of a two-pair of stairs window into her lover’s arms, madman +as I am, I could not be such an idiot as to present myself before you, +as I now do, sir, suing _in forma pauperis_ for the pleasure of becoming +your son-in-law. I must further have the honour to tell you, and with +perfect sincerity and consideration let me inform you, sir, that my +Christian father and mother having resolved never to admit a Jewish +daughter-in-law to the honours of the maternal or paternal embrace, when +your daughter shall do me the favour to become my wife, she need not +quit your house or family, as she cannot be received into mine. Here, +sir, I will rest my cause; but I might farther plead--’” + +“Plead no more for or against me, Mowbray,” interrupted I, angrily +turning from him, for I could bear it no longer. Enthusiasm detests +wit much, and humour more. Enthusiasm, fancying itself raised above the +reach of ridicule, is always incensed when it feels that it is not safe +from its shafts. + +Mowbray changed his tone, and checking his laughter, said seriously, and +with an air of affectionate sympathy, that, at the hazard of displeasing +me, he had used the only means he had conceived to be effectual to +prevent me from taking a step which he was convinced would be fatal. + +I thanked him for his advice, but I had previously been too much piqued +by his raillery to allow his reasons even their due weight: besides, I +began to have a secret doubt of the sincerity of his friendship. In his +turn, he was provoked by my inflexible adherence to my own opinion; and +perhaps, suspecting my suspicion, he was the more readily displeased. +He spoke with confidence, I thought with arrogance, as a man notoriously +successful in the annals of gallantry, treating me, as I could not bear +to be treated, like a novice. + +“I flatter myself, no man is less a coxcomb with regard to women than +I am,” Lord Mowbray modestly began; “but if I were inclined to boast, +I believe it is pretty generally allowed in town, by all who know any +thing of these things, that my practice in gallantry has been somewhat +successful--perhaps undeservedly so; still, in these cases, the world +judges by success: I may, therefore, be permitted to think that I know +something of women. My advice consequently, I thought, might be of use; +but, after all, perhaps I am wrong: often those who imagine that they +know women best, know them least.” + +I replied that I did not presume to vie with Lord Mowbray as a man of +gallantry; but I should conceive that the same precepts, and the same +arts, which ensured success with women of a _certain class_, might +utterly fail with women of different habits and tastes. If the question +were how to win such and such an actress (naming one who had sacrificed +her reputation for Mowbray, and another, for whom he was sacrificing +his fortune), I should, I said, implicitly follow his advice; but that, +novice as I was in gallantry, I should venture to follow my own judgment +as to the mode of pleasing such a woman as Miss Montenero. + +“None but a novice,” Mowbray answered, laughing, “could think that there +was any essential difference between woman and woman.” Every woman was +at heart the same. Of this he was so much convinced, that though he +had not, he said, any absurd confidence in his own peculiar powers of +pleasing, he was persuaded, that if honour had not put the trial quite +out of the question on his part, he could as easily have won the fair +Jewess as any other of her sex. + +My indignation rose. + +“Honour and friendship to me, my lord, are out of the question: forgive +me, if I own that I do not think your lordship would there have any +chance of success.” + +“At all events you know you are safe; I cannot make the trial without +your permission.” “Your lordship is perfectly at liberty, if you think +proper, to make the trial.” + +“Indeed!--Are you in earnest?--Now you have put it into my head, I will +think of it seriously.” + +Then in a careless, pick-tooth manner, he stood, as if for some moments +debating the matter with himself. + +“I have no great taste for matrimony or for Jewesses, but a Jewish +heiress in the present state of my affairs--Harrington, you know the +pretty little gipsy--the actress who played Jessica that night, so +famous in your imagination, so fatal to us both--well, my little +Jessica has, since that time, played away at a rare rate with my ready +money--_dipped me_ confoundedly--‘twould be poetic justice to make one +Jewess pay for another, if one could. Two hundred thousand pounds, Miss +Montenero is, I think they say. ‘Pon my sincerity, ‘tis a temptation! +Now it strikes me--if I am not bound in honour--” + +I walked away in disgust, while Mowbray, in the same tone, continued, +“Let me see, now--suppose--only suppose--any thing may be by +supposition--suppose we were rivals. As rivals, things would be +wonderfully fair and even between us. You, Harrington, I grant, have the +advantage of first impressions--she has smiled upon you; while I, bound +in honour, stood by like a mummy--but unbound, set at liberty by express +permission--give me a fortnight’s time, and if I don’t make her blush, +my name’s not Mowbray!--and no matter whom a woman smiles upon, the man +who makes her blush is the man. But seriously, Harrington, am I hurting +your feelings? If what is play to me is death to you, I have done. Bind +me over again to my good behaviour you may, by a single word. Instead +of defying me, only swear, or, stay--I won’t put you to your oath--say +candidly, upon your honour, Lord Mowbray puts you in fear of your love.” + +“I neither defy you nor fear you, my lord!” said I, with a tone and +look which at any other time Lord Mowbray, who was prompt enough to +take offence, would have understood as it was meant. But he was now +determined not to be provoked by any thing I could say or look. Standing +still at ease, he continued, “Not fear me!--Not bind me in honour!--Then +I have nobody’s feelings to consult but my own. So, as I was +considering, things are marvellously nicely balanced between us. In +point of fortune, both beggars--nearly; for though my father did not +disinherit me, I have disinherited myself. Then our precious mothers +will go mad on the spot, in white satin, if either of us marry a Jewess. +Well! that is even between us. Then religious scruples--you have some, +have not you?” + +“I have, my lord.” + +“Dry enough--there I have the advantage--I have none. Mosque--high +church--low church--no church--don’t let me shock you. I thought you +were for universal toleration; I am for liberty of conscience, in +marriage at least. You are very liberal, I know. You’re in love, and +you’d marry even a Jewess, would not you, if you could not contrive to +convert her? I am not in love, but shall be soon, I feel; and when once +I am in love!--I turn idolater, plump. Now, an idolater’s worse than a +Jew: so I should make it a point of conscience to turn Jew, to please +the fair Jewess, if requisite.” + +“My lord, this trifling I can bear no longer; I must beg seriously that +we may understand each other.” + +“Trifling!--Never was more serious in my life. I’d turn Jew--I’d turn +any thing, for a woman I loved.” + +“Have you, or have you not, my lord, any intention of addressing Miss +Montenero?” + +“Since I have your permission--since you have put it in my head--since +you have piqued me--frankly--yes.” + +“I thank you for your frankness, my lord; I understand you. Now we +understand each other,” said I. + +“Why, yes--and ‘tis time we should,” said Mowbray, coolly, “knowing one +another, as we have done, even from our boyish days. You may remember, I +never could bear to be piqued, _en honneur;_ especially by you, my dear +Harrington. It was written above, that we were to be rivals. But still, +if we could command our tempers--I was the hottest of the two, when we +were boys; but seeing something of the world, abroad and at home, has +done wonders for me. If you could coolly pursue this business as I +wish, in the comic rather than the heroic style, we might still, though +rivals, be friends--very good friends.” + +“No, my lord, no: here all friendship between us ends.” “Be it so,” said +Lord Mowbray: “then sworn foes instead of sworn friends--and open war is +the word!” + +“Open war!--yes--better than hollow peace.” + +“Then a truce for to-day; to-morrow, with your good leave, I enter the +lists.” + +“When you please, my lord.” + +“Fearful odds, I own. The first flourish of trumpets, by that trumpeter +of yours, Jacob, has been in favour of the champion of the Jew pedlars; +and the lady with bright Jewish eyes has bowed to her knight, and he has +walked the field triumphantly alone; but Mowbray--Lord Mowbray appears! +Farewell, Harrington!” + +He bowed, laughing, and left me. ‘Twas well he did; I could not have +borne it another second, and I could not insult the man in my own +house--anger, disdainful anger, possessed me. My heart had, in the +course of a few hours, been successively a prey to many violent +conflicting passions; and at the moment when I most wanted the support, +the sympathy of a friend, I found myself duped, deserted, ridiculed! I +felt alone in the world, and completely miserable. + +A truce for this day was agreed upon. I had a few hours’ time for +reflection--much wanted. During this interval, which appeared to me a +most painful suspense, I had leisure to reconsider my difficulties. +Now that I was left to my own will entirely, should I decide to make an +immediate declaration? As I revolved this question in my thoughts, my +mind altered with every changing view which the hopes and fears of a +lover threw upon the subject. I was not perfectly well informed as +to the material point, whether the Jewish religion and Jewish customs +permitted intermarriages with Christians. Mowbray’s levity had suggested +alarming doubts: perhaps he had purposely thrown them out; be that as +it would, I must be satisfied. I made general inquiries as to the Jewish +customs from Jacob, and he, careful to answer with propriety, kept also +to general terms, lest he should appear to understand my particular +views: he could tell me only, that in some cases, more frequently on the +continent and in America than in England, Jews have married Christian +women, and the wives have continued undisturbed in their faith; whether +such marriages were regularly permitted or not, Jacob could not say--no +precedent that he could recollect was exactly a case in point. This +difficulty concerning religion increased, instead of diminishing, in +magnitude and importance, the more my imagination dwelt upon it--the +longer it was considered by my reason: I must take more time before I +could determine. Besides, I was _curious_--I would not allow that I was +_anxious_--to see how Miss Montenero would conduct herself towards +Lord Mowbray--a man of rank--a man of fashion--supposed to be a man +of fortune--known to be a man of wit and gallantry: I should have an +opportunity, such as I had never before had, of seeing her tried; and I +should be able to determine whether I had really obtained any interest +in her heart. On this last point particularly, I could now, without +hazard of a mortifying refusal, or of a precipitate engagement, decide. +Add to these distinct reasons, many mixed motives, which acted upon me +without my defining or allowing them in words. I had spoken and thought +with contempt of Lord Mowbray’s chance of success; but in spite of my +pride in my own superiority of principle and character, in spite of +my confidence in Berenice and in myself, I had my secret, very secret, +quailings of the heart. I thought, when it came to the point, that +it would be best to wait a little longer, before I hazarded that +declaration which must bring her to direct acceptance or rejection; in +short, I determined not to throw myself at her feet precipitately. I +took Mowbray’s advice after all; but I took it when I had made it my own +opinion: and still I rejoiced that my resistance to the arrogant manner +in which Lord Mowbray had laid down the law of gallantry, had produced +that struggle of the passions, in the height of which his mask had +fallen off. I never could decide whether the thought of becoming my +rival really struck him, as he said it did, from the pique of the +moment; or whether he only seized the occasion to declare a design he +had previously formed: no matter--we were now declared rivals. + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +After our declaration of hostilities, Lord Mowbray and I first met on +neutral ground at the Opera--Miss Montenero was there. We were both +eager to mark our pretensions to her publicly. I appeared this night to +great disadvantage: I certainly did not conduct myself prudently--I +lost the command of my temper. Lord Mowbray met me with the same +self-possession, the same gay, careless manner which had provoked me so +much during our last interview. To the by-standers, who knew nothing of +what had passed between us, his lordship must have appeared the pink of +courtesy, the perfection of gentlemanlike ease and good-humour; whilst +I, unable to suppress symptoms of indignation, of contempt, and perhaps +of jealousy, appeared, in striking contrast, captious, haughty, and at +best incomprehensible. Mr. Montenero looked at me with much surprise, +and some concern. In Miss Montenero’s countenance I thought I saw more +concern than surprise; she was alarmed--she grew pale, and I repented of +some haughty answer I had made to Lord Mowbray, in maintaining a place +next to her, which he politely ceded to my impetuosity: he seated +himself on the other side of her, in a place which, if I had not been +blinded by passion, I might have seen and taken as quietly as he did. I +was more and more vexed by perceiving that Mr. Montenero appeared to be, +with all his penetration, duped this night by Mowbray’s show of kindness +towards me; he whispered once or twice to Mr. Montenero, and they seemed +as if they were acting in concert, both observing that I was out of +temper, and Lord Mowbray showing Mr. Montenero how he bore with me. In +fact, I desired nothing so much as an opportunity of quarrelling with +him, and he, though determined to put me ostensibly and flagrantly in +the wrong, desired nothing better than to commence his operation by +the eclat of a duel. If Miss Montenero had understood her business as a +heroine, a duel, as every body expected, must have taken place between +us, in consequence of the happy dispositions in which we both were this +night: nothing but the presence of mind and unexpected determination +of Miss Montenero could have prevented it. I sat regretting that I +had given a moment’s pain or alarm to her timid sensibility, while I +observed the paleness of her cheek, and a tremor in her under lip, which +betrayed how much she had been agitated. Some talking lady of the party +began to give an account, soon afterwards, of a duel in high life, +which was then the conversation of the day: Lord Mowbray and I were +both attentive, and so was Miss Montenero. When she observed that our +attention was fixed, and when there was a pause in the conversation +in which her low voice could be distinctly heard, she, conquering her +extreme timidity, and with a calmness that astonished us all, said, that +she did not pretend to be a judge of what gentlemen might think right +or wrong about duels, but that for her own part she had formed a +resolution--an unalterable resolution, never to marry a man who had +fought a duel in which he had been the challenger. Her father, who +was behind her, leaned forward, and asked what his daughter said--she +deliberately repeated her words. + +That instant I recovered perfect command of temper--I resolved that at +all events I never would be the person to give the challenge, and Lord +Mowbray, at the same instant, I believe, resolved that I should, if he +could so manage it without appearing to be the aggressor. We were both +of us firmly convinced that Miss Montenero was in earnest; the manner +in which she spoke, and the strong evidence of her power over herself at +this moment, impressed us completely with this conviction. A young lady, +a stranger in London, averse from appearing, infinitely more averse +from speaking before numbers, who, when all eyes, and some of them no +friendly eyes, were fixed upon her, could so far conquer her excessive +susceptibility to the opinion of others, as to pronounce, in such +circumstances, such a new and extraordinary determination, was certainly +to be deemed capable of abiding by her resolution. She was much blamed, +I heard afterwards, for the resolution, and more for the declaration. It +was said to be “quite unfit for a lady, and particularly for so young a +lady. Till swords were actually drawn, she should never have thought +of such a thing: then, to presume that she or her fortune were of such +consequence, that her declaration could influence gentlemen--could have +any effect on Lord Mowbray! He did her a vast deal too much honour +in paying her any of those attentions which every body knew meant +nothing--a Jewess, too!” + +Miss Montenero never afterwards spoke on the subject; the effect she +desired was produced, and no other power, I am persuaded, could have +been sufficient to have made me preserve command of myself, during my +daily, hourly trials of temper, in those contentions for her favour +which ensued. Lord Mowbray, by every secret art that could pique my +pride, my jealousy, or my love, endeavoured to provoke me to challenge +him. At first this struggle in my mind was violent--I had reason to fear +my rival’s address, and practised powers of pleasing. He used his utmost +skill, and that skill was great. He began by exerting all his wit, +humour, and vivacity, to entertain in conversation; while I, with a +spell over my faculties, could not produce to advantage any one thing +I knew or had ever known. What became of my ideas I know not, but I +was sensible of my being very stupid and disagreeable. Aware of the +contrast, aware that Miss Montenero saw and felt it, I grew ten times +worse, more silent, and more stupid. Mowbray, happy and confident, went +on, secure of victory. He was an excellent actor, and he was now to act +falling in love, which he did by such fine degrees, and with a nicety +of art which so exquisitely imitated nature, that none but the most +suspicious or the most practised could have detected the counterfeit. +From being the most entertaining, lively man in London, Lord Mowbray +became serious, grave, and sentimental. From being a gallant, gay +Lothario, he was reformed, likely to make the best husband in the world, +provided he marry the woman he loves, and who has influence over him +sufficient to make his reformation last for life. This Lord Mowbray, in +every possible form of insinuation, gave Miss Montenero to understand +was precisely her case and his; she had first, he said, given him +a taste for refined female society, disgusted him with his former +associates, especially with the women of whom he could not now bear +to think; he had quarrelled with--parted with all his mistresses--his +Jessica, the best beloved--parted from irrevocably. This was dropped +with propriety in conversation with Mr. Montenero. The influence of a +virtuous attachment is well known. The effects on Lord Mowbray were, +as he protested, wonderful; he scarcely knew himself--indeed I scarcely +knew him, though I had been, as it were, behind the scenes, and had seen +him preparing for his character. Though he knew that I knew that he was +acting, yet this never disconcerted him in the slightest degree--never +gave him one twinge of conscience, or hesitation from shame, in my +presence. Whenever I attempted openly--I was too honourable, and he +knew I was too honourable, to betray his confidence, or to undermine him +secretly--whenever I attempted openly to expose him, he foiled me--his +cunning was triumphant, and the utmost I could accomplish was, in +the acme of my indignation, to keep my temper, and recollect Miss +Montenero’s resolution. + +Though she seemed not at first in the least to suspect Lord Mowbray’s +sincerity, she was, as I rejoiced to perceive, little interested by his +professions: she was glad he was reformed, for his sake; but for her own +part, her vanity was not flattered. There seemed to be little chance +on this plea of persuading her to take charge of him for life. My heart +beat again with hope--how I admired her!--and I almost forgave Lord +Mowbray. My indignation against him, I must own, was not always as +steadily proportioned to his deserts as for the sake of my pride and +consistency I could wish to represent it. In recording this part of the +history of my life, truth obliges me to acknowledge that my anger rose +or fell in proportion to the degree of fear I felt of the possibility of +his success; whenever my hope and my confidence in myself increased, I +found it wonderfully easy to command my temper. + +But my rival was a man of infinite resource; when one mode of attack +failed, he tried another. Vanity, in some form, he was from experience +convinced must be the ruling passion of the female heart--and vanity +is so accessible, so easily managed. Miss Montenero was a stranger, a +Jewess, just entering into the fashionable world--just doubting, as +he understood, whether she should make London her future residence, or +return to her retirement in the wilds of America. Lord Mowbray wished +to make her sensible that his public attentions would bring her at once +into fashion; and though his mother, the prejudiced Lady De Brantefield, +could not be prevailed upon to visit a Jewess, yet his lordship had a +vast number of high connexions and relations, to all of whom he +could introduce Mr. and Miss Montenero. Lady Anne Mowbray, indeed, +unaccountably persisted in saying every where, that she was certain +her brother had no more thought of the Jewess than of the queen of the +gipsies. Whenever she saw Miss Montenero in public, her ladyship had, +among her own set, a never-failing source of sarcasm and ridicule in +the Spanish fashion of Miss Montenero’s dress, especially her long +veils--veils were not then in fashion, and Lady Anne of course +pronounced them to be hideous. It was at this time, in England, +the reign of high heads: a sort of triangular cushion or edifice of +horsehair, suppose nine inches diagonal, three inches thick, by seven +in height, called I believe a _toque_ or a _system_, was fastened on the +female head, I do not well know how, with black pins a quarter of a +yard long; and upon and over this _system_, the hair was erected, and +crisped, and frizzed, and thickened with soft pomatum, and filled with +powder, white, brown, or red, and made to look as like as possible to +a fleece of powdered wool, which _battened_ down on each side of the +triangle to the face. Then there were things called _curls_--nothing +like what the poets understand by curls or ringlets, but layers of hair, +first stiffened and then rolled up into hollow cylinders, resembling +sausages, which were set on each side of the system, “artillery tier +above tier,” two or three of the sausages dangling from the ear down +the neck. The hair behind, natural and false, plastered together to +a preposterous bulk with quantum sufficit of powder and pomatum, was +turned up in a sort of great bag, or club, or _chignon_--then at the top +of the mount of hair and horsehair was laid a gauze platform, stuck full +of little red daisies, from the centre of which platform rose a plume +of feathers a full yard high--or in lieu of platform, flowers, and +feathers, there was sometimes a fly-cap, or a wing-cap, or a _pouf_. If +any one happens to have an old pocket-book for 1780, a single glance +at the plate of fashionable heads for that year will convey a more +competent idea of the same than I, unknowing in the terms of art, can +produce by the most elaborate description. Suffice it for me to observe, +that in comparison with this head-dress, to which, in my liberality and +respect for departed fashion, I forbear to fix any of the many epithets +which present themselves, the Spanish dress and veil worn by Miss +Montenero, associated as it was with painting and poetry, did certainly +appear to me more picturesque and graceful. In favour of the veil, I +had all the poets, from Homer and Hesiod downwards, on my side; and +moreover, I was backed by the opinion of the wisest of men, who has +pronounced that “_a veil addeth to beauty._” Armed with such authority, +and inspired by love, I battled stoutly with Lady Anne upon several +occasions, especially one night when we met at the Pantheon. I was +walking between Lady Emily B---- and Miss Montenero, and two or three +times, as we went round the room, we met Lady Anne Mowbray and her +party, and every time we passed, I observed scornful glances at the +veil. Berenice was too well-bred to suspect ill-breeding in others; +she never guessed what was going forward, till one of the youngest and +boldest of these high-born vulgarians spoke so loud as she passed, and +pronounced the name of _Montenero,_ and the word _Jewess,_ so plainly, +that both Miss Montenero and Lady Emily B---- could not avoid hearing +what was said. Lord Mowbray was not with us. I took an opportunity of +quitting the ladies as soon as general B----, who had left us for a few +minutes, returned. I went to pay my compliments to Lady Anne Mowbray, +and, as delicately as I could, remonstrated against their proceedings. +I said that her ladyship and her party were not aware, I was sure, how +loudly they had spoken. Lady Anne defended herself and her companions +by fresh attacks upon the veil, and upon the lady, “who had done vastly +well to take the veil.” In the midst of the nonsense which Lady Anne +threw out, there now and then appeared something that was a little like +her brother Mowbray’s wit--little bits of sparkling things, _mica,_ +not ore. I was in no humour to admire them, and her ladyship took much +offence at a general observation I made, “that people of sense submit to +the reigning fashion, while others are governed by it.” We parted this +night so much displeased with each other, that when we met again in +public, we merely exchanged bows and curtsies--in private we had seldom +met of late--I never went to Lady de Brantefield’s. I was really glad +that the battle of the veil had ended in this cessation of intercourse +between us. As soon as Miss Montenero found that her Spanish dress +subjected her to the inconvenience of being remarked in public she laid +it aside. I thought she was right in so doing--and in three days’ time, +though I had at first regretted the picturesque dress, I soon became +accustomed to the change. So easily does the eye adapt itself to the +fashion, so quickly do we combine the idea of grace and beauty with +whatever is worn by the graceful and the beautiful, and I may add, so +certainly do we learn to like whatever is associated with those we love. + +The change of dress which Berenice had so prudently adopted, did not, +however, produce any change in the manners of Lady Anne and of her +party. Lady Anne, it was now evident, had taken an unalterable dislike +to Miss Montenero. I am not coxcomb enough to imagine that she was +jealous; I know that she never had the slightest regard for me, and +that I was not the sort of man whom she could like; but still I had been +counted, perhaps by others, in the list of her admirers, and I was a +young man, and an admirer the less was always to be regretted--deserting +to a _Jewess_, as she said, was intolerable. But I believe she was also +secretly afraid, that her brother was more in earnest in his attentions +to Miss Montenero, than she affected to suppose possible. From whatever +cause, she certainly hated Berenice cordially, and took every means of +mortifying me by the display of this aversion. I shall not be at the +trouble of recording the silly and petty means she took to vex. I was +not surprised at any thing of this sort from her ladyship; but I was +much surprised by her brother’s continuing to be absolutely blind and +deaf to her proceedings. It is true, sometimes it happened that he was +not present, but this was not always the case; and I was convinced that +it could not be from accident or inadvertency, that it must be from +settled design, that he persisted in this blindness. Combining my +observations, I discovered that he wanted to make Miss Montenero +feel how impossible it was for her to escape the ridicule of certain +_fashionable impertinents_, and how impracticable it would be to +_get on_ among people of the ton in London, without the aid of such a +champion as himself. One day he suddenly appeared to discover something +of what was going forward, and assumed great indignation; then affecting +to suppress that feeling, “wished to Heaven he were _authorized_ +to speak”--and there he paused--but no inclination to authorize him +appeared. I had sometimes seen Miss Montenero distressed by the rude +manner in which she had been stared at. I had seen her colour come and +go, but she usually preserved a dignified silence on such occasions. +Once, and but once, I heard her advert to the subject in speaking to +her father, when Lord Mowbray was not present. “You see, I hope, my +dear father,” said she, “that I am curing myself of that _morbid +sensibility_, that excessive susceptibility to the opinion of others, +with which you used to reproach me. I have had some good lessons, and +you have had some good trials of me, since we came to England.” + +“How much I am obliged to those persons or those circumstances, which +have done what I thought was impossible, which have raised my daughter +in my opinion!” said her father. The look of affectionate approbation +with which these words were pronounced, and the grateful delight with +which Berenice heard them, convinced me that Lord Mowbray had completely +mistaken his ground--had mistaken strong sensibility for weakness of +mind. It now appeared, to my entire satisfaction, that Miss Montenero +was really and truly above the follies and the meanness of fashion. +She did not wish to be acquainted with these fine people, nor to make a +figure in public; but she did wish to see the best society in London, +in order to compare it with what she had been accustomed to in other +countries, and to determine what would be most for her future happiness. +Through the friendship of General B---- and his family, she had +sufficient opportunities of seeing in public, and enjoying in private, +the best society in London. Lord Mowbray, therefore, had no power over +her, as a leader of fashion; his general character for being a favourite +with the ladies, and his gallant style of conversation, did not make the +impression upon her that he had expected. + +He did not know how to converse with one who could not be answered by +a play upon words, nor satisfied by an appeal to precedents, or the +authority of numbers and of high names. + +Lord Chesterfield’s style of conversation, and that of any of the +personages in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, could not be more different, or +less compatible, than the simplicity of Miss Montenero and the wit of +Lord Mowbray. + +I never saw any one so puzzled and provoked as was this man of wit by a +character of genuine simplicity. He was as much out of his element with +such a character as any of the French lovers in Marmontel’s Tales would +be tête-à-tête with a Roman or a Grecian matron--as much at a loss as +one of the fine gentlemen in Congreve’s plays might find himself, if +condemned to hold parley with a heroine of Sophocles or of Euripides. + +Lord Mowbray, a perfect Proteus when he wished to please, changed his +manner successively from that of the sentimental lover, to that of the +polite gallant and accomplished man of the world; and when this did +not succeed, he had recourse to philosophy, reason, and benevolence. No +hint, which cunning and address could improve to his purpose, was lost +upon Mowbray. Mrs. Coates had warned me that Miss Montenero was _touchy +on the Jewish chapter_, and his lordship was aware it was as the +champion of the Jews that I had first been favourably represented by +Jacob, and favourably received by Mr. Montenero. Soon Lord Mowbray +appeared to be deeply interested and deeply read in very thing that had +been written in their favour. + +He rummaged over Tovey and Ockley; and “Priestley’s Letters to the +Jews,” and “The Letters of certain Jews to M. de Voltaire,” were books +which he now continually quoted in conversation. With great address he +wondered that he had never happened to meet with them till lately; and +confessed that he believed he never should have thought of reading +them, but that really the subject had of late become so interesting! Of +Voltaire’s illiberal attacks upon the Jews, and of the King of Prussia’s +intolerance towards them, he could not express sufficient detestation; +nor could he ever adequately extol Cumberland’s benevolent “Jew,” or +Lessing’s “Nathan the Wise.” Quotations from one or the other were +continually in readiness, uttered with all the air of a man so deeply +impressed with certain sentiments, that they involuntarily burst from +him on every occasion. This I could also perceive to be an imitation of +what he had seen _suceed_ with me; and I was not a little flattered by +observing, that Berenice was unconsciously pleased, if not caught by the +counterfeit. The affectation was skilfully managed, with a dash of +his own manner, and through the whole preserving an air of nature +and consistency: so that he had all the appearance of a person whose +understanding, naturally liberal, had, on one particular subject, been +suddenly warmed and exalted by the passion of love. It has often been +said, that liars have need of good memories. Mowbray had really an +excellent memory, but yet it was not sufficient for all his occasions. +He contradicted himself sometimes without perceiving it, but not without +its being perceived. Intent upon one point, he laboured that admirably; +but he sometimes forgot that any thing could be seen beyond that +point--he forgot the bearings and connexions. He never forgot his +liberality about the Jews, and about every thing relative to Hebrew +ground; but on other questions, in which he thought Mr. Montenero and +his daughter had no concern, his party spirit and his want of toleration +for other sects broke out. + +One day a Rabbi came to Mr. Montenero’s while we were there, to solicit +his contribution towards the building or repairing a synagogue. The +priest was anxious to obtain leave to build on certain lands which +belonged to the crown. These lands were in the county where Lord +Mowbray’s or Lady de Brantefield’s property lay. With the most engaging +liberality of manner, Lord Mowbray anticipated the wishes of the Jewish +priest, declaring that he was happy on this occasion publicly and +practically to show his principles of toleration; he would immediately +use whatever influence he might possess with government to obtain the +desired grant; and if that application should fail, there was still a +resource in future. At present, unfortunately, his mother’s opinions +differing from his own, nothing could be done; but he could, in future, +offer a site for a synagogue in the very part of the country that was +desired, on lands that must in time be his. + +The priest was down to the ground, bowing, full of acknowledgments, and +admiration of his lordship’s generosity and liberality of principle. A +few minutes afterwards, however, his lordship undid all he had done +with Berenice and with her father, by adding that he regretted that his +mother had given a lease of a bit of land to some confounded dissenters: +he was determined, he said, whenever the estate should come into his +own hands, to break that lease--he would have no meeting-house, no +dissenting chapel on his estate--he considered them as nuisances--he +would raze the chapel to the ground--he would much rather have a +synagogue on that spot. + +Lord Mowbray walked to the window with the Jewish priest, who was eager +to press his own point while his lordship was in the humour. + +Mowbray looked back for Mr. Montenero, but, to his evident +mortification, neither Mr. Montenero nor Berenice followed to this +consultation. Mr. Montenero turned to me, and, with a peculiar look of +his, an expression of grave humour and placid penetration, said, “Did +you ever hear, Mr. Harrington, of a sect of Jews called the Caraites?” + +“Never, sir.” + +“The _Caraites_ are what we may call Jewish dissenters. Lord Mowbray’s +notions of toleration remind me of the extraordinary liberality of one +of our Rabbies, who gave it as his opinion that if a _Caraites_ and a +Christian were drowning, we Jews ought to make a bridge of the body of +the Caraite, for the purpose of saving the Christian.” + +Berenice smiled; and I saw that my fears of her being duped by mock +philanthropy were vain. Lord Mowbray was soon tired of his colloquy with +the priest, and returned to us, talking of the Hebrew chanting at some +synagogue in town which he had lately visited; and which, he said, was +the finest thing he had ever heard. A Jewish festival was in a few days +to be celebrated, and I determined, I said, to go on that day to hear +the chanting, and to see the ceremony. In the countenance of Berenice, +to whom my eyes involuntarily turned as I spoke, I saw an indefinable +expression, on which I pondered, and finished by interpreting favourably +to my wishes. I settled that she was pleased, but afraid to show this +too distinctly. Lord Mowbray regretted, what I certainly did not in the +least regret, that he should be on duty at Windsor on the day of this +festival. I was the more determined to be at the synagogue, and there +accordingly I went punctually; but, to my disappointment, Berenice did +not appear. Mr. Montenero saw me come in, and made room for me near him. +The synagogue was a spacious, handsome building; not divided into +pews like our churches, but open, like foreign churches, to the whole +congregation. The women sat apart in a gallery. The altar was in the +centre, on a platform, raised several steps and railed round. Within +this railed space were the high-priest and his assistants. The +high-priest with his long beard and sacerdotal vestments, struck me as a +fine venerable figure. The service was in Hebrew: but I had a book +with a translation of it. All I recollect are the men and women’s +thanksgivings. + +“Blessed art thou, O Everlasting King! that thou hast not made me a +woman.” + +The woman’s lowly response is, “Blessed art thou, O Lord! that thou hast +made me according to thy will.” + +But of the whole ceremony I must confess that I have but a very confused +recollection. Many things conspired to distract my attention. Whether +it was that my disappointment at not seeing Berenice indisposed me to be +pleased, or whether the chanting was not this day, or at this synagogue, +as fine as usual, it certainly did not answer my expectations. However +pleasing it might be to other ears, to mine it was discordant; and I was +afraid that Mr. Montenero should perceive this. I saw that he observed +me from time to time attentively, and I thought he wanted to discover +whether there was within me any remains of my old antipathies. Upon this +subject I knew he was peculiarly susceptible. Under this apprehension, +I did my utmost to suppress my feelings; and the constraint became +mentally and corporeally irksome. The ceremonials, which were quite new +to me, contributed at once to strain my attention, and to increase the +painful confusion of my mind. I felt relieved when the service was +over; but when I thought that it was finished, all stood still, as if +in expectation, and there was a dead silence. I saw two young children +appear from the crowd: way was made for them to the altar. They +walked slowly, hand in hand, and when they had ascended the steps, +and approached the altar, the priest threw over them a white scarf, or +vestment, and they kneeled, and raising their little hands, joined them +together, in the attitude of supplication. They prayed in silence. They +were orphans, praying for their father and mother, whom they had lately +lost. Mr. Montenero told me that it is the Jewish custom for orphans, +during a year after the death of their parents, to offer up at +the altar, on every public meeting of their synagogue, this solemn +commemoration of their loss. While the children were still kneeling, a +man walked silently round the synagogue, collecting contributions for +the orphans. I looked, and saw, as he came nearer to me, that this was +Jacob. Just as I had taken out my purse, I was struck by the sight of a +face and figure that had terrible power over my associations--a figure +exactly resembling one of the most horrible of the Jewish figures which +used to haunt me when I was a child. The face with _terrible eyes_ +stood fixed opposite to me. I was so much surprised and startled by this +apparition, that a nervous tremor seized me in every limb. I let the +purse, which I had in my hand, fall upon the ground. Mr. Montenero took +it up again, and presented it to me, asking me, in a very kind voice, +“if I was ill.” I recollected myself--when I looked again, the figure +had disappeared in the crowd. I had no reason to believe that Mr. +Montenero saw the cause of my disorder. He seemed to attribute it to +sudden illness, and hastened to get out of the synagogue into the fresh +air. His manner, on this occasion, was so kind towards me, and the +anxiety he showed about my health so affectionate, that all my fears of +his misinterpreting my feelings vanished; and to me the result of all +that had passed was a firmer conviction, than I had ever yet felt, of +his regard. + +It was evident, I thought, that after all the disadvantages I had had +on some points, and after all the pains that Lord Mowbray had taken +to please, Mr. Montenero far preferred me, and was interested in the +highest degree about my health, and about every thing that concerned +me. Nevertheless, Lord Mowbray persevered in showing the most profound +respect for Mr. Montenero, by acting an increasing taste for his +conversation, deference for his talents, and affection for his virtues. +This certainly succeeded better with Berenice than any thing else his +lordship had tried; but when he found it please, he overdid it a little. +The exaggeration was immediately detected by Berenice: the heart easily +detects flattery. Once, when Lord Mowbray praised her father for some +accomplishment which he did not possess--for pronouncing and reading +English remarkably well--his daughter’s glance at the flatterer +expressed indignation, suddenly extinguished by contempt. Detected and +baffled, he did not well know how, by a woman whom he considered as so +much his inferior in ability and address, Lord Mowbray found it often +difficult to conceal his real feelings of resentment, and then it was +that he began to hate her. I, who knew his countenance too well to +be deceived by his utmost command of face, saw the evil turn of the +eye--saw looks from time to time that absolutely alarmed me--looks of +hatred, malice, vengeance, suddenly changed to smiles, submission, and +softness of demeanour. Though extremely vain, and possessed with an +opinion that no woman could resist him, yet, with his understanding +and his experience in gallantry, I could not conceive it possible that, +after all the signs and tokens he had seen, he should persist in the +hope of succeeding; he was certainly aware that I was preferred. I knew +it to be natural that jealousy and anger should increase with fears and +doubts of success; and yet there was something incomprehensible in +the manner which, before Mr. Montenero, he now adopted towards me: he +appeared at once to yield the palm to me, and yet to be resolved not to +give up the contest; he seemed as if he was my rival against his will, +and my friend if I would but permit it; he refrained, with ostentatious +care, from giving me any provocation, checking himself often, and +drawing back with such expressions as these:--“If it were any other man +upon earth--but Mr. Harrington might say and do what he pleased--in any +other circumstances, he could not hazard contradicting or quarrelling +with _him_; indeed he could never forget--” + +Then he would look at Berenice and at Mr. Montenero, and they would +look as if they particularly approved of his conduct. Berenice softened +towards him, and I trembled. As she softened towards him, I fancied she +became graver and more reserved towards me. I was more provoked by the +new tone of sentimental regret from Mowbray than I had been by any of +his other devices, because I thought I saw that it imposed more than any +thing else had done on Berenice and Mr. Montenero, and because I knew it +to be so utterly false. + +Once, as we were going down stairs together, after I had disdainfully +expressed my contempt of hypocrisy, and my firm belief that my plain +truth would in the end prevail with Berenice against all his address, +he turned upon me in sudden anger, beyond his power to control, and +exclaimed, “Never!--She never shall be yours!” + +It appeared as if he had some trick yet in store--some card concealed +in his hand, with which he was secure, at last, of winning the game. I +pondered, and calculated, but I could not make out what it could be. + +One advantage, as he thought it, I was aware he had over me--he had no +religious scruples; he could therefore manage so as to appear to make +a great sacrifice to love, when, in fact, it would cost his conscience +nothing. One evening he began to talk of Sir Charles Grandison and +Clementina--he blamed Sir Charles Grandison; he declared, that for his +part _there was nothing he would not sacrifice to a woman he loved_. + +I looked at Miss Montenero at that instant--our eyes met--she blushed +deeply--withdrew her eyes from me--and sighed. During the remainder of +the evening, she scarcely spoke to me, or looked toward me. She appeared +embarrassed; and, as I thought, displeased. Lord Mowbray was in high +spirits--he seemed resolved to advance--I retired earlier than usual. +Lord Mowbray stayed, and seized the moment to press his own suit. He +made his proposal--he offered to sacrifice religion--every thing to +love. He was refused irrevocably. I know nothing of the particulars, nor +should I have known the fact but for his own intemperance of resentment. +It was not only his vanity--his mortified, exasperated vanity--that +suffered by this refusal; it was not only on account of his rivalship +with me that he was vexed to the quick; his interest, as much as his +vanity, had suffered. I did not know till this night how completely +he was ruined. He had depended upon the fortune of the Jewess. What +resource for him now?--None. In this condition, like one of the Indian +gamblers, when they have lost all, and are ready _to run amuck_ on all +who may fall in their way, he this night, late, made his appearance at +a club where he expected to find me. Fortunately, I was not there; but a +gentleman who was, gave me an account of the scene. Disappointed at +not finding me, with whom he had determined to quarrel, he supped in +absolute silence--drank hasty and deep draughts of wine--then burst out +into abuse of Mr. and Miss Montenero, and challenged any body present +to defend them: he knew that several of their acquaintances were in +company; but all, seeing that from the combined effects of passion and +wine he was not in his senses, suffered him to exhale his fury without +interruption or contradiction. Then he suddenly demanded the reason of +this silence; and seemingly resolved to force some one into a quarrel, +[Footnote: Strange as it may appear, this representation is true.] he +began by the gentleman next to him, and said the most offensive and +provoking things he could think of to him--and to each in turn; but all +laughed, and told him they were determined not to quarrel with him--that +he must take four-and-twenty hours to cool before they would take +notice of any thing he should say. His creditors did not give him +four-and-twenty hours’ time: a servant, before whom he had vented his +rage against the Jewess, comprehended that all his hopes of her were +over, and gave notice to the creditors, who kept him in their pay for +that purpose. Mowbray was obliged the next day to leave town, or to +conceal himself in London, to avoid an arrest. I heard no more of him +for some time--indeed I made no inquiries. I could have no farther +interest concerning a man who had conducted himself so ill. I only +rejoiced that he was now out of my way, and that he had by all his +treachery, and by all his artifices, given me an opportunity of seeing, +more fully tried, the excellent understanding and amiable disposition of +Berenice. My passion was now justified by my reason: my hopes were high, +not presumptuous--nothing but the difficulty about her religion stood +between me and happiness. I was persuaded that the change by which I had +been alarmed in Miss Montenero’s manner towards me had arisen only +from doubts of my love, or from displeasure at the delay of an explicit +declaration of my passion. Determined, at all hazards, now to try my +fate, I took my way across the square to Mr. Montenero’s--Across the +square?--yes! I certainly took the diagonal of the square. + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +When I arrived at Mr. Montenero’s I saw the window-shutters closed, and +there was an ominous stillness in the area--no one answered to my knock. +I knocked louder--I rang impatiently; no footsteps were heard in the +hall: I pulled the bell incessantly. During the space of three minutes +that I was forced to wait on the steps, I formed a variety of horrid +imaginations. At last I heard approaching sounds: an old woman very +deliberately opened the door. “Lauk, sir, how you do ring! There’s not a +body to be had but me--all the servants is different ways, gone to their +friends.” + +“But Mr. and Miss Montenero--” + +“Oh! they was off by times this morning--they be gone--” + +“Gone?” + +I suppose my look and accent of despair struck the old woman with some +pity, for she added, “Lauk, sir, they be only gone for a few days.” + +I recovered my breath. “And can you, my good lady, tell me where they +are gone?” + +“Somewhere down in Surrey--Lord knows--I forget the names--but to +General somebody’s.” + +“General B----‘s, perhaps.” + +“Ay, ay,--that’s it.” + +My imagination ran over in an instant all the general’s family, the +gouty brother, and the white-toothed aide-de-camp. + +“How long are they to stay at General B----‘s, can you tell me, my good +lady?” + +“Dear heart! I can’t tell, not I’s, how they’ll cut and carve their +visitings--all I know is, they be to be back here in ten days or a +fortnight or so.” + +I put a golden memorandum, with my card, into the old woman’s hand, and +she promised that the very moment Mr. and Miss Montenero should return +to town I should have notice. + +During this fortnight my anxiety was increased by hearing from Mrs. +Coates, whom I accidentally met at a fruit-shop, that “Miss Montenero +was taken suddenly ill of a scarlet fever down in the country at General +B----‘s, where,” as Mrs. Coates added, “they could get no advice for her +at all, but a country apothecary, which was worse than nobody.” + +Mrs. Coates, who was not an ill-natured, though a very ill-bred woman, +observing the terrible alarm into which she had thrown me by her +intelligence, declared she was quite sorry she had _outed_ with the +news so sudden upon me. Mrs. Coates now stood full in the doorway of the +fruit-shop, so as to stop me completely from effecting my retreat; and +while her footman was stowing into her carriage the loads of fruit which +she had purchased, I was compelled to hear her go on in the following +style. + +“Now, Mr. Harrington--no offence--but I couldn’t have conceived it was +so re’lly over head and ears an affair with you, as by your turning as +pale as the table-cloth I see it re’lly is. For there was my son Peter, +he admired her, and the alderman was not against it; but then the Jewess +connexion was always a stumbling-block Peter could not swallow;--and as +for my Lord Mowbray, that the town talked of so much as in love with the +Jewess heiress--heiress, says I, very like, but not Jewess, I’ll engage; +and, said I, from the first, he is no more in love with her than I +am. So many of them young men of the ton is always following of them +heiresses up and down for fashion or _fortin’s_ sake, without caring +sixpence about them, that--I ask your pardon, Mr. Harrington--but I +thought you might, in the alderman’s phrase, be _of the same kidney_; +but since I see ‘tis a real downright affair of the heart, I shall make +it my business to call myself at your house to-morrow in my carriage. +No--that would look odd, and you a bachelor, and your people out o’town. +But I’ll send my own footman with a message, I promise you now, let ‘em +be ever so busy, if I hear any good news. No need to send if it be bad, +for ill news flies apace evermore, all the world over, as Peter says. +Tom! I say! is the fruit all in, Tom?--Oh! Mr. Harrington, don’t trouble +yourself--you’re too polite, but I always get into my coach best myself, +without hand or arm, except it be Tom’s. A good morning, sir--I sha’n’t +forget to-morrow: so live upon hope--lover’s fare!--Home, Tom.” + +The next day, Mrs. Coates, more punctual to her word than many a more +polished person, sent as early as it was possible “to set my heart at +ease about Miss Montenero’s illness, and _other_ _matters_.” Mrs. Coates +enclosed in her note two letters, which her maid had received that +morning and last Tuesday. This was the way, as Mrs. Coates confessed, +that the report reached her ears. The waiting-maid’s first letter had +stated “that her lady, though she did not complain, had a cold and sore +throat coming down, and this was alarming, with a spotted fever in the +neighbourhood.” Mrs. Coates’s maid had, in repeating the news, “turned +the sore throat into a spotted fever, or a scarlet fever, she did not +rightly know which, but both were said by the apothecary to be generally +fatal, where there was any Jewish taint in the blood.” + +The waiting-maid’s second epistle, on which Mrs. Coates had written, “_a +sugar plum for a certain gentleman_,” contained the good tidings “that +the first was all a mistake. There was no spotted fever, the general’s +own man would take his Bible oath, within ten miles round--and Miss +Montenero’s throat was gone off--and she was come out of her room. But +as to spirits and good looks, she had left both in St. James’-square, +Lon’on; _where her heart was, fur certain_. For since she come to the +country, never was there such a change in any living lady, young or +old--quite moped!--The general, and his aide-de-camp, and every body, +noticing it at dinner even. To be sure if it did not turn out a _match_, +which there was some doubts of, on account of the family’s and the old +gentleman’s particular oaths and objections, as she had an inkling of, +there would be two broken hearts. Lord forbid!--though a Jewish heart +might be harder to break than another’s, yet it looked likely.” + +The remainder of the letter, Mrs. Coates, or her maid, had very +prudently torn off. I was now relieved from all apprehensions of spotted +fever; and though I might reasonably have doubted the accuracy of all +the intelligence conveyed by such a correspondent, yet I could not help +having a little faith in some of her observations. My hopes, at least, +rose delightfully; and with my hope, my ardent impatience to see +Berenice again. At last, the joyful notice of Mr. and Miss Montenero’s +return to town was brought to me by the old woman. Mr. Montenero +admitted me the moment I called. Miss Montenero was not at home, or not +visible. I was shown into Mr. Montenero’s study. The moment I +entered, the moment I saw him, I was struck with some change in his +countenance--some difference in his manner of receiving me. In what the +difference consisted, I could not define; but it alarmed me. + +“Good Heavens!” I exclaimed, “is Miss Montenero ill?” + +“My daughter is perfectly well, my dear sir.” + +“Thank Heaven! But you, sir?” + +“I,” said Mr. Montenero, “am also in perfect health. What alarms you?” + +“I really don’t well know,” said I, endeavouring to laugh at myself, +and my own apprehensions; “but I thought I perceived some change in the +expression of your countenance towards me, my dear Mr. Montenero. You +must know, that all my life, my quickness of perception of the slightest +change in the countenance and manner of those I love, has ever been a +curse to me; for my restless imagination always set to work to invent +causes--and my causes, though ingenious, unluckily, seldom happened to +be the real causes. Many a vain alarm, many a miserable hour, has this +superfluous activity of imagination cost me--so I am determined to cure +myself.” + +At the moment I was uttering the determination, I stopped short, for I +felt that I could not keep it, on this occasion. Mr. Montenero sighed, +or I thought he sighed, and there was such an unusual degree of gravity +and deliberation in the mildness of his manner, that I could not believe +my alarm was without cause. I took the chair which he placed for me, and +we both sat down: but he looked so prepared to listen, that I could not +articulate. There was a sudden revulsion in my spirits, and all my ideas +were in utter confusion. Mr. Montenero, the kindness of whose manner was +not changed towards me, I saw pitied my confusion. He began to talk of +his excursion into the country--he spoke of General B---- and of the +whole county of Surrey. The words reached my ears, but conveyed no ideas +to my mind, except the general notion that Mr. Montenero was giving +me time to recover myself. I was grateful for the kind intention, and +somewhat encouraged by the softness of voice, and look of pity. But +still there was something so measured--so guarded--so prepared!--At +last, when he had exhausted all that he could say about the county of +Surrey, and a dead silence threatened me, I took courage, and plunged +into the middle of things at once. I cannot remember exactly the words, +but what I said was to this effect. + +“Mr. Montenero, you know so much of the human heart, and of my heart, +that you must be aware of the cause of my present embarrassment and +emotion. You must have seen my passion for your incomparable daughter.” + +“I have seen it, I own--I am well aware of it, Mr. Harrington,” replied +Mr. Montenero, in a mild and friendly tone; but there was something +of self-accusation and repentance in the tone, which alarmed me +inexpressibly. + +“I hope, my dear good sir, that you do not repent of your kindness,” + said I, “in having permitted me to cultivate your society, in having +indulged me in some hours of the most exquisite pleasure I ever yet +enjoyed.” + +He sighed; and I went on with vehement incoherence. + +“I hope you cannot suspect me of a design to abuse your confidence, to +win, if it were in my power, your daughter’s affections, without your +knowledge, surreptitiously, clandestinely. She is an heiress, a rich +heiress, I know, and my circumstances--Believe me, sir, I have never +intended to deceive you; but I waited till--There I was wrong. I wish +I had abided by my own opinion! I wish I had followed my first impulse! +Believe me, sir, it was my first thought, my first wish, to speak to +you of all the circumstances; if I delayed, it was from the fear that +a precipitate declaration would have been imputed to presumption. +As Heaven is my judge, I had no other motive. I abhor artifice. I am +incapable of the base treachery of taking advantage of any confidence +reposed in me.” + +“My good sir,” said Mr. Montenero, when at last I was forced to pause +for breath, “why this vehemence of defence? I do not accuse--I do not +suspect you of any breach of confidence. Pray compose yourself.” + +Calmed by this assurance, I recovered some presence of mind, and +proceeded, as I thought, in a most tranquil manner to express my regret, +at all events, that I should not have been the first person to have +explained to him my unfortunate circumstances. “But this,” I said, “was +like the rest of Lord Mowbray’s treacherous conduct.” + +I was going on again in a tone of indignation, when Mr. Montenero +again begged me to compose myself, and asked “to what unfortunate +circumstances I alluded?” + +“You do not know then? You have not been informed? Then I did Lord +Mowbray injustice.” + +I explained to Mr. Montenero to what circumstances I had so +unintelligibly alluded. I gained courage as I went on, for I saw that +the history of my father’s vow, of which Mr. Montenero had evidently +never heard till this moment, did not shock or offend him, as I had +expected that it would. + +With the most philosophic calmness and benevolence, he said that he +could forgive my father for his prejudices the more readily, because he +was persuaded that if he had ever become known to my father, it would +not have been impossible to conquer this prepossession. + +I sighed, for I was convinced this was a vain hope. There was some +confusion in the tenses in Mr. Montenero’s sentence too, which I did not +quite like, or comprehend; he seemed as if he were speaking of a thing +that might have been possible, at some time that was now completely +past. I recollect having a painful perception of this one instant, and +the next accounting for it satisfactorily, by supposing that his foreign +idiom was the cause of his confusion of speech. + +After a pause, he proceeded. “Fortune,” said he, “is not an object to me +in the choice of a son-in-law: considering the very ample fortune which +my daughter will possess, I am quite at ease upon that point.” + +Still, though he had cleared away the two first great obstacles, I saw +there was some greater yet unnamed. I thought it was the difference of +our religion. We were both silent, and the difficulty seemed to me at +this moment greater, and more formidable, than it had ever yet appeared. +While I was considering how I should touch upon the subject, Mr. +Montenero turned to me and said, “I hate all mysteries, and yet I cannot +be perfectly explicit with you, Mr. Harrington; as far as I possibly +can, however, I will speak with openness--with sincerity, you may depend +upon it, I have always spoken, and ever shall speak. You must have +perceived that your company is particularly agreeable to me. Your +manners, your conversation, your liberal spirit, and the predilection +you have shown for my society--the politeness, the humanity, you showed +my daughter the first evening you met--and the partiality for her, which +a father’s eye quickly perceived that you felt, altogether won upon +my heart. My regard for you has been strengthened and confirmed by +the temper, prudence, and generosity, I have seen you evince towards +a rival. I have studied your character, and I think I know it as +thoroughly as I esteem and value it. If I were to choose a son-in-law +after my own heart, you should be the man. Spare me your thanks--spare +me this joy,” continued he; “I have now only said what it was just to +say--just to you and to myself.” + +He spoke with difficulty and great emotion, as he went on to say, that +he feared he had acted very imprudently for my happiness in permitting, +in encouraging me to see so much of his daughter; for an obstacle--he +feared an obstacle that--His voice almost failed. + +“I am aware of it,” said I. + +“Aware of it?” said he, looking up at me suddenly with astonishment: he +repeated more calmly, “Aware of it? Let us understand one another, my +dear sir.” + +“I understand you perfectly,” cried I. “I am well aware of the nature +of the obstacle. At once I declare that I can make no sacrifice, no +compromise of my religious principles, to my passion.” + +“You would be unworthy of my esteem if you could,” said Mr. Montenero. +“I rejoice to hear this declaration unequivocally made; this is what I +expected from you.” + +“But,” continued I, eagerly, “Miss Montenero could be secure of the free +exercise of her own religion. You know my principles of toleration--you +know my habits; and though between man and wife a difference of religion +may be in most cases a formidable obstacle to happiness, yet permit me +to hope--” + +“I cannot permit you to hope,” interrupted Mr. Montenero. “You are +mistaken as to the nature of the obstacle. A difference of religion +would be a most formidable objection, I grant; but we need not enter +upon that subject--that is not the obstacle to which I allude.” + +“Then of what nature can it be? Some base slander--Lord Mowbray--Nothing +shall prevent me!” cried I, starting up furiously. + +“Gently--command yourself, and listen to reason and truth,” said Mr. +Montenero, laying his hand on my arm. “Am I a man, do you think, to +listen to base slander? Or, if I had listened to any such, could I speak +to you with the esteem and confidence with which I have just spoken? +Could I look at you with the tenderness and affection which I feel for +you at this instant?” + +“Oh! Mr. Montenero,” said I, “you know how to touch me to the heart; but +answer me one, only one question--has Lord Mowbray any thing to do with +this, whatever it is?” + +“I have not seen or heard from him since I saw you last.” + +“Your word is sufficient,” said I. “Then I suspected him unjustly.” + +“Heaven forbid,” said Mr. Montenero, “that I should raise suspicion in +a mind which, till now, I have always seen and thought to be above that +meanness. The torture of suspense I must inflict, but inflict not +on yourself the still worse torture of suspicion--ask me no farther +questions--I can answer none--time alone can solve the difficulty. +I have now to request that you will never more speak to me on this +subject: as soon as my own mind is satisfied, depend upon it I shall let +you know it. In the mean time I rely upon your prudence and your honour, +that you will not declare your attachment to my daughter, that you will +take no means, direct or indirect, to draw her into any engagement, or +to win her affections: in short, I wish to see you here as a friend +of mine--not a suitor of hers. If you are capable of this necessary +self-control, continue your visits; but if this effort be beyond your +power, I charge you, as you regard her happiness and your own, see her +no more. Consider well, before you decide.” + +I had confidence in my own strength of mind and honour; I knew that +want of resolution was not the defect of my character. Difficult as the +conditions were, I submitted to them--I promised that if Mr. Montenero +permitted me to continue my visits, I would strictly comply with all he +desired. The moment I had given this promise, I was in haste to quit the +room, lest Berenice should enter, before I had time to recover from the +excessive agitation into which I had been thrown. + +Mr. Montenero followed me to the antechamber. “My daughter is not at +home--she is taking an airing in the park. One word more before we +part--one word more before we quit this painful subject,” said he: “do +not, my dear young friend, waste your time, your ingenuity, in vain +conjectures--you will not discover that which I cannot impart; nor would +the discovery, if made, diminish the difficulty, or in the least add to +your happiness, though it might to your misery. It depends not on your +will to remove the obstacle--by no talents, no efforts of yours can it +be obviated: one thing, and but one, is in your power--to command your +own mind.” + +“Command my own mind! Oh! Mr. Montenero, how easy to say--how difficult +to command the passions--such a passion!” + +“I acknowledge it is difficult, but I hope it is not impossible. We have +now an opportunity of judging of the strength of your mind, the firmness +of your resolution, and your power over yourself. Of these we must see +proofs--without these you never could be, either with my consent or +by her own choice, accepted by my daughter, even if no other obstacle +intervened.--Adieu.” A bright idea, a sudden ray of hope, darted into my +mind. It might be all intended for a trial of me--there was, perhaps, +no real obstacle! But this was only the hope of an instant--it was +contradicted by Mr. Montenero’s previous positive assertion. I hurried +home as fast as possible, shut myself up in my own room, and bolted the +door, that I might not be interrupted. I sat down to think--I could not +think, I could only feel. The first thing I did was, as it were, to +live the whole of the last hour over again--I recollected every word, +recalled every look, carefully to impress and record them in my memory. +I felt that I was not at that moment capable of judging, but I should +have the means, the facts, safe for a calmer hour. I repeated my +recollections many times, pausing, and forming vague and often +contradictory conjectures; then driving them all from my mind, and +resolving to think no more on this mysterious subject; but on no other +subject could I think--I sat motionless. How long I remained in this +situation I have no means of knowing, but it must have been for some +hours, for it was evening, as I remember, when I wakened to the sense of +its being necessary that I should exert myself, and rouse my faculties +from this dangerous state of abstraction. Since my father and mother had +been in the country, I had usually dined at taverns or clubs, so that +the servants had no concern with my hours of meals. My own man was much +attached to me, and I should have been tormented with his attentions, +but that I had sent him out of the way as soon as I had come home. I +then went into the park, walking there as fast and as long as I possibly +could. I returned late, quite exhausted; hoped I should sleep, and waken +with a calmer mind; but I believe I had overwalked myself, or my mind +had been overstrained--I was very feverish this night, and all the +horrors of early association returned upon me. Whenever I began to doze, +I felt the nervous oppression, the dreadful weight upon my chest--I saw +beside my bed the old figure of Simon the Jew; but he spoke to me with +the voice and in the words of Mr. Montenero. The dreams of this night +were more terrible than any reality that can be conceived; and even +when I was broad awake, I felt that I had not the command of my mind. My +early prepossessions and _antipathies_, my mother’s _presentiments_, +and prophecies of evil from the connexion with the Monteneros, the +prejudices which had so long, so universally prevailed against the Jews, +occurred to me. I knew all this was unreasonable, but still the thoughts +obtruded themselves. When the light of morning returned, which I thought +never would return, I grew better. + +Mr. Montenero’s impressive advice, and all the kindness of his look +and manner, recurred to my mind. The whole of his conduct--the filial +affection of Berenice--the gratitude of Jacob--the attachment of +friends, who had known him for years, all assured me of his sincerity +towards myself; and the fancies, I will not call them suspicions, of the +night, were dispelled. + +I was determined not to see either Mr. Montenero or Berenice for a few +days. I knew that the best thing I could do, would be to take +strong bodily exercise, and totally to change the course of my daily +occupations. There was an excellent riding-house at this time in London, +and I had been formerly in the habit of riding there. I was a favourite +with the master--he was glad to see me again. I found the exercise, and +the immediate necessity of suspending all other thoughts to attend to +the management of my horse, of sovereign use. I thus disciplined my +imagination at the time when I seemed only to be disciplining an Arabian +horse. I question whether reading Seneca, or Epictetus, or any moral +or philosophic writer, living or dead, would have as effectually +_medicined_ my mind. While I was at the riding-house, General B---- came +in with some young officers. The general, who had distinguished me with +peculiar kindness, left the young men who were with him, and walked +home with me. I refrained from asking any questions about Mr. or Miss +Montenero’s visit at his house in Surrey; but he led to the subject +himself, and spoke of her having been less cheerful than usual--dwelt +on his wish that she and her father should settle in England--said there +was a young American, a relation of the Manessas, just come over; he +hoped there was no intention of returning with him to America. I felt a +terrible twinge, like what I had experienced when the general had first +mentioned his brother-in-law--perhaps, said I to myself, it may be +as vain. General B---- was going to speak further on the subject, but +though my curiosity was much raised, I thought I was bound in honour not +to obtain intelligence by any secondary means. I therefore requested the +general to let us change the subject. He tapped my shoulder: “You are +right,” said he; “I understand your motives--you are right--I like your +principles.” + +On returning from the riding-house, I had the pleasure of hearing +that Mr. Montenero had called during my absence, and had particularly +inquired from my own man after my health. + +I forgot to mention, that in one of the young officers whom I met at the +riding-house, I recognized a schoolfellow, that very little boy, who, +mounted upon the step-ladder on the day of Jacob’s election, turned the +election in his favour by the anecdote of the silver pencil-case. My +little schoolfellow, now a lath of a young man, six feet high, was glad +to meet me again, and to talk over our schoolboy days. He invited me to +join him and some of his companions, who were going down to the country +on a fishing party. They promised themselves great sport in dragging a +fish-pond. I compelled myself to join this party for the mere purpose +of changing the course of my thoughts. For three days I was hurried from +place to place, and not a single thing that I liked to do did I do--I +was completely put out of my own way--my ideas were forced into new +channels. I heard of nothing but of fishing and fishing-tackle--of the +pleasures there would be in the shooting season--of shooting-jackets, +and powder-horns, and guns, and _proof_ guns. All this was terribly +irksome at the time, and yet I was conscious that it was of service to +me, and I endured it with heroic patience. + +I was heartily glad when I got back to town. When I felt that I was able +to bear the sight of Berenice, I went again to Mr. Montenero’s. From +that hour I maintained my resolution, I strictly adhered to my promise, +and I felt that I was rewarded by Mr. Montenero’s increasing esteem +and affection. My conversation was now addressed chiefly to him, and I +remarked that I was always the chief object of his attention. I observed +that Berenice was much paler, and not in such good spirits as formerly: +she was evidently under great constraint and anxiety, and the +expression of her countenance towards me was changed; there was an +apprehensiveness, which she in vain endeavoured to calm--her attention +to whatever I was saying or doing, even when she appeared to be occupied +with other things, was constant. I was convinced that I was continually +in her thoughts; I felt that I was not indifferent to her: yet the +expression of her countenance was changed--it was not love--or it +was love strongly repressed by fear--by fear!--was it of her father’s +disapprobation? I had been assured by Mr. Montenero, in whom I had +perfect confidence, that no power of mine could remove the obstacle, +if it existed--then his advice was wise not to waste my thoughts and +spirits in vain conjectures. As far as it was in human nature, I took +his advice, repressed my curiosity, and turned my thoughts from that +too interesting subject. I know not how long I should have maintained +my fortitude in this passive state of forbearance. Events soon called me +again into active exertion. + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +Party spirit, in politics, ran very high about this time in London--it +was in the year 1780. The ill success of the American war had put the +people in ill-humour; they were ready to believe any thing against the +ministry, and some who, for party purposes, desired to influence the +minds of the people, circulated the most ridiculous reports, and excited +the most absurd terrors. The populace were made to believe that the +French and the papists were secret favourites of government: a French +invasion, the appearance of the French in London, is an old story almost +worn out upon the imaginations of the good people of England; but now +came a new if not a more plausible bugbear--the Pope! It was confidently +affirmed that the Pope would soon be in London, he having been seen in +disguise in a gold-flowered nightgown on _St. James’s_ parade at Bath. +A poor gentleman, who appeared at his door in his nightgown, had been +actually taken by the Bath mob for the Pope; and they had pursued him +with shouts, and hunted him, till he was forced to scramble over a wall +to escape from his pursuers. + +Ludicrous as this may appear, the farce, we all know, soon turned to +tragedy. From the smallest beginnings, the mischief grew and spread; +half-a-dozen people gathered in one street, and began the cry of “No +popery!--no papists!--no French!”--The idle joined the idle, and the +discontented the discontented, and both were soon drawn in to assist +the mischievous; and the cowardly, surprised at their own prowess, +when joined with numbers, and when no one opposed them, grew bolder and +bolder. Monday morning Mr. Strachan was insulted; Lord Mansfield treated +it as a slight irregularity. Monday evening Lord Mansfield himself +was insulted by the mob, they pulled down his house, and burnt his +furniture. Newgate was attacked next; the keeper went to the Lord Mayor, +and, at his return, he found the prison in a blaze; that night the +Fleet, and the King’s Bench prisons, and the popish chapels, were +on fire, and the glare of the conflagration reached the skies. I was +heartily glad my father and mother were safe in the country. + +Mr. Montenero and Berenice were preparing to go to a villa in Surrey, +which he had just purchased; but they apprehended no danger for +themselves, as they were inoffensive strangers, totally unconnected +with party or politics. The fury of the mob had hitherto been directed +chiefly against papists, or persons supposed to favour their cause. The +very day before Mr. Montenero was to leave town, without any conceivable +reason, suddenly a cry was raised against the Jews: unfortunately, Jews +rhymed to shoes: these words were hitched into a rhyme, and the cry +was, “_No Jews, no wooden shoes_!” Thus, without any natural, civil, +religious, moral, or political connexion, the poor Jews came in +remainder to the ancient anti-Gallican antipathy felt by English feet +and English fancies against the French wooden shoes. Among the London +populace, however, the Jews had a respectable body of friends, female +friends of noted influence in a mob--the orange-women--who were most +of them bound by gratitude to certain opulent Jews. It was then, and I +believe it still continues to be, a customary mode of charity with the +Jews to purchase and distribute large quantities of oranges among the +retail sellers, whether Jews or Christians. The orange-women were thus +become their staunch friends. One of them in particular, a warm-hearted +Irishwoman, whose barrow had, during the whole season, been continually +replenished by Mr. Montenero’s bounty, and by Jacob’s punctual care, now +took her station on the steps of Mr. Montenero’s house; she watched her +opportunity, and when she saw _the master_ appear in the hall, she left +her barrow in charge with her boy, came up the steps, walked in, and +addressed herself to him thus, in a dialect and tone as new, almost to +me, as they seemed to be to Mr. Montenero. + +“Never fear, jewel!--Jew as you have this day the misfortune to be, +you’re the best Christian any way ever I happened on! so never fear, +honey, for yourself nor your daughter, God bless her! Not a soul shall +go near yees, nor a finger be laid on her, good or bad. Sure I know them +all--not a mother’s son o’ the _boys_ but I can call my frind--not a +captain or lader that’s in it, but I can lade, dear, to the devil and +back again, if I’d but whistle: so only you keep quite, and don’t be +advertising yourself any way for a Jew, nor be showing your cloven +_fut_, with or without the wooden shoes. _Keep ourselves to ourselves_, +for I’ll tell you a bit of a sacret--I’m a little bit of a cat’olic +myself, all as one as what _they_ call a _papish_; but I keep it to +myself, and nobody’s the wiser nor the worse--they’d tear me to pieces, +may be, did they suspect _the like_, but I keep never minding, and you, +jewel, do the like. They call you a Levite, don’t they? then I, the +Widow Levy, has a good right to advise ye; we were all brothers and +sisters once--no offence--in the time of Adam, sure, and we should help +one another in all times. ‘Tis my turn to help _yees_ now, and, by the +blessing, so I will--accordingly I’ll be sitting all day and night, +mounting guard on your steps there without. And little as you may think +of me, the devil a guardian angel better than myself, only just the +Widow Levy, such as ye see!” + +The Widow Levy took her stand, and kept her word. I stayed at Mr. +Montenero’s all day, saw every thing that passed, and had frequent +opportunities of admiring her address. + +She began by making the footman take down “the outlandish name from +off the door; for no name at all, sure, was better _nor_ a foreign name +these times.” She charged the footman to “say _sorrow_ word themselves +to the mob for their lives, in case they would come; but to lave it all +entirely to her, that knew how to spake to _them_. For see!” said she, +aside to me--“For see! them powdered numskulls would spoil all--they’d +be taking it too high or too low, and never hit the right _kay_, nor +mind when to laugh or cry in the right place; moreover, when they’d +get _frighted_ with a cross-examination, they’d be apt to be _cutting_ +themselves. Now, the ould one himself, if he had me _on the table_ even, +I’d defy to get the truth out of me, if not convanient, and I in the +sarvice of a frind.” + +In the pleasure of telling a few superfluous lies it seemed to be +necessary that our guardian angel should be indulged; and there she sat +on the steps quite at ease, smoking her pipe, or wiping and _polishing_ +her oranges. As parties of the rioters came up, she would parley and +jest with them, and by alternate wit and humour, and blunder, and +bravado, and flattery, and _fabling_, divert their spirit of mischief, +and forward them to distant enterprise. In the course of the day, we +had frequent occasion to admire her intrepid ingenuity and indefatigable +zeal. Late at night, when all seemed perfectly quiet in this part of the +town, she, who had never stirred from her post all day, was taken into +the kitchen by the servants to eat some supper. While she was away, +I was standing at an open window of the drawing-room, watching and +listening--all was silence; but suddenly I heard a shriek, and two +strange female figures appeared from the corner of the square, hurrying, +as if in danger of pursuit, though no one followed them. One was in +black, with a hood, and a black cloak streaming behind; the other in +white, neck and arms bare, head full dressed, with high feathers blown +upright. As they came near the window at which I stood, one of the +ladies called out, “Mr. Harrington! Mr. Harrington! For Heaven’s sake +let us in!” + +“Lady Anne Mowbray’s voice! and Lady de Brantefield!” cried I. + +Swiftly, before I could pass her, Berenice ran down stairs, +unlocked--threw open the hall-door, and let them in. Breathless, +trembling so that they could not speak, they sunk upon the first seat +they could reach; the servants hearing the hall-door unchained, ran into +the hall, and when sent away for water, the three footmen returned +with each something in his hand, and stood with water and salvers as +a pretence to satisfy their curiosity; along with them came the +orange-woman, who, wiping her mouth, put in her head between the +footmen’s elbows, and stood listening, and looking at the two ladies +with no friendly eye. She then worked her way round to me, and twitching +my elbow, drew me back, and whispered--“What made ye let ‘em in? Take +care but one’s a mad woman, and t’other a bad woman.” Lady Anne, who had +by this time drank water, and taken hartshorn, and was able to speak, +was telling, though in a very confused manner, what had happened. She +said that she had been dressed for the opera--the carriage was at the +door--her mother, who was to set her down at Lady Somebody’s, who was to +_chaperon_ her, had just put on her hood and cloak, and was coming down +stairs, when they heard a prodigious noise of the mob in the street. +The mob had seized their carriage--and had found in one of the pockets +a string of beads, which had been left there by the Portuguese +ambassador’s lady, whom Lady De Brantefield had taken home from chapel +the preceding day. The mob had seen the carriage stop at the chapel, +and the lady and her confessor get into it; and this had led to the +suspicion that Lady de Brantefield was a catholic, or in their language, +a concealed _papist_. + +On searching the carriage farther, they had found a breviary, and one +of them had read aloud the name of a priest, written in the beginning +of the book--a priest whose name was peculiarly obnoxious to some of the +leaders. + +As soon as they found the breviary, and the rosary, and this priest’s +name, the mob grew outrageous, broke the carriage, smashed the windows +of the house, and were bursting open the door, when, as Lady Anne told +us, she and her mother, terrified almost out of their senses, escaped +through the back door _just in the dress they were_, and made their way +through the stables, and a back lane, and a cross street: still hearing, +or fancying they heard, the shouts of the mob, they had run on without +knowing how, or where, till they found themselves in this square, and +saw me at the open window. + +“What is it? Tell me, dear,” whispered the orange-woman, drawing me back +behind the footman. “Tell me, for I can’t understand her for looking +at the figure of her. Tell me plain, or it may be the ruen of yees all +before ye’d know it.” + +I repeated Lady Anne’s story, and from me the orange-woman understood +it; and it seemed to alarm her more than any of us. + +“But are they _Romans?_” (Roman Catholics) said she. “How is that, when +they’re not Irish!--for I’ll swear to their not being Irish, tongue or +pluck. I don’t believe but they’re impostors--no right _Romans_, sorrow +bit of the likes; but howsomdever, no signs of none following them +yet--thanks above! Get rid on ‘em any way as smart as ye can, dear; tell +Mr. Montenero.” + +As all continued perfectly quiet, both in the back and front of the +house, we were in hopes that they would not be pursued or discovered +by the mob. We endeavoured to quiet and console them with this +consideration; and we represented that, if the mob should break +into their house, they would, after they had searched and convinced +themselves that the obnoxious priest was not concealed there, disperse +without attempting to destroy or pillage it “Then,” said Lady de +Brantefield, rising, and turning to her daughter, “Lady Anne, we had +better think of returning to our own house.” + +Though well aware of the danger of keeping these suspected ladies +this night, and though our guardian angel repeatedly twitched us, +reiterating, “Ah! let ‘em go--don’t be keeping ‘em!” yet Mr. Montenero +and Berenice pressed them, in the kindest and most earnest manner, +to stay where they were safe. Lady Anne seemed most willing, Lady de +Brantefield most unwilling to remain; yet her fears struggled with her +pride, and at last she begged that a servant might be sent to her house +to see how things were going on, and to order chairs for her, if their +return was practicable. + +“Stop!” cried the orange-woman, laying a strong detaining hand on the +footman’s arm; “stop you--‘tis I’ll go with more sense--and speed.” + +“What is that person--that woman?” cried Lady de Brantefield, who now +heard and saw the orange-woman for the first time. + +“Woman!--is it me she manes?” said the orange-woman, coming forward +quite composedly, shouldering on her cloak. + +“Is it who I am?--I’m the Widow Levy.--Any commands?” + +“How did she get in?” continued Lady de Brantefield, still with a look +of mixed pride and terror: “how did she get in?” + +“Very asy!--through the door--same way you did, my lady, if ye had your +senses. Where’s the wonder? But what commands?--don’t be keeping of me.” + +“Anne!--Lady Anne!--Did she follow us in?” said Lady de Brantefield. + +“Follow yees!--not I!--no follower of yours nor the likes. But what +commands, nevertheless?--I’ll do your business the night, for the sake +of them I love in my heart’s core,” nodding at Mr. and Miss Montenero; +“so, my lady, I’ll bring ye word, faithful, how it’s going with ye at +home--which is her house, and where, on God’s earth?” added she, turning +to the footmen. + +“If my satisfaction be the object, sir, or madam,” said Lady de +Brantefield, addressing herself with much solemnity to Mr. and Miss +Montenero, “I must take leave to request that a fitter messenger be +sent; I should, in any circumstances, be incapable of trusting to the +representations of such a person.” + +The fury of the orange-woman kindled--her eyes flashed fire--her arms +a-kimbo, she advanced repeating, “Fitter!--Fitter!--What’s that ye +say?--You’re not Irish--not a bone in your skeleton!” + +Lady Anne screamed. Mr. Montenero forced the orange-woman back, and +Berenice and I hurried Lady de Brantefield and her daughter across the +hall into the eating-room. Mr. Montenero followed an instant afterwards, +telling Lady de Brantefield that he had despatched one of his own +servants for intelligence. Her ladyship bowed her head without speaking. +He then explained why the orange-woman happened to be in his house, and +spoke of the zeal and ability with which she had this day served us. +Lady de Brantefield continued at intervals to bow her head while Mr. +Montenero spoke, and to look at her watch, while Lady Anne, simpering, +repeated, “Dear, how odd!” Then placing herself opposite to a large +mirror, Lady Anne re-adjusted her dress. That settled, she had nothing +to do but to recount her horrors over again. Her mother, lost in +reverie, sat motionless. Berenice, meantime, while the messenger was +away, made the most laudable and kind efforts, by her conversation, +to draw the attention of her guests from themselves and their +apprehensions; but apparently without effect, and certainly without +thanks. + +At length, Berenice and her father being called out of the room, I was +left alone with Lady de Brantefield and Lady Anne: the mother broke +silence, and turning to the daughter, said, in a most solemn tone of +reproach, “Anne! Lady Anne Mowbray!--how could you bring me into this +house of all others--a Jew’s--when you know the horror I have always +felt--” + +“La, mamma! I declare I was so terrified, I didn’t know one house from +another. But when I saw Mr. Harrington, I was so delighted I never +thought about it’s being _the Jew’s_ house--and what matter?” + +“What matter!” repeated Lady de Brantefield: “are you my daughter, and a +descendant of Sir Josseline de Mowbray, and ask what matter?” + +“Dear mamma, that’s the old story! that’s so long ago!--How can +you think of such old stuff at such a time as this? I’m sure I was +frightened out of my wits--I forgot even my detestation of----But I must +not say that before Mr. Harrington. But now I see the house, and +_all that,_ I don’t wonder at him so much; I declare it’s a monstrous +handsome house--as rich as a Jew! I’m sure I hope those wretches will +not destroy _our_ house--and, oh! the great mirror, mamma!” + +Mr. and Miss Montenero returned with much concern in their countenances: +they announced that the messenger had brought word that the mob were +actually pulling down Lady de Brantefield’s house--that the furniture +had all been dragged out into the street, and that it was now burning. +Pride once more gave way to undisguised terror in Lady de Brantefield’s +countenance, and both ladies stood in speechless consternation. Before +we had time to hear or to say more, the orange-woman opened the door, +and putting in her head, called out in a voice of authority, “Jantlemen, +here’s one wants yees, admits of no delay; lave all and come out, +whether you will or no, the minute.” + +We went out, and with an indescribable gesture, and wink of +satisfaction, the moment she had Mr. Montenero and me in the hall, she +said in a whisper, “‘Tis only myself, dears, but ‘tis I am glad I got +yees out away from being bothered by the presence of them women, whiles +ye’d be settling all for life or death, which we must now do--for don’t +be nursing and dandling yourselves in the notion that _the boys_ will +not be wid ye. It’s a folly to talk--they will; my head to a China +orange they will, now: but take it asy, jewels--we’ve got an hour’s +law--they’ve one good hour’s work first--six garrets to gut, where they +are, and tree back walls, with a piece of the front, still to pull down. +Oh! I larnt all. He is a _‘cute_ lad you sent, but not being used to it, +just went and ruined and murdered us all by what he let out! What do ye +tink? But when one of the boys was questioning him who he belonged to, +and what brought him in it, he got frighted, and could think of noting +at all but the truth to tell: so they’ve got the scent, and they’ll +follow the game. Ogh! had I been my own messenger, in lieu of minding +that woman within, I’d have put ‘em off the scent. But it’s past me +now--so what next?” While Mr. Montenero and I began to consult together, +she went on--“I’ll tell you what you’ll do: you’ll send for two chairs, +or one--less suspicious, and just get the two in asy, the black +one back, the white for’ard, beca’ase she’s coming nat’ral from the +Opera--if stopped, and so the chairmen, knowing no more than Adam who +they would be carrying, might go through the thick of the boys at a +pinch safe enough, or round any way, sure; they know the town, and the +short cuts, and set ‘em down (a good riddance!) out of hand, at any +house at all they mention, who’d resave them of their own frinds, or +kith and kin--for, to be sure, I suppose they _have_ frinds, tho’ I’m +not one. You’ll settle with them by the time it’s come, where they’ll +set down, and I’ll step for the chair, will I?” + +“No,” said Mr. Montenero, “not unless it be the ladies’ own desire to +go: I cannot turn them out of my house, if they choose to stay; at all +hazards they shall have every protection I can afford. Berenice, I am +sure, will think and feel as I do.” + +Mr. Montenero returned to the drawing-room, to learn the determination +of his guests. + +“There goes as good a Christian!” cried the Widow Levy, holding up her +forefinger, and shaking it at Mr. Montenero the moment his back was +turned: “didn’t I tell ye so from the first? Oh! if he isn’t a jewel +of a Jew!--and the daughter the same!” continued she, following me as +I walked up and down the hall: “the kind-hearted cratur, how tinder she +looked at the fainting Jezabel--while the black woman turning from +her in her quality scowls.--Oh! I seed it all, and with your own eyes, +dear--but I hope they’ll go--and once we get a riddance of them women. +I’ll answer for the rest. Bad luck to the minute they come into the +house! I wish the jantleman would be back--Oh! here he is--and will +they go, jewel?” cried she, eagerly. “The ladies will stay,” said Mr. +Montenero. + +“Murder!--but you can’t help it--so no more about it--but what arms have +ye?” + +No arms were to be found in the house but a couple of swords, a pair +of pistols of Mr. Montenero’s, and one gun, which had been left by the +former proprietor. Mr. Montenero determined to write immediately to his +friend General B--, to request that a party of the military might be +sent to guard his house. + +“Ay, so best, send for the dragoons, the only thing left on earth for us +now: but don’t let ‘em fire on _the boys_--disperse ‘em with the horse, +asy, ye can, without a shot; so best--I’ll step down and feel the pulse +of all below.” + +While Mr. Montenero wrote, Berenice, alarmed for her father, stood +leaning on the back of his chair, in silence. + +“Oh! Mr. Harrington! Mr. Harrington!” repeated Lady Anne, “what will +become of us! If Colonel Topham was but here! Do send to the +Opera, pray, pray, with _my_ compliments--Lady Anne Mowbray’s +compliments--he’ll come directly, I’m sure.” + +“That my son, Lord Mowbray, should be out of town, how extraordinary and +how unfortunate!” cried Lady de Brantefield, “when we might have had his +protection, his regiment, without applying to strangers.” + +She walked up and down the room with the air of a princess in chains. +The orange-woman bolted into the room, and pushed past her ladyship, +while Mr. Montenero was sealing his note. + +“Give it, jewel!--It’s I’ll be the bearer; for all your powdered men +below has taken fright by the dread the first messenger got, and dares +not be carrying a summons for the military through the midst of _them_: +but I’ll take it for yees--and which way will I go to get quickest to +your general’s? and how will I know his house?--for seven of them below +bothered my brains.” + +Mr. Montenero repeated the direction--she listened coolly, then stowing +the letter in her bosom, she stood still for a moment with a look +of deep deliberation--her head on one side, her forefinger on +her cheek-bone, her thumb under her chin, and the knuckle of the +middle-finger compressing her lips. + +“See, now, _they’ll_ be apt to come up the stable lane for the back o’ +the house, and another party of them will be in the square, in front; +so how will it be with me to get into the house to yees again, without +opening the doors for _them_, in case they are wid _ye_ afore I’d get +the military up?--I have it,” cried she. + +She rushed to the door, but turned back again to look for her pipe, +which she had laid on the table. + +“Where’s my pipe?--Lend it me--What am I without my pipe?” + +“The savage!” cried Lady de Brantefield. + +“The fool!” said Lady Anne. + +The Widow Levy nodded to each of the two ladies, as she lit the pipe +again, but without speaking to them, turned to us, and said, “If +the boys would meet me without my pipe, they’d not know me; or smell +something odd, and guess I was on some unlawful errand.” + +As she passed Berenice and me, who were standing together, she hastily +added, “Keep a good heart, sweetest!--At the last push, you have one +will shed the heart’s drop for ye!” + +A quick, scarcely perceptible motion of her eye towards me marked her +meaning; and one involuntary look from Berenice at that moment, even +in the midst of alarm, spread joy through my whole frame. In the common +danger we were drawn closer together--we _thought_ together;--I was +allowed to help her in the midst of the general bustle. + +It was necessary, as quickly as possible, to determine what articles +in the house were of most value, and to place these in security. It was +immediately decided that the pictures were inestimable.--What was to be +done with them? Berenice, whose presence of mind never forsook her, +and whose quickness increased with the occasion, recollected that the +unfinished picture-gallery, which had been built behind the house, +adjoining to the back drawing-room, had no window opening to the street: +it was lighted by a sky-light; it had no communication with any of the +apartments in the house, except with the back drawing-room, into which +it was intended to open by large glass doors; but fortunately these +were not finished, and, at this time, there was no access to the +picture-gallery but by a concealed door behind the gobelin tapestry of +the back drawing-room--an entrance which could hardly be discovered by +any stranger. In the gallery were all the plasterers’ trestles, and the +carpenters’ lumber; however, there was room soon made for the pictures: +all hands were in motion, every creature busy and eager, except Lady de +Brantefield and her daughter, who never offered the smallest assistance, +though we were continually passing with our loads through the front +drawing-room, in which the two ladies now were. Lady Anne standing up +in the middle of the room looked like an actress ready dressed for some +character, but without one idea of her own. Her mind, naturally weak, +was totally incapacitated by fear: she kept incessantly repeating as we +passed and repassed, “Bless me! one would think the day of judgment was +coming!” + +Lady de Brantefield all the time sat in the most remote part of the +room, fixed in a huge arm-chair. The pictures and the most valuable +things were, by desperately hard work, just stowed into our place of +safety, when we heard the shouts of the mob, at once at the back and +front of the house, and soon a thundering knocking at the hall-door. +Mr. Montenero and I went to the door, of course without opening it, and +demanded, in a loud voice, what they wanted. + +“We require the papists,” one answered for the rest, “the two women +papists and the priest you’ve got within, to be given up, for your +lives!” + +“There is no priest here--there are no papists here:--two protestant +ladies, strangers to me, have taken refuge here, and I will not give +them up,” said Mr. Montenero. + +“Then we’ll pull down the house.” + +“The military will be here directly,” said Mr. Montenero, coolly; “you +had better go away.” + +“The military!--then make haste, boys, with the work.” + +And with a general cry of “No papists!--no priests!--no Jews!--no wooden +shoes!” they began with a volley of stones against the windows. I ran to +see where Berenice was. It had been previously agreed among us, that +she and her guests, and every female in the house, should, on the first +alarm, retire into a back room; but at the first shout of the mob, Lady +de Brantefield lost the little sense she ever possessed: she did not +faint, but she stiffened herself in the posture in which she sat, and +with her hands turned down over the elbows of the huge chair, on which +her arms were extended, she leaned back in all the frightful rigidity of +a corpse, with a ghastly face, and eyes fixed. + +Berenice, in vain, tried to persuade her to move. Her ideas were +bewildered or concentrated. Only the obstinacy of pride remained alive +within her. + +“No,” she said, “she would never move from that spot--she would not be +commanded by Jew or Jewess.” + +“Don’t you hear the mob--the stones at the windows?” + +“Very well. They would all pay for it on the scaffold or the gibbet.” + +“But if they break in here you will be torn to pieces.” + +“No--those only will be sacrificed who _have sacrificed_. A ‘de +Brantefield’--they dare not!--I shall not stir from this spot. Who will +presume to touch Lady de Brantefield?” + +Mr. Montenero and I lifted up the huge chair on which she sat, and +carried her and it into the back room. + +The door of this room was scarcely shut, and the tapestry covering but +just closed over the entrance into the picture-gallery, when there was a +cry from the hall, and the servants came rushing to tell us that one of +the window-shutters had given way. + +Mr. Montenero, putting the pistols into my hand, took the gun, ran +down stairs, and stationed himself so as to defend the entrance to the +window, at which the people were pelting with stones; declaring that he +would fire on the first man who should attempt to enter. + +A man leaped in, and, in the struggle, Mr. Montenero’s gun was wrested +from him. + +On my presenting a pistol, the man scrambled out of the window, carrying +away with him the prize he had seized. + +At this moment the faithful Jacob appeared amongst us as if by miracle. +“Master, we are safe,” said he, “if we can defend ourselves for a few +minutes. The orange-woman delivered your letter, and the military +are coming. She told me how to get in here, through the house that is +building next door, from the leads of which I crept through a trap-door +into your garret.” + +With the pistols, and with the assistance of the servants who were +armed, some of them with swords, and others with whatever weapons came +to hand, we made such a show of resistance as to keep the mob at bay for +some moments. + +“Hark!” cried Jacob; “thank Heaven, there’s the military!” There was a +sudden cessation of stones at the window. We heard the joyful sound +of the horses’ hoofs in the street. A prodigious uproar ensued, then +gradually subsided. The mob was dispersed, and fled in different +directions, and the military followed. We heard them gallop off. We +listened till not a sound, either of human voice or of horse’s foot, was +to be heard. There was perfect silence; and when we looked as far as our +eyes could reach out of the broken window, there was not a creature to +be seen in the square or in the line of street to which it opened. + +We ran to let out our female prisoners; I thought only of Berenice--she, +who had shown so much self-possession during the danger, seemed most +overpowered at this moment of joy; she threw her arms round her father, +and held him fast, as if to convince herself that he was safe. Her next +look was for me, and in her eyes, voice, and manner, when she thanked +me, there was an expression which transported me with joy; but it was +checked, it was gone the next moment: some terrible recollection seemed +to cross her mind. She turned from me to speak to that odious Lady de +Brantefield. I could not see Mr. Montenero’s countenance, for he, at the +same instant, left us, to single out, from the crowd assembled in the +hall, the poor Irishwoman, whose zeal and intrepid gratitude had been +the means of our deliverance. I was not time enough to hear what Mr. +Montenero said to her, or what reward he conferred; but that the reward +was judicious, and that the words were grateful to her feelings in the +highest degree, I had full proof; for when I reached the hall, the widow +was on her knees, with hands uplifted to Heaven, unable to speak, but +with tears streaming down her hard face: she wiped them hastily away, +and started up. + +“It’s not a little thing brings me to this,” said she; “none ever drew a +tear from my eyes afore, since the boy I lost.” + +She drew the hood of her cloak over her head, and pushed her way through +the servants to get out of the hall-door; I unbolted and unchained it +for her, and as I was unlocking it, she squeezed up close to me, and +laying her iron hand on mine, said in a whisper, “God bless yees! and +don’t forget my thanks to the sweet _Jewish_--I can’t speak ‘em now, +‘tis you can best, and joined in my prayers ye shall ever be!” said our +guardian angel, as I opened the door; and as she passed out, she added, +“You are right, jewel--she’s worth all the fine ladies in Lon’on, +feathers an’ all in a bag.” + +I had long been entirely of the Widow Levy’s opinion, though the mode +of expression would never have occurred to me. What afterwards became of +Lady Anne and of her mother this night, I do not distinctly recollect. +Lady de Brantefield, when the alarm was over, I believe, recovered her +usual portion of sense, and Lady Anne her silly spirits; but neither of +them, I know, showed any feeling, except for themselves. I have an +image of Lady de Brantefield standing up, and making, at parting, such +ungracious acknowledgments to her kind hostess and generous protector, +as her pride and her prejudices would permit. Both their ladyships +seemed to be in a hurry to get out of the house, and I know that +I rejoiced in their departure. I was in hopes of one moment, one +explanatory word or look from Berenice. She was retiring to her own +apartment, as I returned, with her father, after putting those two women +into their carriage. + +“I am now quite convinced,” said Mr. Montenero, smiling, “that Mr. +Harrington never could have been engaged or attached to Lady Anne +Mowbray.” + +“Is it possible you ever imagined?” + +“I did not _imagine_, I only heard and believed--and now I have seen, +and I disbelieve.” + +“And is this the obstacle, the invincible obstacle?” cried I. + +Berenice sighed, and walked on to her room. + +“I wish it were!” said Mr. Montenero; “but I pray you, sir, do not +speak, do not think of this to-night--farewell! we all want repose.” + +I did not think that I wanted repose till the moment I lay down in bed, +and then, overpowered with bodily fatigue, I fell into a profound sleep, +from which I did not awaken till late the next morning, when my man, +drawing back my curtains, presented to me a note from--I could hardly +believe my eyes--“from Miss Montenero”--from Berenice! I started up, +and read these words written in pencil: “My father is in danger--come to +us.” + +How quick I was in obeying may be easily imagined. I went well armed, +but in the present danger arms were of no use. I found that Mr. +Montenero was summoned before one of the magistrates, on a charge of +having fired from his window the preceding night before the Riot Act had +been read--of having killed an inoffensive passenger. Now the fact was, +that no shot had ever been fired by Mr. Montenero; but such was the rage +of the people at the idea that the _Jew_ had killed a Christian, and +one of their party, that the voice of truth could not be heard. They +followed with execrations as he was carried before the magistrate; and +waited with impatience, assembled round the house, in hopes of seeing +him committed to prison to take his trial for murder. As I was not +ignorant of the substantial nature of the defence which the spirit and +the forms of English law provide in all cases for truth and innocence, +against false accusation and party prejudice, I was not alarmed at the +clamour I heard; I was concerned only for the temporary inconvenience +and mortification to Mr. Montenero, and for the alarm to Berenice. The +magistrate before whom Mr. Montenero appeared was an impartial and very +patient man: I shall not so far try the patience of others as to record +all that was positively said, but which could not be sworn to--all that +was offered in evidence, but which contradicted itself, or which +could not be substantiated by any good witness--at length one +creditable-looking man came forward against Mr. Montenero. + +He said he was an ironmonger--that he had been passing by at the time +of the riot, and had been hurried along by the crowd against his will +to Mr. Montenero’s house, where he saw a sailor break open the +window-shutter of one of the lower rooms--that he saw a shot fired by +Mr. Montenero--that the sailor, after a considerable struggle, wrested +the gun, with which the shot had been fired, from Mr. Montenero, and +retreated with it from the window--that hearing the cry of murder in +the crowd, he thought it proper to secure the weapon, that it might be +produced in evidence--and that the piece which he now produced was that +which had been taken from Mr. Montenero. + +I perceived great concern in the countenance of the magistrate, who, +addressing himself to Mr. Montenero, asked him what he had to say in his +defence. + +“Sir,” said Mr. Montenero, “I acknowledge that to be the gun which was +wrested from my hands by the sailor; and I acknowledge that I attempted +with that gun to defend my family and my house from immediate violence; +I am, however,” continued he, “happy to have escaped having injured any +person, even in the most justifiable cause, for the piece did not go +off, it only flashed in the pan.” + +“If that be the case,” said the magistrate, “the piece is still loaded.” + +The gun was tried, and it was found to be empty both of powder and ball. +As the magistrate returned the piece to the man, I came forward and +asked leave to examine it. I observed to the magistrate, that if the +piece had been fired, the inside of the barrel must retain marks of +the discharge, whereas, on the contrary, the inside of the barrel was +perfectly smooth and clean. To this the man replied, that he had cleaned +the piece when he brought it home, which might indeed have been true. At +this moment, I recollected a circumstance that I had lately heard from +the officers in the country, who had been talking about a fowling-piece, +and of the careless manner in which fire-arms are sometimes proved +[Footnote: See Manton on Gunnery.]. Upon examination, I found that what +I suspected might be just possible was actually the case with respect +to the piece in question--the touch-hole had never been bored through, +though the piece was marked as _proof_! I never shall forget the +satisfaction which appeared in the countenance of the humane magistrate, +who from the beginning had suspected the evidence, whom he knew from +former delinquency. The man was indeed called an ironmonger, but his +was one of those _old iron shops_ which were known to be receptacles of +stolen goods of various descriptions. To my surprise, it now appeared +that this man’s name was Dutton: he was the very Dutton who had formerly +been Jacob’s rival, and who had been under Lord Mowbray’s protection. +Time and intemperance had altered him so much, that I had not, till I +heard his name, the slightest recollection of his face. What his motive +for appearing against Mr. Montenero might be, whether it was hatred to +him as being the patron of Jacob, whom Dutton envied and detested, or +whether Dutton was instigated by some other and higher person, I shall +not now stop to inquire. As he had not been put upon his oath, he had +not been guilty of perjury; he was discharged amidst the hootings of the +mob. Notwithstanding their prejudice against the Jews, and their rage +against a Jew who had harboured, as they conceived, two _concealed_ +papists and a priest, yet the moment an attempt to bear false witness +against Mr. Montenero appeared, the people took his part. In England the +mob is always in favour of truth and innocence, wherever these are +made clearly evident to their senses. Pleased with themselves for their +impartiality, it was not difficult at this moment for me to convince +them, as I did, that Mr. Montenero had not harboured either papists or +priest. The mob gave us three cheers. As we passed through the crowd, +I saw Jacob and the orange-woman--the orange-woman, with broad expanded +face of joy, stretched up her arms, and shouted loud, that all the mob +might hear. Jacob, little accustomed to sympathy, and in the habit of +repressing his emotions, stood as one unmoved or dumb, till his eyes met +mine, and then suddenly joy spread over his features and flashed from +his dark eyes--that was a face of delight I never can forget; but I +could not stay: I hastened to be the first to tell Berenice of her +father’s safety, and of the proof which all the world had had of the +falsehood of the charge against him. I ran up to the drawing-room, where +she was alone. She fainted in my arms. + +And now you think, that when she came to herself, there was an end of +all my fears, all my suspense--you think that her love, her gratitude, +overcame the objection, whatever it may be, which has hitherto been +called invincible--alas! you are mistaken. + +I was obliged to resign Berenice to the care of her attendants. A short +time afterwards I received from her father the following note:-- + +“My obligations to you are great, so is my affection for you; but the +happiness of my child, as well as your happiness, is at stake. + +“I dare not trust my gratitude--my daughter and you must never meet +again, or must meet to part no more. + +“I cannot yet decide: if I shall be satisfied that the obstacle do not +exist, she shall be yours; if it do exist, we sail the first of next +month for America, and you, Mr. Harrington, will not be the only, or +perhaps the most, unhappy person of the three. + +“A. MONTENERO.” + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +The Sunday after the riots, I happened to see Mrs. Coates, as we were +coming out of St. George’s church. She was not in full-blown, happy +importance, as formerly: she looked ill and melancholy; or, as one of +her city neighbours, who was following her out of church, expressed it, +quite “crest-fallen.” I heard some whispering that “things were going +wrong at home with the Coates’s--that the world was going down hill with +the alderman.” + +But a lady, who was quite a stranger, though she did me the honour to +speak to me, explained that it was “no such thing--worth a plum still, +if he be worth a farthing. ‘Tis only that she was greatly put out of her +way last week, and frightened, till well nigh beside herself, by them +rioters that came and set fire to one of the Coates’s, Mr. Peter’s, +warehouse. Now, though poor Mrs. Coates, you’d think, is so plump and +stout to look at, she is as nervous!--you’ve no notion, sir!--shakes +like an aspen leaf, if she but takes a cup of green tea--so I prescribe +bohea. But there she’s curtsying, and nodding, and kissing hands to you, +sir, see!--and can tell you, no doubt, all about herself.” + +Mrs. Coates’s deplorably placid countenance, tremulous muscles, and +lamentable voice and manner, confirmed to me the truth of the assertion +that she had been frightened nearly out of her senses. + +“Why now, sir, after all,” said she, “I begin to find what fools we +were, when we made such a piece of work one election year, and said that +no soldiers should come into the town, ‘cause we were _free Britons_. +Why, Lord ‘a mercy! ‘tis a great deal better _maxim_ to sleep safe in +our beds than to be _free Britons_ and burnt to death [Footnote: Vide +Mrs. Piozzi’s Letters.].” + +Persons of higher pretensions to understanding and courage than poor +Mrs. Coates, seemed at this time ready to adopt her maxim; and patriots +feared that it might become the national sentiment. No sooner were order +and tranquillity perfectly re-established in the city, than the public +in general, and party politicians in particular, were intent upon the +trials of the rioters, and more upon the question whether the military +had suppressed the riots constitutionally or unconstitutionally. It +was a question to be warmly debated in parliament; and this, after the +manner in which great public and little private interests, in the chain +of human events, are continually linked together, proved of important +consequence to me and my love affairs. + +A call of the house brought my father to town, contrary to his will, +and consequently in ill-humour. This ill-humour was increased by the +perplexing situation in which he found himself, with his passions on +one side of the question and his principles on the other: hating the +papists, and loving the ministry. In his secret soul, my father cried +with the rioters, “No papists!--no French!--no Jews!--no wooden shoes!” + but a cry against government was abhorrent to his very nature. My +conduct, with regard to the riot at Mr. Montenero’s, and towards the +rioters, by whom he had been falsely accused, my father heard spoken of +with approbation in the political circles which he most reverenced; and +he could not but be pleased, he confessed, to hear that his son had so +properly conducted himself: but still it was all in defence of the Jews, +and of the father of that Jewess whose very name was intolerable to his +ear. + +“So, Harrington, my boy, you’ve gained great credit, I find, by your +conduct last Wednesday night. Very lucky, too, for your mother’s friend, +Lady de Brantefield, that you were where you were. But after all, +sir, what the devil business had you there?--and again on Thursday +morning!--I acknowledge that was a good hit you made, about the gun--but +I wish it had been in the defence of some good Christian: what business +has a Jew with a gun at all?--Government knows best, to be sure; but +I split against them once before, three-and-twenty years ago, on the +naturalization bill. What is this cry which the people set up?--‘_No +Jews!--no wooden shoes_!’--ha! ha! ha!--the dogs!--but they carried it +too far, the rascals!--When it comes to throwing stones at gentlemen’s +carriages, and pulling down gentlemen’s and noblemen’s dwelling-houses, +it’s a mob and a riot, and the rioters deserve certainly to be +hanged--and I’m heartily glad my son has come forward, Mrs. Harrington, +and has taken a decided and distinguished part in bringing the offenders +to justice. But, Harrington, pray tell me now, young gentleman, about +that Jewess.” + +Before I opened my lips, something in the turn of my physiognomy enraged +my father to such a degree that all the blood in his body came into +his face, and, starting up, he cried, “Don’t answer me, sir--I ask +no questions--I don’t want to hear any thing about the matter! Only +_if_--if, sir--if--that’s all I have to say--if--by Jupiter Ammon--sir, +I won’t hear a word--a syllable! You only wish to explain--I won’t have +any explanation--I have business enough on my hands, without listening +to a madman’s nonsense!” + +My father began to open his morning’s packet of letters and newspapers. +One letter, which had been directed to his house in the country, and +which had followed him to town, seemed to, alarm him terribly. He +put the letter into my mother’s hand, cursed all the post-masters in +England, who were none of them to blame for its not reaching him sooner, +called for his hat and cane, said he must go instantly to the city, +but “feared all was, too late, and that we were undone.” With this +comfortable assurance he left us. The letter was from a broker in +Lombard-street, who did business for my father, and who wrote to let him +know that, “in consequence of the destruction of a great brewery in the +late riots, several mercantile houses had been injured. Alderman Coates +had died suddenly of an apoplexy, it was said: his house had closed on +Saturday; and it was feared that Baldwin’s bank would not stand the run +made on it.” + +Now in Baldwin’s bank, as my mother informed me, my father had eight +days before lodged £30,000, the purchase money of that estate which he +had been obliged to sell to pay for his three elections. This sum +was, in fact, every shilling of it due to creditors, who had become +clamorous; and “if _this_ be gone,” said my mother, “we are lost +indeed!--this house must go, and the carriages, and every thing; the +Essex estate is all we shall have left, and live there as we can--very +ill it must be, to us who have been used to affluence and luxury. Your +father, who expects his table, and every individual article of his +establishment, to be in the first style, as if by magic, without ever +reflecting on the means, but just inviting people, and leaving it to me +to entertain them properly--oh! I know how bitterly he would feel even +retrenchment!--and this would be ruin; and every thing that vexes him +of late brings on directly a fit of the gout--and then you know what his +temper is! Heaven knows what I had to go through with my nerves, and my +delicate health, during the last fit, which came on the very day after +we left you, and lasted six weeks, and which he sets down to your +account, Harrington, and to the account of your Jewess.” + +I had too much feeling for my mother’s present distress to increase her +agitation by saying any thing on this tender subject. I let her accuse +me as she pleased--and she very soon began to defend me. The accounts +she had heard in various letters of the notice that had been taken of +Miss Montenero by some of the leading persons in the fashionable world, +the proposals that had been made to her, and especially the addresses of +Lord Mowbray, which had been of sufficient publicity, had made, I found, +a considerable alteration in my mother’s judgment or feelings. She +observed that it was a pity my father was so violently prejudiced +and obstinate, for that, after all, it would not be an unprecedented +marriage. My mother, after a pause, went on to say, that though she was +not, she hoped, an interested person, and should scorn the idea of her +son’s being a fortune-hunter--and indeed I had given pretty sufficient +proof that I was not of that description of suitors; yet, if the Jewess +were really amiable, and as capable of generous attachment, it would be, +my mother at last acknowledged, the best thing I could do, to secure an +independent establishment with the wife of my choice. + +I was just going to tell my mother of the conversation that I had had +with Mr. Montenero, and of _the obstacle_, when her mind reverted to +the Lombard-street letter, and to Baldwin’s bank; and for a full hour +we discussed the probability of Baldwin’s standing or failing, though +neither of us had any means of judging--of this, being perhaps the +least anxious of the two, I became sensible the first. I finished, by +stationing myself at the window to watch for my father’s return, of +which I promised to give my mother notice, if she would lie down quietly +on the sofa, and try to compose her spirits; she had given orders to be +denied to all visitors, but every knock at the door made her start, and +“There’s your father! There’s Mr. Harrington!” was fifty times repeated +before the hour when it was even possible that my father could have +returned from the city. + +When the probable time came and passed, when it grew later and later +without my father’s appearing, our anxiety and impatience rose to the +highest pitch. + +At last I gave my mother notice that I saw among the walkers at the end +of the street which joined our square, an elderly gentleman with a cane. + +“But there are so many elderly gentlemen with canes,” said my mother, +joining me at the window. “Is it Mr. Harrington?” + +“It is very like my father, ma’am. Now you can see him plainly picking +his way over the crossing.” + +“He is looking down,” said my mother; “that is a very bad sign.--But is +he not looking up now?” + +“No, ma’am; and now he is taking snuff.” + +“Taking snuff! is he? Then there is some hope,” said my mother. + +During the last forty yards of my father’s walk, we each drew +innumerable and often opposite conclusions, from his slightest gestures +and motions, interpreting them all as favourable or unfavourable omens. +In the course of five minutes my mother’s _presentiments_ varied fifty +times. At length came his knock at the door. My mother grew pale--to her +ear it said “all’s lost;” to mine it sounded like “all’s safe.” + +“He stays to take off his great coat! a good sign; but he comes heavily +up stairs.” Our eyes were fixed on the door--he opened it, and advanced +towards us without uttering one syllable. + +“All’s lost--and all’s safe,” said my father. “My fortune’s safe, Mrs. +Harrington.” + +“What becomes of your presentiments, my dear mother?” said I. + +“Thank Heaven!” said my mother, “I was wrong for once.” + +“You might thank Heaven for more than once, madam,” said my father. + +“But then what did you mean by all’s lost, Mr. Harrington; if all’s +safe, how can all be lost?” + +“My all, Mrs. Harrington, is not all fortune. There is such a thing as +credit as well as fortune, Mrs. Harrington.” + +“But if you have not lost your fortune, you have not lost your credit, I +presume,” said my mother. + +“I have a character as a gentleman, Mrs. Harrington.” + +“Of course.” + +“A character for consistency, Mrs. Harrington, to preserve.” + +“‘Tis a hard thing to preserve, no doubt,” said my mother. + +“But I wish you’d speak plain, for my nerves can’t bear it.” + +“Then I can tell you, Mrs. Harrington, your nerves have a great deal to +bear yet. What will your nerves feel, madam--what will your enthusiasm +say, sir--when I tell you, that I have lost my heart to--a Jewess?” + +“Berenice!” cried I. + +“Impossible!” cried my mother. “How came you to see her?” + +“That’s not for you to know yet; but first, young gentleman, you who are +hanging on tenter-hooks, you must hang there a little longer.” + +“As long as you please, my dear father,” said I. + +“_Your dear father_!--ay, I’m very dear to you now, because you are in +hopes, sir, I shall turn fool, and break my vow into the bargain; but I +am not come to _that_ yet, my good sir--I have some consistency.” + +“Oh! never mind your consistency, for mercy’s sake, Mr. Harrington,” + said my mother, “only tell us your story, for I really am dying to hear +it, and I am so weak.” + +“Ring the bell for dinner,” said my father, “for Mrs. Harrington’s so +weak, I’ll keep my story till after dinner.” My mother protested she was +quite strong, and we both held my father fast, insisting--he being in +such excellent humour and spirits that we might insist--insisting upon +his telling his story before he should have any dinner. + +“Where was I?” said he. + +“You know best,” said my mother; “you said you had lost your heart to a +Jewess, and Harrington exclaimed _Berenice!_ and that’s all I’ve heard +yet.” + +“Very well, then, let us leave Berenice for the present”--I +groaned--“and go to her father, Mr. Montenero, and to a certain Mrs. +Coates.” + +“Mrs. Coates! did you see her too?” cried my mother: “you seem to have +seen every body in the world this morning, Mr. Harrington. How happened +it that you saw vulgar Mrs. Coates?” + +“Unless I shut my eyes, how can I avoid seeing vulgar people, madam? +and how can I tell my story, Mrs. Harrington, if you interrupt me +perpetually, to ask how I came to see every soul and body I mention?” + +“I will interrupt you no more,” said my mother, submissively, for she +was curious. + +I placed an arm-chair for my father--in my whole life I never felt so +dutiful or so impatient. + +“There, now,” said my father, taking his seat in the chair, “if you +will promise not to interrupt me any more, I will tell you my story +regularly. I went to Baldwin’s bank: I found a great crowd, all pressing +their demands--the clerks as busy as they could be, and all putting a +good face upon the matter. The head-clerk I saw was vexed at the sight +of me--he came out from behind his desk, and begged I would go up stairs +to Mr. Baldwin, who wished to speak to me. I was shown up stairs to Mr. +Baldwin, with whom I found a remarkably gentlemanlike foreign-looking +man. + +“Yes, sir--yes, ma’am--Mr. Montenero: it is well you did not either of +you interrupt me to tell me his name, for if you had, I would not have +told you a word more. Well, Mr. Baldwin, evidently wishing me at the +devil, came forward to receive me, and, in great perplexity, said he +would be at my command; he would settle my business immediately; +but must beg my pardon for five minutes, while he settled with this +gentleman, _Mr. Montenero_. On hearing the name, I am sure my look would +have said plain enough to any man alive but Baldwin, that I did not +choose to be introduced; but Baldwin has no breeding: so it was _Mr. +Montenero, Mr. Harrington--Mr. Harrington, Mr. Montenero_. I bowed, and +wished the _Jew_ in the Red Sea, and Baldwin along with him. I then took +up a newspaper and retreated to the window, begging that I might not be +any interruption. The cursed paper was four days old, so I put it down; +and as I stood looking at nothing out of the window, I heard Baldwin +going on with your Jew. They had a load of papers on the table, which +Baldwin kept shuffling, as he talked about the losses the house had +sustained by the sudden death of Alderman Coates, and the sad bankruptcy +of the executors. Baldwin seasoned high with compliments to the Jew upon +his known liberality and generosity, and was trying to get him to enter +into some security, which the Jew refused, saying that what he gave he +gave willingly, but he would not enter into security: he added, that +the alderman and his family had been unjustifiably extravagant; but +on condition that all was given up fairly to the creditors, and a new +course entered upon, he and his daughter would take care that the widow +should be provided for properly. As principal creditor, Mr. Baldwin +would, by this means, be first satisfied. I could not help thinking that +all the Jew said was fair enough, and firm too; but when he had said +and done, I wondered that he did not go away. He and Baldwin came to the +window to which I had retreated, and Baldwin, like a city bear as he is, +got in his awkward way between us, and seizing one button of my coat +and one of Mr. Montenero’s, held us there face to face, while he went on +talking of my demand on the house. + +“‘You see, Mr. Harrington,’ said he, ‘how we are circumstanced. The +property of the firm is able to answer all fair demands in due course. +But here’s a set and a run made against us, and no house could stand +without the assistance, that is, the forbearance of friends--that’s what +we must look to. Some of our friends, in particular Mr. Montenero, +have been very friendly indeed--very handsome and liberal--and we have +nothing to say; we cannot, in reason, expect him to do more for the +Coates’s or for us.’ And then came accounts of the executors, &c., in +his banking jargon. + +“What the deuce was all this to me, you know? and how awkward I felt, +held by the button there, to rejudge Mr. Montenero’s acts! I had nothing +for it but my snuff-box. But Baldwin’s a mere clerk--cannot guess at +the feelings of a gentleman. Mr. Montenero, I observed, looked down upon +Baldwin all the time with so much the air of a high-bred gentleman, that +I began to think he could not be the Jew--Montenero. + +“Baldwin, still thinking only of holding him up as an example to me, +went on, saying, ‘Mr. Montenero, who is a foreigner, and a stranger to +the house, has done so and so, and we trust our old friends will do as +much--Mr. Harrington in particular. There’s our books on the table, open +to Mr. Harrington--he will see we shall be provided on the fifteenth +instant; but, in short, if Mr. Harrington draws his £30,000 to-day, he +drives us to pay in sixpences--so there’s the case.’ In short, it came +to this: if I drew, I certainly ruined them; if I did not draw, I ran a +great hazard of being ruined myself. No, Baldwin would not have it that +way--so when he had stated it after his own fashion, and put it into and +out of his banker’s jargon, it came out to be, that if I drew directly +I was certain to lose the whole; and if I did not draw, I should have +a good chance of losing a great part. I pulled my button away from the +fellow, and without listening to any more of his jabbering, for I saw +he was only speaking _against time_, and all on his own side of the +question, I turned to look at the books, of which I knew I never should +make head or tail, being no auditor of accounts, but a plain country +gentleman. While I was turning over their confounded day-books and +ledgers in despair, your Jew, Harrington, came up to me, and with such +a manner as I did not conceive a Jew could have--but he is a Spanish +Jew--that makes all the difference, I suppose--‘Mr. Harrington,’ said +he, ‘though I am a stranger to you, permit me to offer my services +in this business--I have some right to do so, as I have accepted of +services, and am under real obligations to Mr. Harrington, your son, +a young gentleman for whom I feel the highest attachment as well as +gratitude, but of whom I will now say only, that he has been one of +the chief means of saving my life and my character. His father cannot, +therefore, I think, refuse to let me show at least some sense of +the obligations I have willingly received. My collection of Spanish +pictures, which, without your son’s exertions, I could not have saved +on the night of the riot, has been estimated by your best English +connoisseurs at £60,000. Three English noblemen are at this moment ready +to pay down £30,000 for a few of these pictures: this will secure Mr. +Harrington’s demand on this house. If you, Mr. Baldwin, pay him, before +three hours are over the money shall be with you. It is no sacrifice of +my taste or of my pictures,’ continued your noble Jew, in answer to my +scruples: ‘I lodge them with three different bankers only for security +for the money. If Mr. Baldwin stands the storm, we are all as we +were--my pictures into the bargain. If the worst happen, I lose only a +few instead of all my collection.’ + +“This was very generous--quite noble, but you know I am an obstinate old +fellow. I had still the Jewess, the daughter, running in my head, and +I thought, perhaps, I was to be asked for my _consent_, you know, +Harrington, or some sly underplot of that kind. + +“Mr. Montenero has a quick eye--I perceived that he saw into my +thoughts; but we could not speak to our purpose before Baldwin, and +Baldwin would never think of stirring, if one was dying to get him out +of the room. Luckily, however, he was called away by one of the clerks. + +“Then Mr. Montenero, who speaks more to the point than any man I +ever heard, spoke directly of your love for his daughter, and said he +understood that it would not be a match that I should approve. I pleaded +my principles and religious difficulties:--he replied, ‘We need not +enter into that, for the present business I must consider as totally +independent of any view to future connexion:’--if his daughter was going +to be married to-morrow to another man, he should do exactly the same +as he now proposed to do. He did not lessen her fortune:--he should +say nothing of what her sense of gratitude was and ought to be--she had +nothing to do with the business. + +“When I found that my _Jupiter Amman_ was in no danger, and that the +love affair was to be kept clear out of the question, I was delighted +with your generous Jew, Harrington, and I frankly accepted his offer. +Baldwin came in again, was quite happy when he heard how it was settled, +gave me three drafts at thirty-one days for my money on the bankers Mr. +Montenero named: here I have them safe in my pocket. Mr. Montenero then +said, he would go immediately and perform his part of the business; and, +as he left the room, he begged Mr. Baldwin to tell his daughter that he +would call for her in an hour. + +“I now, for the first time, understood that the daughter was in the +house; and I certainly felt a curiosity to see her. Baldwin told me she +was settling some business, signing some papers in favour of poor Mrs. +Coates, the alderman’s widow. He added, that the Jewess was a charming +creature, and as generous as her father:--he told all she had done for +this widow and her children, on account of some kindness her mother had +received in early life from the Coates’s family; and then there was a +history of some other family of Manessas--I never heard Baldwin eloquent +but this day, in speaking of your Jewess:--Harrington, I believe he is +in love with her himself. I said I should like to see her, if it could +be managed. + +“Nothing easier, if I would partake of a cold collation just serving in +the next room for the friends of the house. + +“You know the nearer a man is to being ruined, the better he must +entertain his friends. I walked into the next room, when collation time +came, and I saw Miss Montenero. Though I had given him a broad hint--but +the fellow understands nothing but his IOU’s--he fell to introducing of +course: she is a most interesting-looking creature, I acknowledge, my +boy, if--she were not a Jewess. I thought she would have sunk into the +earth when she heard my name. I could not eat one morsel of the man’s +collation--so--Ring for dinner, and let us say no more about the matter +at present: there is my oath against it, you know--there is an end of +the matter--don’t let me hear a word from you, Harrington--I am tired to +death, quite exhausted, body and mind.” + +I refrained most dutifully, and most prudently, from saying one word +more on the subject, till my father, after dinner, and after being +refreshed by a sound and long-protracted sleep, began again to speak of +Mr. and Miss Montenero. This was the first time he omitted to call them +the Jew and Jewess. He condescended to say repeatedly, and with many +oaths, that they both deserved to be Christians--that if there was any +chance of the girl’s conversion, even _he_ would overlook the father’s +being a Jew, as he was such a noble fellow. Love could do wonders--as +my father knew when he was a young man--perhaps I might bring about her +conversion, and then all would be smooth and right, and no oath against +it. + +I thanked my father for the kind concessions he now appeared willing +to make for my happiness, and from step to step, at each step repeating +that he did not want to hear a syllable about the matter, he made me +tell him every thing that had passed. Mowbray’s rivalship and treachery +excited his indignation in the highest degree: he was heartily glad that +fellow was refused--he liked the girl for refusing him--some spirit--he +liked spirit--and he should be glad that his son carried away the prize. + +He interrupted himself to tell me some of the feats of gallantry of his +younger days, and of the manner in which he had at last carried off my +mother from a rascal of a rival--a Lord Mowbray of those times. + +When my father had got to this point, my mother ventured to ask whether +I had ever gone so far as to propose, actually to _propose_, for Miss +Montenero. + +“Yes.” + +Both father and mother turned about, and asked, “What answer?” + +I repeated, as nearly as I could, Mr. Montenero’s words--and I produced +his note. + +Both excited surprise and curiosity. + +“What can this obstacle--this mysterious obstacle be?” said my mother. + +“An obstacle on their side!” exclaimed my father: “is that possible?” + +I had now, at least, the pleasure of enjoying their sympathy: and of +hearing them go over all the conjectures by which I had been bewildered. +I observed that the less chance there appeared to be of the match, the +more my father and mother inclined towards it. + +“At least,” said my mother, “I hope we shall know what the objection +is.” + +“It is very extraordinary, after all, that it should be on their side,” + repeated my father. + +My mother’s imagination, and my father’s pride, were both strongly +excited; and I let them work without interruption. + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +The time appointed for Mr. Montenero’s final decision approached. In +a few days my fate was to be decided. The vessel that was to sail for +America was continually before my eyes. + +It was more difficult to me to endure the suspense of these few days +than all the rest. My mother’s sympathy, and the strong interest which +had been excited on the subject in my father’s mind, were at first +highly agreeable; but there was so much more of curiosity and of pride +in their feelings than in mine, that at last it became irksome to me +to hear their conjectures and reflections. I did not like to answer +any questions--I could not bear to speak of Berenice, or even of Mr. +Montenero. + +I took refuge in silence--my mother reproached me for my silence. I +talked on fast of any thing but that which interested me most. + +My mother became extremely alarmed for my health, and I believe with +more reason than usual; for I could scarcely either eat, drink, or +sleep, and was certainly very feverish; but still I walked about, and +to escape from the constraint to which I put myself in her company, +to avoid giving her pain--to relieve myself from her hourly fond +inquiries--from the effort of talking, when I wished to be silent--of +appearing well, and in spirits, when I was ill, and when my heart was +dying within me, I escaped from her presence as much as possible. To +feed upon my thoughts in solitude, I either shut myself up in my room, +or walked all day in those streets where I was not likely to meet with +any one who knew me, or whom I knew; and there I was at least safe from +all notice, and secure from all sympathy: I am sure I experienced at +this time the truth of what some one has quaintly but justly asserted, +that an individual can never feel more completely alone than in the +midst of a crowded metropolis. + +One evening when I was returning homewards through the city, fatigued, +but still prolonging my walk, that I might not be at home too early for +dinner, I was met and stopped by Jacob: I had not thought of him lately, +and when I looked up in his face, I was surprised by an appearance of +great perturbation. He begged pardon for stopping me, but he had been to +my house--he had been all over the town searching for me, to consult me +about a sad affair, in which he was unfortunately concerned. We were not +far from Manessa’s, the jeweller’s shop; I went in there with Jacob, +as he wished, he said, that I should hear Mr. Manessa’s evidence on the +business, as well as his own. The affair was this: Lady de Brantefield +had, some time ago, brought to Mr. Manessa’s some very fine antique +jewels, to be re-set for her daughter, Lady Anne Mowbray. One day, +immediately after the riots, both the ladies called at Mr. Manessa’s, +to inquire if the jewels were ready. They were finished; the new setting +was approved: but Lady de Brantefield having suffered great losses by +the destruction of her house and furniture in the riots, and her +son, Lord Mowbray, being also in great pecuniary difficulties, it was +suggested by Lady Anne Mowbray, that her mother would be glad if Mr. +Manessa could dispose of some of the jewels, without letting it be known +to whom they had belonged. Mr. Manessa, willing to oblige, promised +secresy, and offered immediately to purchase the jewels himself; in +consequence, the jewels were all spread out upon a little table in the +back parlour--no one present but Jacob, Mr. Manessa, and the two ladies. +A great deal of conversation passed, and the ladies were a long time +settling what trinkets they would part with. + +It was very difficult to accommodate at once the personal vanity of +the daughter, the family pride of the mother, and their pecuniary +difficulties. There occurred, in particular, a question about a topaz +ring, of considerable value, but of antique setting, which Lady Anne +Mowbray wished her mother to part with, instead of some more fashionable +diamond ornament that Lady Anne wanted to keep for herself. Lady de +Brantefield had, however, resisted all her daughter’s importunities--had +talked a vast deal about the ring--told that it had been Sir Josseline +de Mowbray’s--that it had come into his possession by ducal and princely +descent--that it was one of four rings, which had been originally a +present from Pope Innocent to King John, of which rings there was a full +description in some old chronicle [Footnote: Rymer’s Foedera.], and +in Mr. Hume’s History of England, to which her ladyship referred Mr. +Manessa: his curiosity [Footnote: For the satisfaction of any readers +who may have more curiosity upon the subject than Mr. Manessa had, +but yet who would not willingly rise from their seats to gratify their +curiosity, the passage is here given _gratis_. “Innocent wrote John a +mollifying letter, and sent him four golden rings, set with precious +stones; and endeavoured to enhance the value of the present, by +informing him of the many mysteries which were implied by it. He begged +him to consider, seriously, the _form_ of the rings, their _number_, +their _matter_, and their _colour_. Their form, he said, being round, +shadowed out eternity, which has neither beginning nor end. Their +number, four, being a square, denoted steadiness of mind, not to be +subverted either by adversity or prosperity, fixed for ever on the four +cardinal virtues. Gold, which is the matter, signified wisdom. The blue +of the sapphire, faith. The verdure of the emerald, hope. The redness +of the ruby, charity. And splendour of the topaz, good works.” “By these +conceits,” continued the historian, “Innocent endeavoured to repay John +for one of the most important prerogatives of the crown.”], however, +was perfectly satisfied upon the subject, and he was, with all due +deference, willing to take the whole upon her ladyship’s word, without +presuming to verify her authorities. While she spoke, she took the ring +from her finger, and put it into Jacob’s hand, desiring to know if he +could make it fit her finger better, as it was rather too large. Jacob +told her it could be easily lessened, if her ladyship would leave it +for an hour or two with him. But her ladyship said she could not let Sir +Josseline’s ring out of her own sight, it was of such inestimable value. +The troublesome affair of satisfying both the vain daughter and +the proud mother being accomplished--the last bows were made at the +door--the carriage drove away, and Manessa and Jacob thanked Heaven that +they had done with these _difficult_ customers. Two hours had scarcely +elapsed before a footman came from Lady de Brantefield with the +following note:-- + +“Lady de Brantefield informs Mr. Manessa that she is in the greatest +anxiety--not finding Sir Josseline de Mowbray’s ring on her finger, upon +her return home. Her ladyship now recollects having left it in the hands +of one of Mr. Manessa’s shopmen, a young man she believes of the name +of Jacob, the only person except Mr. Manessa, who was in the little +parlour, while her ladyship and Lady Anne Mowbray were there. + +“Lady de Brantefield requests that Mr. Manessa will bring the ring +_himself_ to Lady Warbeck’s, Hanover-square, where Lady de Brantefield +is at present. + +“Lady de Brantefield desires Mr. M. will make _no delay_, as her +ladyship must remain in indescribable anxiety till Sir Josseline’s ring +shall be restored. Her ladyship could not answer for such a loss to her +family and posterity. + +“_Hanover-square, Tuesday._” + + + +Jacob was perfectly certain that her ladyship had not left the ring +with him; nevertheless he made diligent search for it, and afterwards +accompanied Mr. Manessa to Lady Warbeck’s, to assure Lady de Brantefield +that the ring was not in their house. He endeavoured to bring to her +recollection her having put it on her finger just before she got into +the carriage; but this her ladyship would not admit. Lady Anne supported +her mother’s assertions; and Lady de Brantefield ended by being +haughtily angry, declaring she would not be contradicted by a shopman, +and that she was positive the ring had never been returned to her. +Within eight-and-forty hours the story was told by Lady de Brantefield +and her friends at every card-table at the polite end of the town, and +it was spread by Lady Anne through the park and the ball-rooms; and the +ladies’-maids had repeated it, with all manner of exaggerations, through +their inferior but not less extensive circles. The consequence was, that +the character of Mr. Manessa’s house was hurt, and Jacob, who was the +person accused as the cause of it, was very unhappy. The confidence +Mr. Manessa had in him, and the kindness he showed him, increased +his regret. Lady de Brantefield had, in a high tone, threatened a +prosecution for the value of her _inestimable_ ring. This was what both +Jacob and Mr. Manessa would have desired--a public trial, they +knew, would bring the truth to light; but her ladyship was probably +discouraged by her legal advisers from a prosecution, so that Mr. +Manessa and Jacob were still left to suffer by the injustice of private +whisperings. Jacob offered to replace, as far as he could, the value of +this ring; but in Lady de Brantefield’s opinion nothing could compensate +for its loss. Poor Jacob was in despair. Before I heard this story, I +thought that nothing could have forced my attention from my own affairs; +but I could not be so selfish as to desert or neglect Jacob in his +distress. I went with my mother this evening to see Lady de Brantefield; +her ladyship was still at her relation’s, Lady Warbeck’s house, where +she had apartments to herself, in which she could receive what company +she pleased. There was to be a ball in the house this evening, but +Lady de Brantefield never mixed in what she called _idle gaieties_; she +abhorred a bustle, as it infringed upon her personal dignity, and did +not agree with her internal persuasion that she was, or ought to be, the +first object in all company. We found her ladyship in her own retired +apartment; her eyes were weak, and the room had so little light in it, +that when we first went in, I could scarcely distinguish any object: I +saw, however, a young woman, who had been reading to her ladyship, +rise as we entered, put down her book, and prepare to retire. My mother +stopped her as she was passing, and turning to me, said, that this was a +young person, she was sure, I should be glad to see, the daughter of an +old friend of mine. + +I looked, and saw a face which awakened the most painful associations of +my childhood. + +“Did not I perceive any likeness?” my mother continued. “But it was +so many years since I had seen poor Fowler, and I was so very young a +child, no wonder I should not in the least recollect.” + +I had some recollection--if I was not mistaken--I stammered--I +stopped. In fact, I recollected too well to be able to pay the expected +compliment. However, after I had got over the first involuntary shudder, +I tried to say something to relieve the embarrassment which I fancied +the girl must feel. + +She, in a mincing, waiting-gentlewoman’s manner, and with a certain +unnatural softness of voice, which again brought all the mother to my +mind, assured me that if I’d forgot her mother, she had not forgot me; +for that she’d often and often heard her mother talk of me, and she was +morally confident her mother had never loved any child so doatingly, +except, to be sure, her own present lady’s, Lady Anne Mowbray. Her +mother had often and often regretted she could never get a sight or +sentence of me since I grew up to be a great gentleman, she +always having been stationary down at my lady’s, in Surrey, at +the Priory--housekeeper--and I never there; but if I’d have the +condescension to wish to gratify her mother, as it would be the greatest +gratification in life--if Lady de Brantefield-- + +“Presently, perhaps--when I ring,” said Lady de Brantefield, “and +you, Nancy Fowler, may come back yourself with my treble ruffles: Mrs. +Harrington, I know, will have the goodness to permit. I keep her as much +under my own eye, and suffer her to be as much even in the room with me, +as possible,” added Lady de Brantefield, as Nancy left the room; “for +she is a young person quite out of the common line, and her mother +i--but you first recommended her to me, Mrs. Harrington, I remember.” + +“_The most faithful creature!_” said my mother, in the very tone I had +heard it pronounced twenty years before. + +I was carried back so far, so forcibly, and so suddenly, that it was +some time before I could recover myself sufficiently to recollect what +was the order of the day; but no matter--my mother passed on quite +easily to the jewels, and my silence was convenient, and had an air +of perfect deference for Lady de Brantefield’s long story of Sir +Josseline’s ring, now told over, I believe, for the ninety-ninth time +this season. She ended where she began, with the conviction that, if +the secretary of state would, as he ought, on such an occasion, grant +a general search-warrant, as she was informed had been done for papers, +and things of much less value, her ring would be found in _that_ Jacob’s +possession--_that_ Jacob, of whom she had a very bad opinion! + +I took the matter up as quietly as was in my nature, and did not begin +with a panegyric on my friend Jacob, but simply asked, what reason her +ladyship had for her very bad opinion of him? + +Too good reason, her ladyship emphatically said: she had heard her son, +Lord Mowbray, express a _very_ bad opinion of him. + +Lord Mowbray had known this Jacob, she believed, when a boy, and +afterwards when a man at Gibraltar, and had always thought ill of him. +Lord Mowbray had said, that Jacob was avaricious and revengeful; as you +know Jews always are, added her ladyship. + +I wondered she had trusted her jewels, then, in such hands. + +There, she owned, she had for once been wrong--overruled by others--by +her daughter, Lady Anne, who said the jewels could be more fashionably +set at Manessa’s than any where else. + +She had never acted against her own judgment in her life, without +repenting of it. Another circumstance, Lady de Brantefield said, +prepossessed her, she owned, against this Jacob; he was from the very +dregs of the people; the son absolutely of an old clothes-man, she +had been informed. What could be expected from such a person, when +temptation came in his way? and could we trust to any thing such a low +sort of person would say? + +Lady Anne Mowbray, before I had time to answer, entered dressed for +the ball, with her jewels in full blaze, and for some time there was a +suspension of all hope of coming to any thing like common sense. When +her mother appealed to her about Jacob, Lady Anne protested she took a +horrid dislike to his face the moment she saw him; she thought he had a +shocking Jewish sort of countenance, and she was positive he would swear +falsely, because he was ready to swear that her mamma had the ring on +her finger when she got into the carriage--now Lady Anne was clear she +had not. + +“Has your ladyship,” I asked, “any particular reason for remembering +this fact?” + +“Oh, yes! several very particular reasons.” + +There is sometimes wisdom in listening to a fool’s reasons; for ten to +one that the reasons will prove the contrary to what they are brought +to support, or will at least bring out some fact, the distant bearing of +which on the point of question the fool does not perceive. But when two +fools pour out their reasons at once, it is difficult to profit even +by their folly. The mother’s authority at last obtaining precedency, +I heard Lady de Brantefield’s cause of belief, first: her ladyship +declared that she never wore Sir Josseline’s ring without putting +on after it a _guard ring_, a ring which, being tighter than Sir +Josseline’s, kept it safe on her finger. She remembered drawing off the +guard ring when she took off Sir Josseline’s, and put that into Jacob’s +hands; her ladyship said it was clear to her mind that she could not +have put on Sir Josseline’s again, because here was the guard ring on +her _wrong_ finger--a finger on which she never in her life wore it when +she wore Sir Josseline’s, for Sir Josseline’s was so loose, it would +drop off, unless she had the guard on. + +“But was not it possible,” I asked, “that your ladyship might this once +have put on Sir Josseline’s ring without recollecting the guard?” + +No, absolutely impossible: if Jacob and all the Jews upon earth swore +it (who, by-the-bye, would swear any thing), she could not be convinced +against her reason--she knew her own habits--her private reasons to her +were unanswerable. + +Lady Anne’s private reasons to her were equally unanswerable; but +they were so confused, and delivered with so much volubility, as to be +absolutely unintelligible. All I could gather was, that Fowler and her +daughter Nancy were in the room when Lady Anne and her mother first +missed the ring--that when her mother drew off her glove, and +exclaimed, “Bless me, Sir Josseline’s not here!” Lady Anne ran up to +the dressing-table, at which her mother was standing, to try to find the +ring, thinking that her mother might have dropped it in drawing off her +glove; “but it certainly was not drawn off with the glove.” + +“But might not it be left in the glove?” I asked. + +“Oh! dear, no: I shook the glove myself, and Fowler turned every +finger inside out, and Nancy moved every individual box upon the +dressing-table. We were all in such a fuss, because you know mamma’s +so particular about Sir Josseline; and to tell you the truth, I was +uncommonly anxious, because I knew if mamma was vexed and lost the +ring, she would not give me a certain diamond cross, that makes me so +particularly remember every circumstance--and I was in such a flurry, +that I know I threw down a bottle of aether that was on mamma’s +toilette, on her muff--and it had such a horrid smell!” + +The muff! I asked if the muff, as well as the glove, had been searched +carefully. + +“La! to be sure--I suppose so--of course it was shaken, as every thing +else in the room was, a hundred times over: the toilette and mamma’s +petticoats even, and cloak, and gloves, as I told you.” + +“Yes, but the muff, did your ladyship examine it yourself?” + +“Did I examine it? I don’t recollect. No, indeed, after the aether, +how could I touch it? you know: but of course it was shaken, it was +examined, I am sure; but really I know nothing about it--but this, that +it could not possibly be in it, the ring, I mean, because mamma had her +glove on.” + +I requested permission to see the muff. + +“Oh, mamma was forced to give it away because of the horrid smell--she +bid Fowler take it out of the room that minute, and never let it come +near her again; but if you want to see it, ring for Fowler: you can +examine it as much as you please; depend upon it the ring’s no more +there than I am--send for Fowler and Nancy, and they can tell you how +we shook every thing to no purpose. The ring’s gone, and so am I, for +Colonel Topham’s waiting, and I must lead off.” And away her ladyship +tripped, flirting her perfumed fan as she went. Persisting in my wish to +see the muff, Lady de Brantefield desired me to ring for Fowler. + +Her ladyship wondered, she said, how I could, after the reasons she had +given me for her being morally certain that she had left the ring with +Jacob, and after Lady Anne had justly remarked that the ring could +not get through her glove, entertain a hope of finding it in such a +ridiculous place as a muff. But since I was so possessed with this idea, +the muff should be produced--there was nothing like ocular demonstration +in these cases, except internal conviction: “Did you ring, Mr. +Harrington?” + +“I did.” + +And Miss Nancy with the treble ruffles in her hand now appeared. + +“‘Tis your mother, child, I want,” said Lady de Brantefield. + +“Yes, my lady, she is only just finished assisting to lay out the ball +supper.” + +“But I want her--directly.” + +“Certainly, my lady, directly.” + +“And bid her bring--” A whisper from me to my mother, and from my mother +to her ladyship, failed of effect: after turning half round, as if +to ask me what I said--a look which did not pass unnoticed by Miss +Nancy--her ladyship finished her sentence--“And tell Fowler I desire +she will bring me the muff that I gave her last week--the day I lost my +ring.” + +This message would immediately put Fowler upon her guard, and I was at +first sorry that it had been so worded; but I recollected having heard +an eminent judge, a man of great abilities and experience, say, that if +he were called upon to form a judgment of any character, or to discover +the truth in any case, he would rather that the persons whom he was to +examine were previously put on their guard, than that they were not; for +that he should know, by what they guarded, of what they were afraid. + +Fowler appeared--twenty years had so changed her face and figure, that +the sight of her did not immediately shock me as I feared it would. The +daughter, who, I suppose, more nearly resembled what her mother had been +at the time I had known her, was, of the two, the most disagreeable +to my sight and feelings. Fowler’s voice was altered by the loss of +a tooth, and it was even by this change less odious to my ear. The +daughter’s voice I could scarcely endure. I was somewhat relieved from +the fear of being prejudiced against Fowler by the perception of +this change in her; and while she was paying me her compliments, I +endeavoured to fortify the resolution I had made to judge of her with +perfect impartiality. Her delight at seeing me, however, I could not +believe to be sincere; and the reiterated repetition of her sorrow +for her never having been able to get a sight of me before, I thought +ill-judged: but no matter; many people in her station make these sort +of unmeaning speeches. If I had suffered my imagination to act, I +should have fancied that under a sort of prepared composure there was +constraint and alarm in her look as she spoke to me. I thought she +trembled; but I resolved not to be prejudiced--and this I repeated to +myself many times. + +“Well, Fowler, but the muff,” said Lady de Brantefield. + +“The muff--oh! dear, my lady, I’m so sorry I can’t have it for you--it’s +not in the house nowhere--I parted with it out of hand directly upon +your saying, my lady, that you desired it might never be suffered to +come nigh your ladyship again. Then, says I to myself, since my lady +can’t abide the smell, I can’t never wear it, which it would have been +my pride to do; so I thought I could never get it fast enough out of the +house.” + +“And what did you do with it?” + +“I made a present of it, my lady, to poor Mrs. Baxter, John Dutton’s +sister, my lady, who was always so much attached to the family, and +would have a regard for even the smallest relic, vestige, or vestment, I +knew, above all things in nature, poor old soul!--she has, what with +the rheumatic pains, and one thing or another, lost the use of her right +arm, so it was particularly agreeable and appropriate--and she kissed +the muff--oh! my lady, I’m sure I only wish your ladyship could have +witnessed the poor soul’s veneration.” + +In reply to a question which made my mother ask about the “poor soul,” + I further learned that Mrs. Baxter was wife to a pawnbroker in +Swallow-street. Fowler added, “If my lady wished any way for the muff, I +can get it to-morrow morning by breakfast, or by the time _you’s up_, my +lady.” + +“Very well, very well, that will do, I suppose, will it not, Mr. +Harrington?” + +I bowed, and said not a word more--Fowler, I saw, was glad to get rid of +the subject, and to go on to the treble ruffles, on which while she and +my mother and Lady de Brantefield were descanting, I made my exit, and +went to the ball-room. + +I found Lady Anne Mowbray--talked nonsense to her ladyship for a quarter +of an hour--and at last, _à propos _to her perfumed fan, I brought +in the old muff with the horrid smell, on purpose to obtain a full +description of it. + +She told me that it was a gray fox-skin, lined with scarlet; that it had +great pompadour-coloured knots at each end, and that it was altogether +hideous. Lady Anne declared that she was heartily glad it would never +shock her eyes more. + +It was now just nine o’clock; people then kept better hours than they +do at present; I was afraid that all the shops would be shut; but I +recollected that pawnbrokers’ shops were usually kept open late. I lost +no time in pursuing my object. + +I took a hackney coach, bribed the coachman to drive very fast to Mr. +Manessa--found Manessa and Jacob going to bed sleepy--but at sight of +me Jacob was alert in an instant, and joyfully ready to go with me +immediately to Baxter, the pawnbroker’s. + +I made Jacob furnish me with an old surtout and slouched hat, desiring +to look as shabby as possible, that the pawnbroker might take me for one +of his usual nightly customers, and might not be alarmed at the sight of +a gentleman. + +“That won’t do yet, Mr. Harrington,” said Jacob, when I had equipped +myself in the old hat and coat. “Mr. Baxter will see the look of a +gentleman through all that. It is not the shabby coat that will make +the gentleman look shabby, no more than the fine coat can ever make _the +shabby_ look like the gentleman. The pawnbroker, who is used to observe +and find out all manner of people, will know that as well as I--but now +you shall see how well at one stroke I will disguise the gentleman.” + +Jacob then twisted a dirty silk handkerchief round my throat, and this +did the business so completely, that I defied the pawnbroker and all his +penetration. + +We drove as fast as we could to Swallow-street--dismissed our hackney +coach, and walked up to the pawnbroker’s. + +Light in the shop!--all alive!--and business going on. The shop was so +full of people, that we stood for some minutes unnoticed. + +We had leisure to look about us, as we had previously agreed to do, for +Lady De Brantefield’s muff. + +I had a suspicion that, notwithstanding the veneration with which it had +been said to be treated, it might have come to the common lot of cast +clothes. + +Jacob at one side, and I at the other, took a careful survey of the +multifarious contents of the shop; of all that hung from the ceiling; +and all that was piled on the shelves; and all that lay huddled in +corners, or crammed into dark recesses. + +In one of the darkest and most ignominious of these, beneath a heap of +sailors’ old jackets and trowsers, I espied a knot of pompadour riband. +I hooked it out a little with the stick I had in my hand; but Jacob +stopped me, and called to the shopboy, who now had his eye upon us, and +with him we began to bargain hard for some of the old clothes that lay +upon the muff. + +The shopboy lifted them up to display their merits, by the dimness of +the candle-light, and, as he raised them up, there appeared beneath the +gray fox-skin with its scarlet lining and pompadour knots, the Lady de +Brantefield’s much venerated muff. + +I could scarcely refrain from seizing upon it that moment, but Jacob +again restrained me. + +He went on talking about the sailors’ jackets, for which we had been in +treaty; and he insisted upon having the old muff into the bargain. It +actually was at last thrown in as a makeweight. Had she been witness to +this bargain, I believe Lady De Brantefield would have dropped down in a +swoon. + +The moment I got possession of it, I turned it inside out.--There were +several small rents in the lining--but one in particular had obviously +been cut open with scissars. The shopboy, who thought I was pointing out +the rents to disparage my purchase, assured me that any woman, clever +at her needle, would with half-a-dozen stitches sew all up, and make the +muff as good again as new. Jacob desired the boy to show him some old +seals, rings, and trinkets, fit for a pedlar to carry into the country; +Jacob was, for this purpose, sent to the most respectable place at the +counter, and promoted to the honour of dealing face to face with Mr. +Baxter himself:--drawers, which had before been invisible, were now +produced; and I stood by while Jacob looked over all the new and old +trinkets. I was much surprised by the richness and value of various +brooches, picture settings, watches, and rings, which had come to this +fate: at last, in a drawer with many valuables, which Mr. Baxter told +us that some great man’s mistress had, last week, been obliged to leave +with him, Jacob and I, at the same moment, saw “_the splendour of the +topaz_”--Lady de Brantefield’s inestimable ring! I must do myself the +justice to say that I behaved incomparably well--did not make a single +exclamation, though I was sure it was the identical ring, the moment I +caught a glimpse of the topaz--and though a glance from Jacob convinced +me I was right. I said I could wait no longer, but would call again for +him in half an hour’s time. This was what we had agreed upon beforehand +should be the signal for my summoning a Bow-street officer, whom +Mr. Manessa had in readiness. Jacob identified and swore to the +property--Mr. Baxter was seized. He protested he did not know the ring +was _stolen goods_--he could not recollect who had sold it to him; but +when we mentioned Fowler’s name, he grew pale, was disconcerted, and not +knowing how much or how little we knew, decided at once to get out of +the scrape himself by giving her up, and turning evidence against her. +He stated that she had found it in the old muff, but that he never knew +that this muff had belonged to Lady de Brantefield. Mrs. Fowler had +assured Him that it had been left to her along with the wardrobe of a +lady with Whom she had formerly lived. + +As soon as Baxter had told all the lies he chose to invent, and +confessed as much of the truth as he thought would serve his purpose, +his deposition was taken and sworn to. This was all that could then be +done, as it was near twelve o’clock. + +Poor Jacob’s joy at having his innocence proved, and at being relieved +from the fear of injuring the credit of his master’s house, raised his +spirits higher than I ever saw them in my life before. But still his joy +and gratitude were more shown by looks than words. He thanked me once, +and but once, warmly and strongly. + +“Ah! Mr. Harrington,” said he, “from the time you were _Master_ +Harrington at school, you were my best friend--always my friend in most +need--I trusted in you, and still I hoped!--hoped that the truth would +stand, and the lie fall. See at last our Hebrew proverb right--‘_A lie +has no feet._’” + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +The next morning, before I left my room to go down to breakfast, my +servant told me that Lady de Brantefield’s housekeeper, Mrs. Fowler, +begged to speak to me--she had been come some time. I went into my +mother’s dressing-room, where she was waiting alone. I could not bear +to fix my eyes upon her; I advanced towards her, wishing, as I believe I +said aloud, that she had spared me the pain of this interview. I waited +in silence for her to speak, but she did not say a word--I heard the +unhappy woman sobbing violently. Suddenly she took her handkerchief from +before her face, and her sobs ceasing, she exclaimed, “I know you hate +me, Mr. Harrington, and you have reason to hate me--more--much more than +you know of! But Lord Mowbray is the most to blame.” + +I stood in astonishment. I conceived either that the woman was out +of her senses, or that she had formed the not unprecedented design of +affecting insanity, in hope of escaping the punishment of guilt: she +threw herself at my feet--she would have clasped my knees, but I started +back from her insufferable touch; provoked by this, she exclaimed, in a +threatening tone, “Take care, sir!--The secret is still in my power.” + +Then observing, I believe, that her threat made no impression, her tone +changed again to the whine of supplication. + +“Oh, Mr. Harrington, if I could hope for your forgiveness, I could +reveal such a secret--a secret that so concerns you!” + +I retreated, saying that I would not hear any secret from her. But I +stopped, and was fixed to the spot, when she added, under her breath, +the name of Montenero. Then, in a hypocritical voice, she went on--“Oh, +Mr. Harrington!--Oh, sir, I have, been a great sinner! led on--led on +by them that was worse than myself; but if you will plead for me with +my lady, and prevail upon her not to bring me to public shame about this +unfortunate affair of the ring, I will confess all to you--I will throw +myself on your mercy. I will quit the country if you will prevail on my +lady--to let my daughter’s marriage go on, and not to turn her out of +favour.” + +I refused to make any terms; but my mother, whose curiosity could +refrain no longer, burst into the room; and to her Fowler did not plead +in vain. Shocked as she was with the detection of this woman’s fraud, my +mother was so eager to learn the secret concerning me, that she promised +to obtain a pardon from Lady de Brantefield for the delinquent, if she +would immediately communicate the secret. I left the room. + +I met my father with letters and newspapers in his hand. He looked in +consternation, and beckoned to me to follow him into his own room. + +“I was just going in search of you, Harrington,” said he: “here’s a +devil of a stroke for your mother’s friend, Lady de Brantefield.” + +“The loss of her jewels, do you mean, sir?” said I: “they are found.” + +“Jewels!” said my father; “I don’t know what you are talking of.” + +“I don’t know then what you mean, sir,” said I. + +“No, to be sure you do not, how could you? for the news is but this +instant come--in this letter which I was carrying to you--which is +addressed to you, as I found, when I got to the middle of it. I beg your +pardon for opening it. Stay, stay--this is not the right letter.” + +My father seemed much hurried, and looked over his parcel of letters, +while he went on, saying, “This is directed to William Harrington, +instead of William Harrington Harrington. Never mind about that now, +only I don’t like to open letters that don’t belong to me--here it +is--run your eye over it as fast as you can, and tell me--for I stopped, +as soon as I saw it was not to me--tell me how it is with Mowbray--I +never liked the fellow, nor his mother either; but one can’t help +pitying--and being shocked--shocked indeed I was, the moment I read the +letter.” + +The letter, which appeared to have been written in great perturbation, +and at two or three different times, with different inks, was from a +brother officer of Lord Mowbray’s. It began in a tolerably composed +and legible hand, with an account of a duel, in which the writer of the +letter said that he had been second to Lord Mowbray. His lordship +had been wounded, but it was hoped he would do well. Then came the +particulars of the duel, which the second stated, of course, as +advantageously for himself and his principal as he could; but even by +his own statement it appeared that Lord Mowbray had been the aggressor; +that he had been intemperate; and, in short, entirely in the wrong: +the person with whom he fought was a young officer, who had been his +schoolfellow: the dispute had begun about some trivial old school +quarrel, on the most nonsensical subject; something about a Jew boy of +the name of Jacob, and a pencil-case; the young gentleman had appealed +to the evidence of Mr. Harrington, whom he had lately met on a +fishing-party, and who, he said, had a perfect recollection of the +circumstance. Lord Mowbray grew angry; and in the heat of contradiction, +which, as his second said, his lordship could never bear, he gave his +opponent the lie direct. A duel was the necessary consequence. Lord +Mowbray insisted on their firing across the table: his opponent was +compelled to it. They fired, as it was agreed, at the same instant: Lord +Mowbray fell. So far was written while the surgeon was with his patient. +Afterwards, the letter went on in a more confused manner. The surgeon +begged that Lord Mowbray’s friends might be informed, to prepare them +for the event; but still there were hopes. Lord Mowbray had begun to +write a letter to Mr. Harrington, but could not go on--had torn it to +bits--and had desired the writer of the present letter to say, “that he +could not go out of the world easy, without his forgiveness--to refer +him to a woman of the name of Fowler, for explanation--a waiting-maid--a +housekeeper now, in his mother’s family. Lord Mowbray assured Mr. +Harrington, that he did not mean to have carried the _jest_ (the word +_jest_ scratched out), the thing farther than to show him his power to +break off matters, if he pleased--but he now repented.” + +This dictated part of the letter was so confused, and so much like the +delirium of a man in a fever, that I should certainly have concluded it +to be without real meaning, had it not coincided with the words which +Fowler had said to me. On turning over the page I saw a postscript--Lord +Mowbray, at two o’clock that morning, had expired. His brother officer +gave no particulars, and expressed little regret, but begged me +to represent the affair properly; and added something about the +lieutenant-colonelcy, which was blotted so much, either purposely or +accidentally, that I could not read it. + +My father, who was a truly humane man, was excessively shocked by the +letter; and at first, so much engrossed by the account of the manner of +the young man’s death, and by the idea of the shock and distress of +the mother and sister, that he scarcely adverted to the unintelligible +messages to me. He observed, indeed, that the writer of the letter +seemed to be a fool, and to have very little feeling. We agreed that +my mother was the fittest person to break the matter to poor Lady de +Brantefield. If my mother should not feel herself equal to the task, my +father said he would undertake it himself, though he had rather have a +tooth pulled out than go through it. + +We went together to my mother. We found her in hysterics, and +Fowler beside her; my mother, the moment she saw us, recovered some +recollection, and pushing Fowler from her with both her hands, she +cried, “Take her away--out of my sight--out of my sight.” I took the +hartshorn from Fowler, and bid her leave the room; ordering her, at her +peril, not to leave the house. + +“Why did you tell Mrs. Harrington so suddenly, Mrs. Fowler?” my father +began, supposing that my mother’s hysterics were the consequence of +having been told, too suddenly, the news of Lord Mowbray’s death. + +“I did not tell her, sir; I never uttered a sentence of his lordship’s +_death_.” + +In her confusion, the woman betrayed her knowledge of the circumstance, +though on her first speaking to me she had not mentioned it. While I +assisted and soothed my mother, I heard my father questioning her. “She +heard the news that morning, early, in a letter from Lord Mowbray’s +gentleman--had not yet had the heart to mention it to her lady--believed +she had given a hint of it to Lady Anne--was indeed so flurried, and +still was so flurried--” + +My father, perceiving that Fowler did not know what she was saying, +good-naturedly attributed her confusion to her sorrow for her ladies; +and did not wonder, he said, she was flurried: he was not nervous, but +it had given him a shock. “Sit down, poor Fowler.” + +The words caught my mother’s ear, who had now recovered her recollection +completely; and with an effort, which I had never before seen her make, +to command her own feelings--an effort, for which I thank her, as I knew +it arose from her strong affection for me, she calmly said, “I will +bear that woman--that fiend, in my sight, a few minutes longer, for your +sake, Harrington, till her confession be put in writing and signed: this +will, I suppose, be necessary.” + +“I desire to know, directly, what all this means?” said my father, +speaking in a certain repressed tone, which we and which Fowler knew to +be the symptom of his being on the point of breaking out into violent +anger. + +“Oh! sir,” said Fowler, “I have been a very sad sinner; but indeed I +was not so much to blame as them that knew better, and ought to know +better--that bribed and deceived me, and lured me by promises to do +that--to say that--but indeed I was made to believe it was all to end in +no harm--only a jest.” + +“A jest! Oh, wretch!” cried my mother. + +“I was a wretch, indeed, ma’am; but Lord Mowbray was, you’ll allow, the +wickedest.” + +“And at the moment he is dead,” said my father, “is this a time--” + +Fowler, terrified to her inmost coward soul at the sight of the powerful +indignation which appeared in my father’s eyes, made an attempt to throw +herself at his feet, but he caught strong hold of her arm. + +“Tell me the plain fact at once, woman.” + +Now she literally could not speak; she knew my father was violent, and +dreaded lest what she had to say should incense him beyond all bounds. + +My mother rose, and said that she would tell the plain fact. + +Fowler, still more afraid that my mother should tell it--as she thought, +I suppose, she could soften it best herself--interposed, saying, “Sir, +if you will give me a moment’s time for recollection, sir, I will tell +all. Dear sir, if one had committed murder, and was going to be put +to death, one should have that much mercy shown--hard to be condemned +unheard.” + +My father let go her arm from his strong grasp, and sat down, resolved +to be patient. It was just, he said, that she, that every human creature +should be heard before they were condemned. + +When she came to the facts, I was so much interested that I cannot +recollect the exact words in which the account was given; but this was +the substance. Lord Mowbray, when refused by Miss Montenero, had sworn +that he would be revenged on her and on me. Indeed, from our first +acquaintance with her, he had secretly determined to supplant me; and +a circumstance soon occurred which served to suggest the means. He +had once heard Miss Montenero express strongly her terror at seeing an +insane person--her horror at the idea of a marriage which a young friend +of hers had made with a man who was subject to fits of insanity. Upon +this hint Mowbray set to work. + +Before he opened his scheme to Fowler, he found how he could bribe her, +as he thought, effectually, and secure her secrecy by making her +an accomplice. Fowler had a mind to marry her daughter to a certain +apothecary, who, though many years older than the girl, and quite old +enough to be her father, was rich, and would raise her to be a lady. +This apothecary lived in a country town near the Priory; the house, +and ground belonging to it, which the apothecary rented, was on her +ladyship’s estate, and would be the inheritance of Lord Mowbray. He +promised that he would renew this lease to her future son-in-law, +provided she and the apothecary continued to preserve his good opinion. +His lordship had often questioned Fowler as to the strange nervous fits +I had had when a boy. He had repeated all he had heard reported; and +certainly exaggerated stories in abundance had, at the time, been +circulated. Lord Mowbray affirmed that most people were of opinion it +was _insanity_. Fowler admitted that was always her own opinion--Lord +Mowbray supposed that was the secret reason for her quitting my mother’s +service--it certainly was, though she was too delicate, and afraid at +the time, to mention it. By degrees he worked Fowler partly to acquiesce +in all he asserted, and to assert all he insinuated. The apothecary had +been an apprentice to the London apothecary who attended me; he had seen +me often at the time I was at the _worst_; he had heard the reports too, +and he had heard opinions of medical men, and he was brought to assert +whatever his future mother-in-law pleased, for he was much in love with +the young girl. This combination was formed about the period when I +first became attached to Miss Montenero: the last stroke had been given +at the time when Mr. Montenero and Berenice were at General B----‘s, in +Surrey. The general’s house was within a few miles of the country town +in which the said apothecary lived; it was ten or twelve miles from the +Priory, where Fowler was left, at that time, to take care of the place. +The apothecary usually attended the chief families in the neighbourhood, +and was recommended to General B----‘s family. Miss Montenero had a +slight sore throat, and no physician being near, this apothecary was +sent for; he made use of this opportunity, spoke of the friends he had +formerly had in London, in particular of Mr. Harrington’s family, for +whom he expressed much gratitude and attachment; inquired anxiously and +mysteriously about young Mr. Harrington’s state of health. One day +Miss Montenero and her father called at this apothecary’s, to see some +curious things that had been found in a Roman bath, just dug up in the +county of Surrey. Fowler, who had been apprised of the intended +visit, was found in the little parlour behind the shop talking to the +apothecary about poor young Mr. Harrington. While Mr. and Miss Montenero +were looking at the Roman curiosities, Fowler contrived, in half +sentences, to let out what she wished to be overheard about _that_ poor +young gentleman’s _strange fits_; and she questioned the apothecary +whether they had come on ever _very_ lately, and hoped that for the +family’s sake, as well as his own, it would never break out publicly. +All which observations and questions the apothecary seemed discreetly +and mysteriously to evade answering. Fowler confessed that she could not +get out on this occasion the whole of what she had been instructed to +say, because Miss Montenero grew so pale, they thought she would have +dropped on the floor. + +The apothecary pretended to think the young lady had been made sick +by the smell of the shop. It passed off--nothing more was done at that +time. Mr. Montenero, before he left the house, made inquiries who +Fowler was--learned that she had been, for many years, a servant in +the Harrington family,--children’s maid. Her evidence, and that of the +apothecary who had attended me in my _extraordinary illness_, agreed; +and there seemed no reason to suspect its truth. Mr. and Miss Montenero +went with a party from General B----‘s to see Brantefield Priory. Fowler +attended the company through the house: Mr. Montenero took occasion +to question her most minutely--asked, in particular, about a tapestry +room--a picture of Sir Josseline and the Jew--received such answers as +Lord Mowbray had prepared Fowler to give: so artfully had he managed, +that his interference could not be suspected. Fowler pretended to know +scarcely any thing of her young lord--she had always lived here at the +Priory--his lordship had been abroad--was in the army--always _on the +move_--did not know where he was now--probably in town: her present +ladies had her good word--but her heart, she confessed, was always with +her first mistress, Mrs. Harrington, and poor Master Harrington--_never +to be mentioned without a sigh_--that was noted in her instructions. All +that I or Mowbray had mentioned before Mr. Montenero of my aversion to +Fowler, now appeared to be but the dislike which an insane person is +apt to take against those about them, even to those who treat them +most kindly. Fowler was a good actress, and she was well prompted--she +produced, in her own justification, instructions, in unsigned letters of +Lord Mowbray’s. I knew his hand, however disguised. She was directed to +take particular care not to go too far--to let things be _drawn_ from +her--to refuse to give further information lest she should do +mischief. When assured that the Monteneros were friends, then to tell +_circumstances agreed upon_--to end with a promise to produce a _keeper_ +who had attended the poor gentleman not long since, who could satisfy +all doubts. Lord Mowbray noted that this must be promised to be done +within the ensuing month--something about a ship’s sailing for America +was scratched out in these last instructions. + +I have calmly related the facts, but I cannot give an idea of the +transports of passion into which my father burst when he heard them. It +was with the utmost difficulty that we could restrain him till the +woman had finished her confession. Lord Mowbray was dead. His death--his +penitence--pity for his family, quenched my father’s rage against +Mowbray; all his fury rose with tenfold violence against Fowler. It +was with the greatest difficulty that I got her out of the room in +safety:--he followed, raging; and my mother, seeing me put Fowler into a +parlour, and turn the key in the door, began beseeching that I would not +keep her another instant in the house. I insisted, however, upon being +permitted to detain her till her confession should be put into writing, +or till Mr. Montenero could hear it from her own lips: I represented +that if once she quitted the house, we might never see her again; she +might make her escape out of town; might, for some new interest, deny +all she had said, and leave me in as great difficulties as ever. + +My father, sudden in all his emotions, snatched his hat from the +hall-table, seized his cane, and declared he would that instant go and +settle the point at once with Mr. Montenero and the daughter. My mother +and I, one on each side of him, pleaded that it would be best not to +speak so suddenly as he proposed to do, especially to Berenice. Heaven +bless my mother! she called her _Berenice_: this did not escape my ear. +My father let us take off his hat, and carry away his cane. He sat down +and wrote directly to Mr. Montenero, requesting to see him immediately, +on particular business. + +My mother’s carriage was at the door; it was by this time the hour for +visiting. + +“I will bring Mr. Montenero back with me,” said my mother, “for I am +going to pay a visit I should have paid long ago--to Miss Montenero.” + +I kissed my mother’s hand I don’t know how many times, till my father +told me I was a _fool_. + +“But,” turning to me, when the carriage had driven off, “though I +am delighted that the _obstacle_ will be removed on their part, yet +remember, Harrington, I can go no farther--not an inch--not an inch: +sorry for it--but you know all I have said--by Jupiter Ammon, I cannot +eat my own words!” + +“But you ought to eat your own words, sir,” said I, venturing to jest, +as I knew that I might in his present humour, and while his heart was +warmed; “your words were a libel upon Jews and Jewesses; and the most +appropriate and approved punishment invented for the libeller is--to eat +his own words.” + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +My mother returned almost as quickly as my impatience expected, and from +afar I saw that Mr. Montenero was in the carriage with her. My heart did +certainly beat violently; but I must not stop to describe, if I could, +my various sensations. My mother, telling Mr. Montenero all the time +that she would tell him nothing, had told him every thing that was to +be told: I was glad of it--it spared me the task of detailing Lord +Mowbray’s villany. He had once been my friend, or at least I had once +been his--and just after his death it was a painful subject. Besides, on +my own account, I was heartily glad to leave it to my father to complete +what my mother had so well begun. + +He spoke with great vehemence. I stood by, proud all the time to show +Mr. Montenero my calmness and self-possession; while Fowler, who +was under salutary terror of my father, repeated, without much +prevarication, all the material parts of her confession, and gave up to +him Lord Mowbray’s letters. Astonishment and horror at the discovery +of such villany were Mr. Montenero’s first feelings--he looked at Lord +Mowbray’s writing again and again, and shuddered in silence, as he cast +his eyes upon Fowler’s guilty countenance. We all were glad when she was +dismissed. + +Mr. Montenero turned to me, and I saw tears in his eyes. + +“There is no obstacle between us now, I hope,” said I, eagerly seizing +the hand which he held out to me. + +Mr. Montenero pressed me in his arms, with the affection of a parent. + +“Heyday! heyday!” said my father, in a tone between pleasure and +anger,--“do you at all know what you are about, Harrington?--remember!” + +“Oh! Mr. Montenero,” said my mother, “speak, for Heaven’s sake, and tell +me that you are perfectly convinced that there was no shadow of truth.” + +“Nonsense! my dear, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Harrington,” said my +father,--“to be sure he is convinced, he is not an idiot--all my +astonishment is, how he could ever be made to believe such a thing!” + +Mr. Montenero answered my mother and my father alternately, assuring my +mother that he was quite convinced, and agreeing with my father that he +had been strangely imposed upon. He turned again to me, and I believe at +the same instant the same recollections occurred to us both--new light +seemed to break upon us, and we saw in a different point of view a +variety of past circumstances. Almost from the moment of my acquaintance +with Berenice, I could trace Lord Mowbray’s artifices. Even from the +time of our first going out together at Westminster Abbey, when Mr. +Montenero said he loved enthusiasm, how Mowbray encouraged, excited me +to follow that line. At the Tower, my kneeling in raptures to the figure +of the Black Prince--my exaggerated expressions of enthusiasm--my poetic +and dramatic declamation and gesture--my start of horror at Mowbray’s +allusion to the _tapestry-chamber_ and the picture of Sir Josseline--my +horror afterwards at the auction, where Mowbray had prepared for me the +sight of the picture of the Dentition of the Jew--and the appearance of +the figure with the terrible eyes at the synagogue; all, I now found, +had been contrived or promoted by Lord Mowbray: Fowler had dressed up +the figure for the purpose. They had taken the utmost pains to work +on my imagination on this particular point, on which he knew my early +associations might betray me to symptoms of apparent insanity. Upon +comparing and explaining these circumstances, Mr. Montenero further laid +open to me the treacherous ingenuity of the man who had so duped me by +the show of sympathy and friendship. By dexterous insinuations he +had first excited curiosity--then suggested suspicions, worked every +accidental circumstance to his purpose, and at last, rendered desperate +by despair, and determined that I should not win the prize which he +had been compelled to resign, had employed so boldly his means and +accomplices, that he was dreadfully near effecting my ruin. + +While Mr. Montenero and I ran over all these circumstances, +understanding each other perfectly, but scarcely intelligible to +either my father or mother, they looked at us both with impatience and +surprise, and rejoiced when we had finished our explanations--and yet, +when we had finished, an embarrassing minute of silence ensued. + +My mother broke it, by saying something about Miss Montenero. I do not +know what--nor did she. My father stood with a sort of bravadoing look +of firmness, fixing himself opposite to me, as though he were repeating +to himself, “If, sir!--If--By Jupiter Ammon! I must be consistent.” + +Mr. Montenero appeared determined not to say any more, but something +seemed to be still in reserve in his mind. + +“I hope, Mr. Montenero,” said I, “that now no obstacle exists.” + +“On my part none,” replied Mr. Montenero; “but you recollect--” + +“I recollect only your own words, my dear sir,” cried I. “‘either my +daughter and you must never meet again, or must meet to part no more’--I +claim your promise.” + +“At all hazards?” said Mr. Montenero. + +“No hazards with such a woman as Berenice,” said I, “though her +religion--” + +“I would give,” exclaimed my father, “I would give one of my fingers +this instant, that she was not a Jewess!” + +“Is your objection, sir, to her not being a Christian, or to her being +the daughter of a Jew?” + +“Can you conceive, Mr. Montenero,” cried my father, “that after all I +have seen of you--all you have done for me--can you conceive me to be +such an obstinately prejudiced brute? My prejudices against the Jews I +give up--you have conquered them--all, all. But a difference of religion +between man and wife--” + +“Is a very serious objection indeed,” said Mr. Montenero; “but if that +be the only objection left in your mind, I have the pleasure to tell +you, Mr. Harrington,” addressing himself to me, “that your love and duty +are not at variance: I have tried you to the utmost, and am satisfied +both of the steadiness of your principles and of the strength of your +attachment to my daughter--Berenice is not a Jewess.” + +“Not a Jewess!” cried my father, starting from his seat: “Not a Jewess! +Then my Jupiter Ammon may go to the devil! Not a Jewess!--give you joy, +Harrington, my boy!--give me joy, my dear Mrs. Harrington--give me +joy, excellent--(_Jew_, he was on the point of saying) excellent Mr. +Montenero; but, is not she your daughter?” + +“She is, I hope and believe, my daughter,” said Mr. Montenero smiling; +“but her mother was a Christian; and according to my promise to +Mrs. Montenero, Berenice has been bred in her faith--a Christian--a +Protestant.” + +“A Christian! a Protestant!” repeated my father. + +“An English Protestant: her mother was daughter of--” + +“An English Protestant!” interrupted my father, “English! English! Do +you hear that, Mrs. Harrington?” + +“Thank Heaven! I do hear it, my dear,” said my mother. “But, Mr. +Montenero, we interrupt--daughter of--?” + +“Daughter of an English gentleman, of good family, who accompanied one +of your ambassadors to Spain.” + +“Of good family, Mr. Harrington,” said my mother, raising her head +proudly as she looked at me with a radiant countenance: “I knew she +was of a good family from the first moment I saw her at the play--so +different from the people she was with--even Lady de Brantefield asked +who she was. From the first moment I thought--” + +“You thought, Mrs. Harrington,” interposed my father, “you thought, to +be sure, that Miss Montenero _looked like a Christian_. Yes, yes; and no +doubt you had _presentiments_ plenty.” + +“Granted, granted, my dear; but don’t let us say any more about them +now.” + +“Well, my boy! well, Harrington! not a word?” + +“No--I am too happy!--the delight I feel--But, my dear Mr. Montenero,” + said I, “why--_why_ did not you tell all this sooner? What pain you +would have spared me!” + +“Had I spared you the pain, you would never have enjoyed the delight; +had I spared you the trial, you would never have had the triumph--the +triumph, did I say? Better than all triumph, this sober certainty of +your own integrity. If, like Lord Mowbray--but peace be to the dead! and +forgiveness to his faults. My daughter was determined never to marry any +man who could be induced to sacrifice religion and principle to interest +or to passion. She was equally determined never to marry any man whose +want of the spirit of toleration, whose prejudices against the +Jews, might interfere with the filial affection she feels for her +father--though he be a Jew.” + +“_Though_”--Gratitude, joy, love, so overwhelmed me at this moment, that +I could not say another syllable; but it was enough for Mr. Montenero, +deeply read as he was in the human heart. + +“Why did not I spare you the pain?” repeated he. “And do you think that +the trial cost _me_, cost _us_ no pain?” said Mr. Montenero. “The time +may come when, as my son, you may perhaps learn from Berenice--” + +“The time is come!--this moment!” cried my father; “for you see the poor +fellow is burning with impatience--he would not be my son if he were +not.” + +“That is true, indeed!” said my mother. + +“True--very likely,” said Mr. Montenero, calmly holding me fast. “But, +impetuous sir, recollect that once before you were too sudden for +Berenice: after you had saved my life, you rushed in with the joyful +news, and--” + +“Oh! no rushing, for mercy’s sake, Harrington!” said my mother: “some +consideration for Miss Montenero’s nerves!” + +“Nerves! nonsense, my dear,” said my father: “what woman’s nerves were +ever the worse for seeing her lover at her feet? I move--and I am sure +of one honourable gentleman to second my motion--I move that we all +adjourn, forthwith, to Mr. Montenero’s.” + +“This evening, perhaps, Miss Montenero would allow us,” said my mother. + +“This instant,” said Mr. Montenero, “if you will do me the honour, Mrs. +Harrington.” + +“The carriage,” said my mother, ringing. + +“The carriage, directly,” cried my father to the servant as he entered. + +“Here’s a fellow will certainly fly the moment you let him go,” said my +father. + +And away I flew, with such swiftness, that at the foot of the stairs I +almost fell over Jacob. He, not knowing any thing of what had happened +this morning, full of the events of the preceding night, and expecting +to find me the same, began to say something about a ring which he held +in his hand. + +“That’s all settled--all over--let me pass, good Jacob.” + +Still he endeavoured to stop me. I was not pleased with this +interruption. But there was something so beseeching and so kind in +Jacob’s manner that I could not help attending to him. Had the poor +fellow known the cause of my impatience, he would not certainly have +detained me. He begged me, with some hesitation, to accept of a ring, +which Mr. Manessa his partner and he took the liberty of offering me as +a token of their gratitude. It was not of any great value, but it was +finished by an artist who was supposed to be one of the best in the +world. + +“Willingly, Jacob,” said I; “and it comes at the happiest moment--if you +will allow me to present it, to offer it to a lady, who--” + +“Who will, I hope,” said my father, appearing at the top of the stairs, +“soon be his bride.” + +“His bride!” + +Jacob saw Mr. Montenero’s face behind me, and clasping his, hands, “The +very thing I wished!” cried he, opening the house-door. + +“Follow us, Jacob,” I heard Mr. Montenero say, as we stepped into the +carriage; “follow us to the house of joy, you who never deserted the +house of mourning.” + +The ring, the history of it, and the offering it to Berenice, prepared +my way in the happiest manner, and prevented the danger, which Mr. +Montenero feared, of my own or my father’s precipitation. We told her in +general the circumstances that had happened, but spared her the detail. + +“And now, my beloved daughter,” said Mr. Montenero, “I may express to +you all the esteem, all the affection, all the fulness of approbation I +feel for _your choice_.” + +“And I, Miss Montenero!--Let me speak, pray, Mrs. Harrington,” said my +father. + +“By and by,” whispered my mother; “not yet, my love.” + +“Ay, put the ring on her finger--that’s right, boy!” cried my father, as +my mother drew him back. + +Berenice accepted of the ring in the most gracious, the most graceful +manner. + +“I accept this with pleasure,” said she; “I shall prize it more than +ever Lady de Brantefield valued her ring: as a token of goodness and +gratitude, it will be more precious to me than any jewel could be; and +it will ever be dear to me,” added she, with a softened voice, turning +to her father, “very dear, as a memorial of the circumstances which have +removed the only obstacle to _our_ happiness.” + +“Our,” repeated my father: “noble girl! Above all affectation. Boy, a +truce with your transports! She is my own daughter--I must have a kiss.” + +“For shame, my dear,” said my mother; “you make Miss Montenero blush!” + +“Blushes are very becoming--I always thought yours so, Mrs. +Harrington--that’s the reason I have given you occasion to blush for +me so often. Now you may take me out of the room, madam. I have some +discretion, though you think you have it all to yourself,” said my +father. + +I have some discretion, too, hereditary or acquired. I am aware that +the moment two lovers cease to be miserable, they begin to be tiresome; +their best friends and the generous public are satisfied to hear as +little as possible concerning their prosperous loves. + +It was otherwise, they say, in the days of Theagenes and Chariclea. + +“How! will you never be satisfied with hearing?” says their historian, +who, when he came to a prosperous epoch in their history, seems to have +had a discreet suspicion that he might be too long; “Is not my discourse +yet tedious?” + +“No,” the indefatigable auditor is made to reply; “and who is he, unless +he have a heart of adamant or iron, that would not listen content to +hear the loves of Theagenes and Chariclea, though the story should last +a year? Therefore, continue it, I beseech you.” + +“Continue, I beseech you:” dear flattering words! Though perhaps no one, +at this minute, says or feels this, I must add a few lines more--not +about myself, but about Mr. Montenero. + +In the moment of joy, when the heart opens, you can see to the very +bottom of it; and whether selfish or generous, revengeful or forgiving, +the real disposition is revealed. We were all full of joy and +congratulations, when Mr. Montenero, at the first pause of silence, +addressed himself in his most persuasive tone to me. + +“Mr. Harrington--good Mr. Harrington--I have a favour to ask from you.” + +“A favour! from me! Oh! name it,” cried I: “What pleasure I shall have +in granting it!” + +“Perhaps not. You will not have pleasure--immediate pleasure--in +granting it: it will cost you present pain.” + +“Pain!--impossible! but no matter how much pain if you desire it. What +can it be?” + +“That wretched woman--Fowler!” + +I shuddered and started back. + +“Yes, Fowler--your imagination revolts at the sound of her name--she +is abhorrent to your strongest, your earliest, associations; but, Mr. +Harrington, you have given proofs that your matured reason and your +humanity have been able to control and master your imagination and your +antipathies. To this power over yourself you owe many of your virtues, +and all the strength of character, and, I will say it, the sanity of +mind, my son, without which Berenice--” + +“I will see--I will hear Fowler this instant,” cried I. “So far I will +conquer myself; but you will allow that this is a just antipathy. Surely +I have reason to hate her.” + +“She is guilty, but penitent; she suffers and must suffer. Her mistress +refuses ever to see her more. She is abandoned by all her family, all +her friends; she must quit her country--sails to-morrow in the vessel +which was to have taken us to America--and carries with her, in her +own feelings, her worst punishment--a punishment which it is not in our +power to remit, but it is in our power to mitigate her sufferings--I can +provide her with an asylum for the remainder of her miserable old age; +and you, my son, before she goes from happy England, see her and forgive +her. ‘It is the glory of a man to pass by an offence.’ Let us see and +forgive this woman. How can we better celebrate our joy--how can we +better fill the measure of our happiness, than by the forgiveness of our +enemies?” + +“By Jupiter Ammon,” cried my father, “none but a good Christian could do +this!” + +“And why,” said Berenice, laying her hand gently on my father’s arm, +“and why not a good Jew?” + +END OF HARRINGTON. + + + +THOUGHTS ON BORES. + +A bore is a biped, but not always unplumed. There be of both kinds;--the +female frequently plumed, the _male-military_ plumed, helmed, or +crested, and whisker-faced, hairy, _Dandy bore_, ditto, ditto, +ditto.--There are bores unplumed, capped, or hatted, curled or uncurled, +bearded and beardless. + +The _bore_ is not a ruminating animal,--carnivorous, not +sagacious--prosing--long-winded--tenacious of life, though not +vivacious. The bore is good for promoting sleep; but though he causeth +sleep in others, it is uncertain whether he ever sleeps himself; as few +can keep awake in his company long enough to see. It is supposed that +when he sleeps it is with his mouth open. + +The bore is usually considered a harmless creature, or of that class of +irrational bipeds who hurt only themselves. To such, however, I would +not advise trusting too much. The bore is harmless, no doubt, as long +as you listen to him; but disregarded, or stopped in mid-career, he will +turn upon you. It is a fatal, if not a vulgar error, to presume that the +bore belongs to that class of animals that have no gall; of which Pliny +gives a list (much disputed by Sir Thomas Browne and others). That +bores have gall, many have proved to their cost, as some now living, +peradventure, can attest. The milk of human kindness is said to abound +naturally in certain of the gentler bore kind; but it is apt to grow +sour if the animal be crossed--not in love, but in talk. Though I cannot +admit to a certainty that all bores have not gall, yet assuredly they +have no tact, and they are one and all deficient in sympathy. + +A bore is a heavy animal, and his weight has this peculiarity, that +it increases every moment he stays near you. The French describe this +property in one word, which, though French, I may be permitted to quote, +because untranslatable, _il s’appesantit_--Touch and go, it is not in +the nature of a bore to do--whatever he touches turns to lead. + +Much learning might be displayed, and much time wasted, on an inquiry +into the derivation, descent, and etymology of the animal under +consideration. Suffice it to say, that for my own part, diligence hath +not been wanting in the research. Johnson’s Dictionary and old Bailey, +have been ransacked; but neither the learned Johnson, nor the recondite +Bailey, throw much light upon this matter. The Slang Dictionary, to +which I should in the first place have directed my attention, was +unfortunately not within my reach. The result of all my inquiries +amounts to this--that _bore_, _boor_, and _boar_, are all three +spelt indifferently, and _consequently_ are derived from one common +stock,--what stock, remains to be determined. I could give a string +of far-fetched derivations, each of them less to the purpose than +the other; but I prefer, according to the practice of our great +lexicographer, taking refuge at once in the Coptic. + +Of one point there can be little doubt--that bores existed in ancient as +well as in modern times, though the deluge has unluckily swept away all +traces of the antediluvian bore--a creature which analogy leads us to +believe must have been of formidable power. + +We find them for certain in the days of Horace. That plague, worse, as +he describes, than asthma or rheumatism, that prating, praising thing +which caught him in the street, stuck to him wherever he went--of which, +stopping or running, civil or rude, shirking or cutting, he could never +rid himself--what was he but a bore? + +In Pope I find the first description in English poetry of the +animal--whether imitated from Horace, or a drawing from life, may be +questioned. But what could that creature be but a bore, from whom he +says no walls could guard him, and no shades could hide; who pierced +his thickets; glided into his grotto; stopped his chariot; boarded his +barge; from whom no place was sacred--not the church free; and against +whom John was ordered to tie up the knocker? + +Through the indexes to Milton and Shakspeare I have not neglected to +hunt; but unfortunately, I have found nothing to my purpose in Milton, +and in all Shakspeare no trace of a bore; except it be that _thing_, +that popinjay, who so pestered Hotspur, that day when he, faint with +toil and dry with rage, was leaning on his sword after the battle--all +that bald, disjointed talk, to which Hotspur, past his patience, +answered neglectingly, he knew not what, and that sticking to him with +questions even when his wounds were cold. It must have been a bore of +foreign breed, not the good downright English bore. + +All the classes, orders, genera, and species of the animal, I pretend +not to enumerate. Heaven forefend!--but some of those most commonly met +with in England, I may mention, and a few of the most curious, describe. + +In the first place, there is the _mortal great bore_, confined to the +higher classes of society. A celebrated wit, who, from his long and +extensive acquaintance with the fashionable and political world, has had +every means of forming his opinion on this subject, lays it down as an +axiom, that none but a rich man, or a great man, _can_ be a great bore; +others are not endured long enough in society, to come to the perfection +of tiresomeness. + +Of these there is the travelled and the untravelled kind. The travelled, +formerly rare, is now dreadfully common in these countries. The old +travelling bore was, as I find him aptly described--“A pretender to +antiquities, roving, majestic-headed, and sometimes little better than +crazed; and being exceedingly credulous, he would stuff his many letters +with _fooleries_ and misinformations”--_vide_ a life published by +Hearne--Thomas Hearne--him to whom Time said, “Whatever I forget, you +learn.” + +The modern travelled bore is a garrulous creature. His talk, chiefly +of himself, of all that he has seen that is incredible; and all that he +remembers which is not worth remembering. His tongue is neither English, +French, Italian, or German, but a leash, and more than a leash, of +languages at once. Besides his having his _quantum_ of the ills that +flesh is subject to, he has some peculiar to himself, and rather +extraordinary. He is subject, for instance, to an indigestion of houses +and churches, pictures and statues. Moreover, he is troubled with fits +of what may be called _the cold enthusiasm_; he babbles of Mont Blanc +and the picturesque; and when the fit is on, he raves of Raphael and +Correggio, Rome, Athens, Paestum, and Jerusalem. He despises England, +and has no home; or at least loves none. + +But I have been already guilty of an error of arrangement; I should +have given precedence to the _old original English bore_; which should +perhaps be more properly spelt _boor_; indeed it was so, as late as the +time of Mrs. Cowley, who, in the Belle’s Stratagem, talks of man’s being +_boored_. + +The _boor_ is now rare in England, though there are specimens of him +still to be seen in remote parts of the country. He is untravelled +always, not apt to be found straying, or stirring from home. His +covering is home-spun, his drink home-brewed, his meat home-fed, and +himself home-bred. In general, he is a wonderfully silent animal. +But there are talking ones; and their talk is of bullocks. Talking or +silent, the indigenous English bore is somewhat sulky, surly, seemingly +morose; yet really good-natured, inoffensive, if kindly used and rightly +taken; convivial, yet not social. It is curious, that though addicted +to home, he is not properly domestic--bibulous--said to be despotic with +the female. + +_The parliamentary bore_ comes next in order. Fond of high places; but +not always found in them. His civil life is but short, never extending +above seven years at the utmost; seldom so long. His dissolution +often occurs, we are told, prematurely; but he revives another and the +same.--Mode of life:--during five or six months of the year these bores +inhabit London--are to be seen every where, always looking as if they +were out of their element. About June or July they migrate to the +country--to watering places--or to their own places; where they shoot +partridges, pheasants, and wild ducks; hunt hares and foxes, cause men +to be imprisoned or transported who do the same without _licence_; and +frank letters--some illegibly. + +The parliamentary bore is not considered a sagacious animal, except +in one particular. It is said that he always knows which way the wind +blows, quick as any of the four-footed swinish multitude. Report says +also that he has the instinct of a rat in quitting a falling house. An +incredible power was once attributed to him, by one from Ireland, of +being able at pleasure to turn his back upon himself. But this may well +be classed among vulgar errors. + +Of the common parliamentary bore there be two orders; the silent, and +the speechifying. The silent is not absolutely deprived of utterance; +he can say “Yes” or “No”--but regularly in the wrong place, unless well +tutored and well paid. The talking parliamentary bore can outwatch the +Bear. He reiterates eternally with the art peculiar to the rational +creature of using many words and saying nothing. The following are some +of the cries by which this class is distinguished. + +“Hear! Hear! Hear!--Hear him! Hear him! Hear him!--Speaker! Speaker! +Speaker! Speaker!--Order! Order! Order!--Hear the honourable member!” + +He has besides certain set phrases, which, if repeated with variations, +might give the substance of what are called his speeches; some of these +are common to both sides of the house, others sacred to the ministerial, +or popular on the opposition benches. + +To the ministerial belong--“The dignity of this house”--“The honour of +this country”--“The contentment of our allies”--“Strengthening the +hands of government”--“Expediency”--“Inexpediency”--“Imperious +necessity”--“Bound in duty”--with a good store of _evasives_, as “Cannot +at present bring forward such a measure”--“Too late”--“Too early in the +session”--“His majesty’s ministers cannot be responsible for”--“Cannot +take it upon me to say”--“But the impression left upon my mind +is”--“Cannot undertake to answer exactly that question”--“Cannot yet +_make up_ my mind” (an expression borrowed from the laundress). + +On the opposition side the phrases chiefly in use amongst the bores are, +“The constitution of this country”--“Reform in Parliament”--“The good +of the people”--“Inquiry should be set on foot”--“Ministers should +be answerable with their heads”--“Gentlemen should draw +together”--“Independence”--and “Consistency.” + +Approved beginnings of speeches as follows--for a raw bore: + +“Unused as I am to public speaking, Mr. Speaker, I feel myself on the +present occasion called upon not to give a silent vote.” + +For old stagers: + +“In the whole course of my parliamentary career, never did I rise with +such diffidence.” + +In reply, the bore begins with: + +“It would be presumption in me, Mr. Speaker, after the able, luminous, +learned, and eloquent speech you have just heard, to attempt to throw +any new light; but, &c. &c.” + +For a premeditated harangue of four hours or upwards he regularly +commences with + +“At this late hour of the night, I shall trouble the house with only a +few words, Mr. Speaker.” + +The Speaker of the English House of Commons is a man destined to be +bored. Doomed to sit in a chair all night long--night after night--month +after month--year after year--being bored. No relief for him but +crossing and uncrossing his legs from time to time. No respite. If he +sleep, it must be with his eyes open, fixed in the direction of the +haranguing bore. He is not, however, bound, _bonâ fide_ to hear all that +is said. This, happily, was settled in the last century. “Mr. Speaker, +it is your duty to hear me,--it is the undoubted privilege, Sir, of +every member of this house _to be heard_,” said a bore of the last +century to the then Speaker of the House of Commons. “Sir,” replied the +Speaker, “I know that it is the undoubted right of every member of this +house to speak, but I was not aware that it was his privilege to be +always heard.” + +The courtier-bore has sometimes crept into the English parliament.--But +is common on the continent: infinite varieties, as _le courtisan propre, +courtisan homme d’état_, and _le courtisan philosophe_--a curious but +not a rare kind in France, of which M. de Voltaire was one of the finest +specimens. + +Attempts had been made to naturalize some of the varieties of the +philanthropic and sentimental French and German bores in England, but +without success. Some ladies had them for favourites or pets; but they +were found mischievous and dangerous. Their morality was +easy,--but difficult to understand; compounded of three-fourths +sentiment--nine-tenths selfishness, twelve-ninths instinct, +self-devotion, metaphysics, and cant. ‘Twas hard to come at a common +denominator. John Bull, with his four rules of vulgar arithmetic, could +never make it out; altogether he never could abide these foreign bores. +Thought ‘em confounded dull too--Civilly told them so, and half asleep +bid them “prythee begone”--They not taking the hint, but lingering with +the women, at last John wakening out-right, fell to in earnest, and +routed them out of the island. + +They still flourish abroad, often seen at the tables of the great. _The +demi-philosophe-moderne-politico-legislativo-metaphysico-non-logico-grand +philanthrope_ still scribbles, by the ream, _pièces justificatives_, +_projets de loi_, and volumes of metaphysical sentiment, to be seen +at the fair of Leipzig, or on ladies’ tables. The greater bore, the +_courtisan propre_, is still admired at little _serene_ courts, where, +well-dressed and well-drilled--his back much bent with Germanic bows; +not a dangerous creature--would only bore you to death. + +We come next to our own _blue bores_--the most dreaded of the +species,--the most abused--sometimes with reason, sometimes without. +This species was formerly rare in Britain--indeed all over the +world.--Little known from the days of Aspasia and Corinna to those +of Madame Dacier and Mrs. Montague. Mr. Jerningham’s blue worsted +stockings, as all the world knows, appearing at Mrs. Montague’s +_conversaziones_, had the honour or the dishonour of giving the name of +blue stockings to all the race; and never did race increase more rapidly +than they have done from that time to this. There might be fear that all +the daughters of the land should turn blue.--But as yet John Bull--thank +Heaven! retains his good old privilege of “choose a wife and have a +wife.” + +The common female blue is indeed intolerable as a wife--opinionative and +opinionated; and her opinion always is that her husband is wrong. John +certainly has a rooted aversion to this whole class. There is the deep +blue and the light; the _light_ blues not esteemed--not admitted at +Almacks. The deep-dyed in the nine times dyed blue--is that with which +no man dares contend. The _blue chatterer_ is seen and heard every +where; it no man will attempt to silence by throwing the handkerchief. + +The next species--the _mock blue_--is scarcely worth noticing; gone +to ladies’ maids, dress-makers, milliners, &c., found of late behind +counters, and in the oddest places. _The blue mocking bird_ (it must be +noted, though nearly allied to the last sort) is found in high as well +as in low company; it is a provoking creature. The only way to silence +it, and to prevent it from plaguing all neighbours and passengers, is +never to mind it, or to look as if you minded it; when it stares at you, +stare and pass on. + +_The conversazione blue_, or _bureau d’esprit blue_. It is remarkable +that in order to designate this order we are obliged to borrow from +two foreign languages.--a proof that it is not natural to England; but +numbers of this order have been seen of late years, chiefly in London +and Bath, during the season. The _bureau d’esprit_, or _conversazione +blue_, is a most hard-working creature--the servant of the servants of +the public.--If a dinner-giving blue (and none others succeed well or +long), Champagne and ice and the best of fish are indispensable. She may +then be at home once a week in the evening, with a chance of having her +house fuller than it can hold, of all the would-be wits and three or +four of the leaders of London. Very thankful she must be for the honour +of their company. She had need to have all the superlatives, in and out +of the English language, at her tongue’s end; and when she has exhausted +these, then she must invent new. She must have tones of admiration, and +looks of ecstasy, for every occasion. At reading parties,--especially +at her own house, she must cry--“charming!”--“delightful!” “quite +original!” in the right places even in her sleep.--Awake or asleep she +must read every thing that comes out that has a name, or she must talk +as if she had--at her peril--to the authors themselves,--the irritable +race!--She must know more especially every article in the Edinburgh and +Quarterly Reviews; and at her peril too, must talk of these so as not +to commit herself, so as to please the reviewer abusing, and the author +abused; she must keep the peace between rival wits;--she must swallow +her own vanity--many fail in this last attempt--choke publicly, and give +it up. + +I am sorry that so much has been said about the blues; sorry I mean +that such a hue and cry has been raised against them all, good, bad, and +indifferent. John Bull would have settled it best in his quiet way by +just letting them alone, leaving the disagreeable ones to die off in +single blessedness. But people got about John, and made him set up one +of his “_No popery_” cries; and when becomes to that pitch be loses his +senses and his common sense completely. “_No blues!_” “Down with the +blues!”--now what good has all that done? only made the matter ten times +worse. In consequence of this universal hubbub a new order of things has +arisen. + +_The blue bore disguised, or the renegade blue_. These may be detected +by their extraordinary fear of being taken for _blues_. Hold up +the picture, or even the sign of a blue bore before them, and they +immediately write under it, “‘Tis none of me.” They spend their lives +hiding their talent under a bushel; all the time in a desperate fright +lest you should see it. A poor simple man does not know what to do about +it, or what to say or think in their company, so as to behave himself +rightly, and not to affront them. Solomon himself would be put to it, +to make some of these authoresses unknown, avow or give up their own +progeny. Their affectation is beyond the affectation of woman, and it +makes all men sick. + +Others without affectation are only arrant cowards. They are afraid to +stand exposed on their painful pre-eminence. Some from pure good-nature +make themselves ridiculous; imagining that they are nine feet high at +the least, shrink and distort themselves continually in condescension to +our inferiority; or lest we should be blasted with excess of light, +come into company shading their farthing candle--burning blue, pale, and +faint. + +It should be noticed that the _bore condescending_ is peculiarly +obnoxious to the proud man. + +Besides the _bore condescending_, who, whether good-natured or +ill-natured, is a most provoking animal--there is the bore _facetious_, +an insufferable creature, always laughing, but with whom you can never +laugh. And there is another exotic variety--the _vive la bagatelle bore_ +of the ape kind--who imitate men of genius. Having early been taught +that there is nothing more delightful than the unbending of a great +mind, they set about continually to unbend the bow in company. + +Of the spring and fall, the ebb and tide of genius, we have heard much +from Milton, Dryden, and others. At ebb time--a time which must come +to all, pretty or rich, treasures are discovered upon some shores; or +golden sands are seen when the waters run low. In others bare rocks, +slime, or reptiles. May I never be at low tide with a bore! Despising +the Bagatelle, there is the serious regular conversation bore, who +listens to himself, talks from notes, and is witty by rule. All rules +for conversation were no doubt invented by bores, and if followed +would make all men and women bores, either in straining to be witty, or +striving to be easy. There is no more certain method, even for him +who may possess the talent in the highest degree, to lose the power of +conversing, than by talking to support his character. One eye to your +reputation, one on the company, would never do, were it with the best +of eyes. Few people are of Descartes’ mind, that squinting is pretty. It +has been said, that pleasure never comes, if you send her a formal card +of invitation; to a _conversazione_ certainly never; whatever she might +to a dinner-party. Ease cannot stay, wit flies away, and humour grows +dull, if people try for them. + +Well-bred persons, abhorring the pedantry of the blues, are usually +_anti-blues_, or _ultra-antis_. But though there exists in a certain +circle a natural honest aversion to every thing like wit or learning, +is it absolutely certain that if taking thought won’t do it, taking none +will do? They are determined, they declare, to have easy conversation, +or none. + +But let the ease be high-bred and silent as possible--let it be the +repose of the Transcendental--the death-like silence of the Exclusive +in the perfumed atmosphere of the Exquisite; then begins the danger of +going to sleep--desperate danger. In these high circles are to be found, +_apparently_, the most sleepy of all animated beings. _Apparently_, I +say, because, on close observation, it will usually be found that, +like the spider, who, from fear, counterfeits death, these, from pride, +counterfeit sleep. They will sometimes pretend to be asleep for hours +together, when any person or persons are near whom they do not choose +to notice. They lie stretched on sofas, rolled up in shawls most part of +the day, quite empty. At certain hours of the night, found congregated, +sitting up dressed, on beds of roses, back to back, with eyes scarce +open. They are observed to give sign of animation only on the approach +of a blue--their antipathy. They then look at each other, and shrink. +That the _sham-sleeping bore_ is a delicate creature, I shall not +dispute, but they are intolerably tiresome. For my own part, I would +rather give up the honour and the elegance, and go to the antipodes +at once, and live with their antagonists, the _lion-hunters_--yea, the +_lion-loving_ bores. + +Their antipodes, did I say? that was going too far: even the most +exaggerated ultra-anti-blues, upon occasion, forget themselves +strangely, and have been seen to join the common herd in running after +lions. But they differ from the _blue-lion-loving-bore_ proper, by never +treating the lion as if he were one of themselves. They follow and feed +and fall down and worship the lion of the season; still, unless he be +a nobleman, which but rarely occurs, he is never treated as a gentleman +_quite_; there is always a difference made, better understood than +described. I have heard lions of my acquaintance complain of showing +themselves off to these _ultra-antis_, and have asked why they let +themselves be made lions, if they disliked it so much, as no lion can +well be led about, I should have conceived, quite against his will? I +never could obtain any answer, but that indeed they could not help it; +they were very sorry, but indeed they could not help being lions. And +the polite lion-loving bore always echoed this, and addressed them with +some such speech as the following:--“My dearest, sir, madam, or miss +(as the case may be), I know, that of all things you detest being made a +lion, and that you can’t bear to be worshipped; yet, my dear sir, madam, +or miss, you must let me kneel down and worship you, and then you must +stand on your hind legs a little for me, only for one minute, my dear +sir, and I really would not ask you to do it, only you are _such_ a +lion.” + +But I have not yet regularly described the genus and species of which +I am treating. The great lion-hunting bore, and the little lion-loving +bore, male and female of both kinds; the male as eager as the female to +fasten on the lion, and as expert in making the most of him, alive or +dead, as seen in the finest example extant, Bozzy and Piozzi, fairly +pitted; but the male beat the female hollow. + +The common lion-hunting bore is too well known to need particular +description; but some notice of their habitudes may not be useless for +avoidance. The whole class male subsists by fetching and carrying bays, +grasping at notes and scraps, if any great name be to them; run wild +after verses in MS.; fond of autographs. The females carry albums; some +learn _bon mots_ by rote, and repeat them like parrots; others do not +know a good thing when they meet with it, unless they are told the name +of the cook. Some relish them really, but eat till they burst; others, +after cramming to stupidity, would cram you from their pouch, as the +monkey served Gulliver on the house-top. The whole tribe are foul +feeders, at best love trash and fatten upon scraps; the worst absolutely +rake the kennels, and prey on garbage. They stick with amazing tenacity, +almost resembling canine fidelity and gratitude, to the remains of the +dead lion. But in fact, their love is like that of the ghowl; worse than +ghowls, they sell all which they do not destroy; every scrap of the dead +lion may turn to account. It is wonderful what curious saleable articles +they make of the parings of his claws, and hairs of his mane. The bear +has been said to live at need by sucking his own paws. The bore lives +by sucking the paws of the lion, on which he thrives apace, and, in some +instances, has grown to an amazing size. The dead paws are as good for +his purpose as the living, and better--there being no fear of the claws. +How he escapes those claws when the lion is alive, is the wonder. The +winged lion, however, is above touching these creatures; and the real +gentleman lion of the true blood, in whose nature there is nothing of +the bear, will never let his paws be touched by a bore. His hair stands +on end at the approach or distant sight of any of the kind, lesser or +greater; but very difficult he often finds it to avoid them. Any other +may, more easily than a lion, _shirk a bore_. It is often attempted, +but seldom or never successfully. He hides in his den, but _not at home_ +will not always do. The lion is too civil to shut the door in the bore’s +very face, though he mightily wishes to do so. It is pleasant sport to +see a great bore and lion opposed to each other; how he stands or sits +upon his guard; how cunningly the bore tries to fasten upon him, and how +the lion tries to shake him off!--if the bore persists beyond endurance, +the lion roars, and he flies; or the lion springs, and he dies. + +A more extraordinary circumstance than any I have yet noted, respecting +the natural history of lions and bores, remains to be told; that the +lion himself, the _greater_ kind as well as the lesser of him, are apt, +sooner or later, to turn into bores; but the metamorphosis, though the +same in the result, takes place in different circumstances, and from +quite different causes: with the lesser lion and lioness often from +being shown, or showing themselves too frequently; with the greater, +from very fear of being like the animal he detests. + +I once knew a gentleman, not a bore quite, but a very clever man, one of +great sensibility and excessive sensitiveness, who could never sit still +a quarter of an hour together, never converse with you comfortably, or +finish a good story, but evermore broke off in the middle with “I am +_boring_ you”--“I must run away or I shall be a bore.” It ended in his +becoming that which he most feared to be. + +There are a few rare exceptions to all that has been said of the +caprices or _weaknesses_ of lions. The greatest of lions known or +unknown, the most agreeable as well as the noblest of creatures, is +quite free from these infirmities. He neither affects to show himself, +nor lies sullen in his den. I have somewhere seen his picture sketched; +I should guess by himself at some moment I when the lion turned painter. + +“I pique myself upon being one of the best conditioned animals that ever +was shown, since the time of him who was in vain I defied by the knight +of the woful figure; for I get up at the first touch of the pole, rouse +myself, shake my mane, lick my chops, turn round, lie down, and go to +sleep again.” It was bad policy in me to let the words “_go to sleep_” + sound upon the reader’s ear, for I have not yet quite done; I have one +more class, and though last not least; were I to adopt that enigmatical +style which made the fortune of the oracle of Apollo, I might add--and +though least, greatest. But this, the oracular sublime, has now gone to +the gipsies and the conjurors, and I must write plain English, if I can. + +I am come to the crass of the _infant bore_--the _infant reciting bore_; +seemingly insignificant, but exceedingly tiresome, also exceedingly +dangerous, as I shall show. The old of this class we meet wherever we +go--in the forum, the temple, the senate, the theatre, the drawing-room, +the boudoir, the closet. The young infest our homes, pursue us to +our very hearths; our household deities are in league with them; they +destroy all our domestic comfort; they become public nuisances, widely +destructive to our literature. Their mode of training will explain the +nature of the danger. The infant reciting bore is trained much after +the manner of a learned pig. Before the quadruped are placed, on certain +bits of dirty greasy cards, the letters of the alphabet, or short +nonsensical phrases interrogatory with their answers, such as “Who is +the greatest rogue in company?” “Which lady or gentleman in company will +be married first?” By the alternate use of blows and bribes of such food +as pleases the pig, the animal is brought to obey certain signs from his +master, and at his bidding to select any letter or phrase required +from amongst those set before him, goes to his lessons, seems to read +attentively, and to understand; then by a motion of his snout, or +a well-timed grunt, designates the right phrase, and answers the +expectations of his master and the company. The infant reciter is +in similar manner trained by alternate blows and bribes, almonds and +raisins, and bumpers of sweet wine. But mark the difference between him +and the pig. Instead of greasy letters and old cards, which are used +for the learned pig, before the little human animal are cast the finest +morsels from our first authors, selections from our poets, didactic, +pathetic, and sublime--every creature’s best, sacrificed. + +These are to be slowly but surely deprived of spirit, sense, and life, +by the deadly deadening power of iteration. Not only are they deprived +of life, but mangled by the infant bore--not only mangled, but +polluted--left in such a state that no creature of any delicacy, taste, +or feeling, can bear them afterwards. And are immortal works, or works +which fond man thought and called immortal, thus to perish? Thus are +they doomed to destruction, by a Lilliputian race of Vandals. + +The curse of Minerva be on the heads of those who train, who incite them +to such sacrilegious mischief! The mischief spreads every day wide +and more wide. Till of late years, there had appeared bounds to its +progress. Nature seemed to have provided against the devastations of +the _infant reciter_. Formerly it seemed, that only those whom she had +blessed or cursed with a wonderful memory, could be worth the trouble of +training, or by the successful performance of the feats desired, to pay +the labour of instruction. But there has arisen in the land, men who +set at nought the decrees of nature, who undertake to make artificial +memories, not only equal but superior to the best natural memory, and +who, at the shortest notice, engage to supply the brainless with brains. +By certain technical helps, long passages, whole poems, may now +be learnt _by heart_, as they call it, without any aid, effort, or +cognizance of the understanding; and retained and recited, under the +same circumstances, by any irrational, as well and better, than by any +rational being, if, to recite well, mean to repeat without missing +a syllable. How far our literature may in future suffer from these +blighting swarms, will best be conceived by a glance at what they have +already withered and blasted of the favourite productions of our +most popular poets, Gray, Goldsmith, Thomson, Pope, Dryden, Milton, +Shakspeare. + +Pope’s Man of Ross was doomed to suffer first. + + “Rise, honest Muse, and sing the Man of Ross!” + +Oh, dreaded words! who is there that does not wish the honest muse +should rise no more? Goldsmith came next, and shared the same fate. His +country curate, the most amiable of men, we heard of till he grew past +endurance. + +As to learning any longer from the bee to build, or of the little +nautilus to sail, we gave it up long ago. “To be or not to be”--is a +question we can no longer bear. + +Then Alexander’s Feast--the little harpies have been at that too, and it +is defiled. Poor Collins’ Ode to the Passions, on and off the stage, is +torn to very tatters. + +The Seven Ages of Man, and “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and +women in it”--gone to destruction. + +The quality of mercy _is_ strained, and is no longer twice blest. + +We turn with disgust from “angels and ministers of grace.” Adam’s +morning hymn has lost the freshness of its charm. The bores have got +into Paradise--scaled Heaven itself! and defied all the powers of +Milton’s hell. Such Belials and Molochs as we have heard! + +It is absolutely shocking to perceive how immortal genius is in the +power of mortal stupidity! Johnson, a champion of no mean force, stood +forward in his day, and did what his single arm could do, to drive the +little bores from the country church-yard. + +“Could not the pretty dears repeat together?” had, however, but a +momentary effect. Though he knocked down the pair that had attempted to +stand before him, they got up again, or one down, another came on. To +this hour they are at it. + +What can be done against a race of beings not capable of being touched +even by ridicule? What can we hope when the infant bore and his trainers +have stood against the incomparable humour of “Thinks I to myself?” + +In time--and as certainly as the grub turns in due season into the +winged plague who buzzes and fly-blows--the little reciting bore +turns into the _dramatic_ or _theatric_ acting, reading, singing, +recitative--and finally into the everlasting-quotation-loving +bore--Greek, Latin, and English. + +The everlasting quotation-lover doats on the husks of learning. He is +the infant reciting bore in second childishness. We wish in vain that it +were in mere oblivion. From the ladies’ tea-tables the Greek and +Latin quoting bores were driven away long ago by the Guardian and the +Spectator, and seldom now translate for the country gentlewomen. But +the mere English quotation-dealer, a mortal tiresome creature! still +prevails, and figures still in certain circles of old blues, who are +civil enough still to admire that wonderful memory of his which has a +quotation ready for every thing you can say--He usually prefaces or +ends his quotations with--“As the poet happily says,” or, “as Nature’s +sweetest woodlark justly remarks;” or, “as the immortal Milton has it.” + +To prevent the confusion and disgrace consequent upon such mistakes, +and for the general advantage of literature, in reclaiming, if possible, +what has gone to the bores, it might be a service to point out publicly +such quotations as are now too common to be admitted within the pale of +good taste. + +In the last age, Lord Chesterfield set the mark of the beast, as he +called it, on certain vulgarisms in pronunciation, which he succeeded +in banishing from good company. I wish we could set the mark of the bore +upon all which has been contaminated by his touch,--all those tainted +beauties, which no person of taste would prize. They must be hung up +viewless, for half a century at least, to bleach out their stains. + +I invite every true friend of literature and of good conversation, +_blues_ and _antis_, to contribute their assistance in furnishing out a +list of quotations to be proscribed. Could I but accomplish this object, +I should feel I had not written in vain. To make a good beginning, I +will give half a dozen of the most notorious. + +“The light fantastic toe,” has figured so long in the newspapers, that +an editor of taste would hardly admit it now into his columns. + +“Pity is akin to love,”--sunk to utter contempt; along with--“Grace +is in all her steps;” and “Man never _is_, but always _to be +blest_;”--“Youth at the prow, and pleasure at the helm;”--no longer safe +on a boating party. + +The bourgeois gentilhomme has talked prose too long without knowing it. + +“No man is a hero to his _valet de chambre_,”--gone to the valets +themselves. + +“Le secret d’ennyer est celui de tout dire,”--in great danger of the +same fate,--it is so tempting!--but, so much the worse,--wit is often +its own worst enemy. + +Some anatomists, it is said, have, during the operation of dissection, +caught from the subject the disease. I feel myself in danger at this +moment,--a secret horror thrills through my veins. Often have I remarked +that persons who undergo certain transformations are unconscious of the +commencement and progress in themselves, though quicksighted, when +their enemies, friends, or neighbours, are beginning to turn into +bores. Husband and wife,--no creatures sooner!--perceive each other’s +metamorphoses,--not Baucis and Philemon more surely, seldom like them +before the transformation be complete. Are we in time to say the last +adieu! + +I feel that I am--I fear that I have long been, + +A BORE + + + +ORMOND + + + +CHAPTER I. + +“What! no music, no dancing at Castle Hermitage to-night; and all the +ladies sitting in a formal circle, petrifying into perfect statues?” + cried Sir Ulick O’Shane as he entered the drawing-room, between ten and +eleven o’clock at night, accompanied by what he called his _rear-guard_, +veterans of the old school of good fellows, who at those times +in Ireland--times long since past--deemed it essential to health, +happiness, and manly character, to swallow, and show themselves able to +stand after swallowing, a certain number of bottles of claret per day or +night. + +“Now, then,” continued Sir Ulick, “of all the figures in nature or art, +the formal circle is universally the most obnoxious to conversation, +and, to me, the most formidable; all my faculties are spell-bound--here +I am like a bird in a circle of chalk, that dare not move so much as its +head or its eyes, and can’t, for the life of it, take to its legs.” + +A titter ran round that part of the circle where the young ladies +sat--Sir Ulick was a favourite, and they rejoiced when he came among +them; because, as they observed, “he always said something pleasant, or +set something pleasant a-going.” + +“Lady O’Shane, for mercy’s sake let us have no more of these permanent +circle sittings at Castle Hermitage, my dear!” + +“Sir Ulick, I am sure I should be very glad if it were possible,” + replied Lady O’Shane, “to have no more _permanent sittings_ at Castle +Hermitage; but when gentlemen are at their bottle, I really don’t know +what the ladies can do but sit in a circle.” + +“Can’t they dance in a circle, or any way? or have not they an elegant +resource in their music? There’s many here who, to my knowledge, can +caper as well as they modulate,” said Sir Ulick, “to say nothing of +cards for those that like them.” + +“Lady Annaly does not like cards,” said Lady O’Shane, “and I could not +ask any of these young ladies to waste their breath and their execution, +singing and playing before the gentlemen came out.” + +“These young ladies would not, I’m sure, do us old fellows the honour +of waiting for us; and the young beaux deserted to your tea-table a +long hour ago--so why you have not been dancing is a mystery beyond my +comprehension.” + +“Tea or coffee, Sir Ulick O’Shane, for the third time of asking?” cried +a sharp female voice from the remote tea-table. + +“Wouldn’t you swear to that being the voice of a presbyterian?” + whispered Sir Ulick, over his shoulder to the curate: then aloud he +replied to the lady, “Miss Black, you are three times too obliging. +Neither tea nor coffee I’ll take from you to-night, I thank you kindly.” + +“Fortunate for yourself, sir--for both are as cold as stones--and no +wonder!” said Miss Black. + +“No wonder!” echoed Lady O’Shane, looking at her watch, and sending +forth an ostentatious sigh. + +“What o’clock is it by your ladyship?” asked Miss Black. “I have a +notion it’s tremendously late.” + +“No matter--we are not pinned to hours in this house, Miss Black,” said +Sir Ulick, walking up to the tea-table, and giving her a look, which +said as plainly as look could say, “You had better be quiet.” + +Lady O’Shane followed her husband, and putting her arm within his, began +to say something in a fondling tone; and in a most conciliatory manner +she went on talking to him for some moments. He looked absent, and +replied coldly. + +“I’ll take a cup of coffee from you now, Miss Black,” said he, drawing +away his arm from his wife, who looked much mortified. + +“We are too long, Lady O’Shane,” added he, “standing here like lovers, +talking to no one but ourselves--awkward in company.” + +“_Like lovers!_” The sound pleased poor Lady O’Shane’s ear, and she +smiled for the first time this night--Lady O’Shane was perhaps the last +woman in the room whom a stranger would have guessed to be Sir Ulick’s +wife. + +He was a fine gallant _off-hand_ looking Irishman, with something of +_dash_ in his tone and air, which at first view might lead a common +observer to pronounce him to be vulgar; but at five minutes after sight, +a good judge of men and manners would have discovered in him the power +of assuming whatever manner he chose, from the audacity of the callous +profligate to the deference of the accomplished courtier--the capability +of adapting his conversation to his company and his views, whether his +object were “to set the senseless table in a roar,” or to insinuate +himself into the delicate female heart. Of this latter power, his age +had diminished but not destroyed the influence. The fame of former +conquests still operated in his favour, though he had long since passed +his splendid meridian of gallantry. + +While Sir Ulick is drinking his cup of cold coffee, we may look back +a little into his family history. To go no farther than his legitimate +loves, he had successively won three wives, who had each, in her turn, +been desperately enamoured: the first he loved, and married imprudently +for love, at seventeen; the second he admired, and married prudently, +for ambition, at thirty; the third he hated, but married, from +necessity, for money, at five-and-forty. The first wife, Miss Annaly, +after ten years’ martyrdom of the heart, sank, childless,--a victim, +it was said, to love and jealousy. The second wife, Lady Theodosia, +struggled stoutly for power, backed by strong and high connexions; +having, moreover, the advantage of being a mother, and mother of an only +son and heir, the representative of a father in whom ambition had, +by this time, become the ruling passion: the Lady Theodosia stood her +ground, wrangling and wrestling through a fourteen years’ wedlock, till +at last, to Sir Ulick’s great relief, not to say joy, her ladyship was +carried off by a bad fever, or a worse apothecary. His present lady, +formerly Mrs. Scraggs, a London widow of very large fortune, happened to +see Sir Ulick when he went to present some address, or settle some point +between the English and Irish government:--he was in deep mourning at +the time, and the widow pitied him very much. But she was not the sort +of woman he would ever have suspected could like him--she was a strict +pattern lady, severe on the times, and, not unfrequently, lecturing +young men gratis. Now Sir Ulick O’Shane was a sinner; how then could +he please a saint? He did, however--but the saint did not please +him--though she set to work for the good of his soul, and in her own +person relaxed, to please his taste, even to the wearing of rouge +and pearl-powder, and false hair, and false eyebrows, and all the +falsifications which the _setters-up_ could furnish. But after she had +purchased all of youth which age can purchase for money, it would +not do. The Widow Scraggs might, with her “lack lustre” eyes, have +speculated for ever in vain upon Sir Ulick, but that, fortunately for +her passion, at one and the same time, the Irish ministry were turned +out, and an Irish canal burst. Sir Ulick losing his place by the change +of ministry, and one half of his fortune by the canal, in which it had +been sunk; and having spent in unsubstantial schemes and splendid living +more than the other half; now, in desperate misery, laid hold of the +Widow Scraggs. After a nine days’ courtship she became a bride, and she +and her plum in the stocks--but not her messuage, house, and lands, in +Kent--became the property of Sir Ulick O’Shane. “Love was then lord of +all” with her, and she was now to accompany Sir Ulick to Ireland. Late +in life she was carried to a new country, and set down among a people +whom she had all her previous days been taught to hold in contempt or +aversion: she dreaded Irish disturbances much, and Irish dirt more; she +was persuaded that nothing could be right, good, or genteel, that was +not English. Her habits and tastes were immutably fixed. Her experience +had been confined to a London life, and in proportion as her sphere of +observation had been contracted, her disposition was intolerant. She +made no allowance for the difference of opinion, customs, and situation, +much less for the faults or foibles of people who were to her strangers +and foreigners--her ladyship was therefore little likely to please or be +pleased in her new situation. Her husband was the only individual, the +only thing, animate or inanimate, that she liked in Ireland--and while +she was desperately in love with an Irishman, she disliked Ireland +and the Irish: even the Irish talents and virtues, their wit, humour, +generosity of character, and freedom of manner, were lost upon +her--her country neighbours were repelled by her air of taciturn +self-sufficiency--and she, for her part, declared she would have been +satisfied to have lived alone at Castle Hermitage with Sir Ulick. But +Sir Ulick had no notion of living alone with her, or for any body. His +habits were all social and convivial--he loved show and company: he had +been all his life in the habit of entertaining all ranks of people +at Castle Hermitage, from his excellency the Lord-Lieutenant and the +commander-in-chief for the time being, to Tim the gauger, and honest Tom +Kelly, the _stalko_. + +He talked of the necessity of keeping up a neighbourhood, and +maintaining his interest in the county, as the first duties of man. +Ostensibly Sir Ulick had no motive in all this, but the hospitable wish +of seeing Castle Hermitage one continued scene of festivity; but under +this good fellowship and apparent thoughtlessness and profusion, there +was an eye to his own interest, and a keen view to the improvement of +his fortune and the advancement of his family. With these habits and +views, it was little likely that he should yield to the romantic, +jealous, or economic tastes of his new lady--a bride ten years older +than himself! Lady O’Shane was, soon after her arrival in Ireland, +compelled to see her house as full of company as it could possibly +hold; and her ladyship was condemned eternally, to do the honours to +successive troops of _friends_, of whom she knew nothing, and of whom +she disliked all she saw or heard. Her dear Sir Ulick was, or seemed, so +engrossed by the business of pleasure, so taken up with his guests, that +but a few minutes in the day could she ever obtain of his company. She +saw herself surrounded by the young, the fair, and the gay, to whom Sir +Ulick devoted his assiduous and gallant attentions; and though his age, +and his being a married man, seemed to preclude, in the opinion of the +cool or indifferent spectator, all idea of any real cause for jealousy, +yet it was not so with poor Lady O’Shane’s magnifying imagination. The +demon of jealousy tortured her; and to enhance her sufferings, she was +obliged to conceal them, lest they should become subjects of private +mockery or public derision. It is the peculiar misfortune or punishment +of misplaced, and yet more of unseasonable, passions, that in their +distresses they obtain no sympathy; and while the passion is in all +its consequence tragic to the sufferer, in all its exhibitions it +is--ludicrous to the spectator. Lady O’Shane could not be young, and +would not be old: so without the charms of youth, or the dignity of age, +she could neither inspire love, nor command respect; nor could she find +fit occupation or amusement, or solace or refuge, in any combination +of company or class of society. Unluckily, as her judgment, never +discriminating, was now blinded by jealousy, the two persons of all his +family connexions upon whom she pitched as the peculiar objects of her +fear and hatred were precisely those who were most disposed to pity and +befriend her--to serve her in private with Sir Ulick, and to treat her +with deference in public: these two persons were Lady Annaly and her +daughter. Lady Annaly was a distant relation of Sir Ulick’s first wife, +during whose life some circumstances had occurred which had excited her +ladyship’s indignation against him. For many years all commerce between +them had ceased. Lady Annaly was a woman of generous indignation, strong +principles, and warm affections. Her rank, her high connexions, her high +character, her having, from the time she was left a young and beautiful +widow, devoted herself to the education and the interests of her +children; her having persevered in her lofty course, superior to all +the numerous temptations of love, vanity, or ambition, by which she was +assailed; her long and able administration of a large property, during +the minority of her son; her subsequent graceful resignation of power; +his affection, gratitude, and deference for his mother, which now +continued to prolong her influence, and exemplify her precepts in +every act of his own; altogether placed this lady high in public +consideration--high as any individual could stand in a country, where +national enthusiastic attachment is ever excited by certain noble +qualities congenial with the Irish nature. Sir Ulick O’Shane, sensible +of the disadvantage of having estranged such a family connexion, and +fully capable of appreciating the value of her friendship, had of late +years taken infinite pains to redeem himself in Lady Annaly’s opinion. +His consummate address, aided and abetted and concealed as it was by +his off-hand manner, would scarcely have succeeded, had it not been +supported also by some substantial good qualities, especially by the +natural candour and generosity of his disposition. In favour of the +originally strong, and, through all his errors, wonderfully surviving +taste for virtue, some of his manifold transgressions might be forgiven: +there was much hope and promise of amendment; and besides, to state +things just as they were, he had propitiated the mother, irresistibly, +by his enthusiastic admiration of the daughter--so that Lady Annaly +had at last consented to revisit Castle Hermitage. Her ladyship and her +daughter were now on this reconciliation visit; Sir Ulick was extremely +anxious to make it agreeable. Besides the credit of her friendship, he +had other reasons for wishing to conciliate her: his son Marcus was just +twenty--two years older than Miss Annaly--in course of time, Sir +Ulick thought it might be a match--his son could not possibly make a +better--beauty, fortune, family connexions, every thing that the hearts +of young and old desire. Besides (for in Sir Ulick’s calculations +_besides_ was a word frequently occurring), besides, Miss Annaly’s +brother was not as strong in body as in mind--in two illnesses his life +had been despaired of--a third might carry him off--the estate would +probably come to Miss Annaly. _Besides_, be this hereafter as it might, +there was at this present time a considerable debt due by Sir Ulick to +these Annalys, with accumulated interest, since the time of his first +marriage; and this debt would be merged in Miss Annaly’s portion, should +she become his son’s wife. All this was well calculated; but to say +nothing of the character or affections of the son, Sir Ulick had omitted +to consider Lady O’Shane, or he had taken it for granted that her love +for him would induce her at once to enter into and second his views. It +did not so happen. On the contrary, the dislike which Lady O’Shane took +at sight to both the mother and daughter--to the daughter instinctively, +at sight of her youth and beauty; to the mother reflectively, on account +of her matronly dress and dignified deportment, in too striking contrast +to her own frippery appearance--increased every day, and every hour, +when she saw the attentions, the adoration, that Sir Ulick paid to Miss +Annaly, and the deference and respect he showed to Lady Annaly, all for +qualities and accomplishments in which Lady O’Shane was conscious that +she was irremediably deficient. Sir Ulick thought to extinguish her +jealousy, by opening to her his views on Miss Annaly for his son; but +the jealousy, taking only a new direction, strengthened in its course. +Lady O’Shane did not like her stepson--had indeed no great reason +to like him; Marcus disliked her, and was at no pains to conceal his +dislike. She dreaded the accession of domestic power and influence he +would gain by such a marriage. She could not bear the thoughts of having +a daughter-in-law brought into the house--placed in eternal comparison +with her. Sir Ulick O’Shane was conscious that his marriage exposed +him to some share of ridicule; but hitherto, except when his taste +for raillery, and the diversion of exciting her causeless jealousy, +interfered with his purpose, he had always treated her ladyship as he +conceived that Lady O’Shane ought to be treated. Naturally good-natured, +and habitually attentive to the sex, he had indeed kept up appearances +better than could have been expected, from a man of his former habits, +to a woman of her ladyship’s present age; but if she now crossed his +favourite scheme, it would be all over with her--her submission to his +will had hitherto been a sufficient and a convenient proof, and the only +proof he desired, of her love. Her ladyship’s evil genius, in the shape +of Miss Black, her humble companion, was now busily instigating her to +be refractory. Miss Black had frequently whispered, that if Lady O’Shane +would show more spirit, she would do better with Sir Ulick; that his +late wife, Lady Theodosia, had ruled him, by showing proper spirit; that +in particular, she should make a stand against the encroachments of Sir +Ulick’s son Marcus, and of his friend and companion, young Ormond. In +consequence of these suggestions, Lady O’Shane had most judiciously +thwarted both these young men in trifles, till she had become their +aversion: this aversion Marcus felt more than he expressed, and Ormond +expressed more strongly than he felt. To Sir Ulick, his son and heir was +his first great object in life; yet, though in all things he preferred +the interest of Marcus, he was not as fond of Marcus as he was of young +Ormond. Young Ormond was the son of the friend of Sir Ulick O’Shane’s +youthful and warm-hearted days--the son of an officer who had served +in the same regiment with him in his first campaign. Captain Ormond +afterwards made an unfortunate marriage--that is, a marriage without a +fortune--his friends would not see him or his wife--he was soon in debt, +and in great distress. He was obliged to leave his wife and go to +India. She had then one child at nurse in an Irish cabin. She died soon +afterwards. Sir Ulick O’Shane took the child, that had been left at +nurse, into his own house. From the time it was four years old, little +Harry Ormond became his darling and grew up his favourite. Sir Ulick’s +fondness, however, had not extended to any care of his education--quite +the contrary; he had done all he could to spoil him by the most +injudicious indulgence, and by neglect of all instruction or discipline. +Marcus had been sent to school and college; but Harry Ormond, meantime, +had been let to run wild at home: the gamekeeper, the huntsman, and a +cousin of Sir Ulick, who called himself the King of the Black Islands, +had had the principal share in his education. Captain Ormond, his +father, was not heard of for many years; and Sir Ulick always argued, +that there was no use in giving Harry Ormond the education of an estated +gentleman, when he was not likely to have an estate. Moreover, he +prophesied that Harry would turn out the cleverest man of the two; and +in the progress of the two boys towards manhood Sir Ulick had shown +a strange sort of double and inconsistent vanity in his son’s +acquirements, and in the orphan Harry’s natural genius. Harry’s +extremely warm, generous, grateful temper, delighted Sir Ulick; but he +gloried in the superior polish of his own son. Harry Ormond grew up with +all the faults that were incident to his natural violence of passions, +and that might necessarily be expected from his neglected and deficient +education. His devoted gratitude and attachment to his guardian father, +as he called Sir Ulick, made him amenable in an instant, even in the +height and tempest of his passions, to whatever Sir Ulick desired; but +he was ungovernable by most other people, and rude even to insolence, +where he felt tyranny or suspected meanness. Miss Black and he were +always at open war; to Lady O’Shane he submitted, though with an ill +grace; yet he did submit, for his guardian’s sake, where he himself only +was concerned; but most imprudently and fiercely he contended upon every +occasion where Marcus, when aggrieved, had declined contending with his +mother-in-law. + +Upon the present occasion the two youths had been long engaged to dine +with, and keep the birthday of, Mr. Cornelius O’Shane, the King of the +Black Islands--next to Sir Ulick the being upon earth to whom Harry +Ormond thought himself most obliged, and to whom he felt himself most +attached. This he had represented to Lady O’Shane, and had earnestly +requested that, as the day for the intended dance was a matter of +indifference to her, it might not be fixed on this day; but her ladyship +had purposely made it a trial of strength, and had insisted upon their +returning at a certain hour. She knew that Sir Ulick would be much vexed +by their want of punctuality on this occasion, where the Annalys were +concerned, though, in general, punctuality was a virtue for which he had +no regard. + +Sir Ulick had finished his cup of coffee. “Miss Black, send away the +tea-things--send away all these things,” cried he. “Young ladies, better +late than never, you know--let’s have dancing now; clear the decks for +action.” + +The young ladies started from their seats immediately. All was now in +happy motion. The servants answered promptly--the tea-things retired +in haste--tables rolled away--chairs swung into the back-ground--the +folding-doors of the dancing-room were thrown open--the pyramids of +wax-candles in the chandeliers (for this was ere argands were on earth) +started into light--the musicians tuning, screwing, scraping, sounded, +discordant as they were, joyful notes of preparation. + +“But where’s my son--where’s Marcus?” said Sir Ulick, drawing Lady +O’Shane aside. “I don’t see him any where.” + +“No,” said Lady O’Shane; “you know that he would go to dine to-day with +that strange cousin of yours, and neither he nor his companion have +thought proper to return yet.” + +“I wish you had given me a hint,” said Sir Ulick, “and I would have +waited; for Marcus ought to lead off with Miss Annaly.” + +“_Ought_--to be sure.” said Lady O’Shane; “but that is no rule for young +gentlemen’s conduct. I told both the young gentlemen that we were to +have a dance to-night. I mentioned the hour, and begged them to be +punctual.” + +“Young men are never punctual,” said Sir Ulick; “but Marcus is +inexcusable to-night on account of the Annalys.” + +Sir Ulick pondered for a moment with an air of vexation, then turning to +the musicians, who were behind him, “You four-and-twenty fiddlers all in +a row, you gentlemen musicians, scrape and tune on a little longer, if +you please. Remember _you are not ready_ till I draw on my gloves. Break +a string or two, if necessary.” + +“We will--we shall--plase your honour.” + +“I wish, Lady O’Shane,” continued Sir Ulick in a lower tone, “I wish you +had given me a hint of this.” + +“Truth to tell, Sir Ulick, I did, I own, conceive from your walk and +way, that you were not in a condition to take any hint I could give.” + +“Pshaw, my dear, after having known me, I won’t say loved me, a calendar +year, how can you be so deceived by outward appearances? Don’t you +know that I hate drinking? But when I have these county electioneering +friends, the worthy red noses, to entertain, I suit myself to the +company, by acting spirits instead of swallowing them, for I should +scorn to appear to flinch!” + +This was true. Sir Ulick could, and often did, to the utmost perfection, +counterfeit every degree of intoxication. He could act the rise, +decline, and fall of the drunken man, marking the whole progress, from +the first incipient hesitation of reason to the glorious confusion +of ideas in the highest state of _elevation_, thence through all +the declining cases of stultified paralytic ineptitude, down to the +horizontal condition of preterpluperfect ebriety. + +“Really, Sir Ulick, you are so good an actor that I don’t pretend to +judge--I can seldom find out the truth from you.” + +“So much the better for you, my dear, if you knew but all,” said Sir +Ulick, laughing. + +“If I knew but all!” repeated her ladyship, with an alarmed look. + +“But that’s not the matter in hand at present, my dear.” + +Sir Ulick protracted the interval before the opening of the ball as long +as he possibly could--but in vain--the young gentlemen did not appear. +Sir Ulick drew on his gloves. The broken strings of the violins were +immediately found to be mended. Sir Ulick opened the ball himself with +Miss Annaly, after making as handsome an apology for his son as the case +would admit--an apology which was received by the young lady with the +most graceful good-nature. She declined dancing more than one dance, and +Sir Ulick sat down between her and Lady Annaly, exerting all his powers +of humour to divert them, at the expense of his cousin, the King of +the Black Islands, whose tedious ferry, or whose claret, or more +likely whose whiskey-punch, he was sure, had been the cause of Marcus’s +misdemeanour. It was now near twelve o’clock. Lady O’Shane, who had made +many aggravating reflections upon the disrespectful conduct of the young +gentlemen, grew restless on another _count_. The gates were left open +for them--the gates ought to be locked! There were disturbances in the +country. “Pshaw!” Sir Ulick said. Opposite directions were given at +opposite doors to two servants. + +“Dempsey, tell them they need not lock the gates till the young +gentlemen come home, or at least till one o’clock,” said Sir Ulick. + +“Stone,” said Lady O’Shane to her own man in a very low voice, “go down +directly, and see that the gates are locked, and bring me the keys.” + +Dempsey, an Irishman, who was half drunk, forgot to see or say any +thing about it. Stone, an Englishman, went directly to obey his lady’s +commands, and the gates were locked, and the keys brought to her +ladyship, who put them immediately into her work-table. + +Half an hour afterwards, as Lady O’Shane was sitting with her back to +the glass-door of the green house, which opened into the ball-room, she +was startled by a peremptory tap on the glass behind her; she turned, +and saw young Ormond, pale as death, and stained with blood. + +“The keys of the gate instantly,” cried he, “for mercy’s sake!” + + + +CHAPTER II. + +Lady O’Shane, extremely terrified, had scarcely power to rise. She +opened the drawer of the table, and thrust her trembling hand down to +the bottom of the silk bag, into which the keys had fallen. Impatient of +delay, Ormond pushed open the door, snatched the keys, and disappeared. +The whole passed in a few seconds. The music drowned the noise of the +opening door, and of the two chairs, which Ormond had thrown down: those +who sat near, thought a servant had pushed in and gone out; but, however +rapid the movement, the full view of the figure had been seen by Miss +Annaly, who was sitting on the opposite side of the room; Sir Ulick was +sitting beside her, talking earnestly. Lady Annaly had just retired. +“For Heaven’s sake, what’s the matter?” cried he, stopping in the middle +of a sentence, on seeing Miss Annaly grow suddenly pale as death. +Her eyes were fixed on the door of the green-house; his followed that +direction. “Yes,” said he, “we can get out into the air that way--lean +on me.” She did so--he pushed his way through the crowd at the bottom of +the country dance; and, as he passed, was met by Lady O’Shane and Miss +Black, both with faces of horror. + +“Sir Ulick, did you see,” pointing to the door, “did you see Mr. +Ormond?--There’s blood!” + +“There’s mischief, certainly,” said Miss Black. “A quarrel--Mr. Marcus, +perhaps.” + +“Nonsense! No such thing, you’ll find,” said Sir Ulick, pushing on, +and purposely jostling the arm of a servant who was holding a salver +of ices, overturning them all; and whilst the surrounding company were +fully occupied about their clothes, and their fears, and apologies, he +made his way onwards to the green-house--Lady O’Shane clinging to +one arm--Miss Annaly supported by the other--Miss Black following, +repeating, “Mischief! mischief! you’ll see, sir.” + +“Miss Black, open the door, and not another word.” + +He edged Miss Annaly on, the moment the door opened, dragged Lady +O’Shane after him, pushed Miss Black back as she attempted to follow: +but, recollecting that she might spread the report of mischief, if he +left her behind, drew her into the green-house, locked the door, and led +Miss Annaly out into the air. + +“Bring salts! water! something, Miss Black--follow me, Lady O’Shane.” + +“When I’m hardly able--your wife! Sir Ulick, you might,” said Lady +O’Shane, as she tottered on, “you might, I should have _thought_--” + +“No time for such thoughts, my dear,” interrupted he. “Sit down on the +steps--there, she is better now--now what is all this?” + +“I am not to speak,” said Miss Black. + +Lady O’Shane began to say how Mr. Ormond had burst in, covered with +blood, and seized the keys of the gates. + +“The keys!” But he had no time for _that_ thought. “Which way did he +go?” + +“I don’t know; I gave him the keys of both gates.” + +The two entrances were a mile asunder. Sir Ulick looked for footsteps on +the grass. It was a fine moonlight night. He saw footsteps on the path +leading to the gardener’s house. “Stay here, ladies, and I will bring +you intelligence as soon as possible.” + +“This way, Sir Ulick--they are coming,” said Miss Annaly, who had now +recovered her presence of mind. + +Several persons appeared from a turn in the shrubbery, carrying some +one on a hand-barrow--a gentleman on horseback, with a servant and +many persons walking. Sir Ulick hastened towards them; the gentleman on +horseback spurred his horse and met him. + +“Marcus!--is it you?--thank God! But Ormond--where is he, and what has +happened?” + +The first sound of Marcus’s voice, when he attempted to answer, showed +that he was not in a condition to give a rational account of any thing. +His servant followed, also much intoxicated. While Sir Ulick had been +stopped by their ineffectual attempts to explain, the people who were +carrying the man on the hand-barrow came up. Ormond appeared from +the midst of them. “Carry him on to the gardener’s house,” cried he, +pointing the way, and coming forward to Sir Ulick. “If he dies, I am a +murderer!” cried he. + +“Who is he?” said Sir Ulick. + +“Moriarty Carroll, please your honour,” answered several voices at once. + +“And how happened it?” said Sir Ulick. + +“The long and the short of it, sir,” said Marcus, as well as he could +articulate, “the fellow was insolent, and we cut him down--and if it +were to do again, I’d do it again with pleasure.” + +“No, no! you won’t say so, Marcus, when you are yourself,” said Ormond. +“Oh! how dreadful to come to one’s senses all at once, as I did--the +moment after I had fired that fatal shot--the moment I saw the poor +fellow stagger and fall--” + +“It was you, then, that fired at him,” interrupted Sir Ulick. + +“Yes, oh! yes!” said he, striking his forehead: “I did it in the fury of +passion.” + +Then Ormond, taking all the blame upon himself, and stating what had +passed in the strongest light against himself, gave this account of the +matter. After having drunk too much at Mr. Cornelius O’Shane’s, they +were returning from the Black Islands, and afraid of being late, they +were galloping hard, when at a narrow part of the road they were stopped +by some cars. Impatient of the delay, they abused the men who were +driving them, insisting upon their getting out of the way faster than +they could. Moriarty Carroll made some answer, which Marcus said was +insolent; and inquiring the man’s name, and hearing it was Carroll, said +all the Carrolls were bad people--rebels. Moriarty defied him to prove +_that_--and added some expressions about tyranny, which enraged Ormond. +This part of the provocation Ormond did not state, but merely said he +was thrown into a passion by some observation of Moriarty’s; and first +he lifted his whip to give the fellow a horsewhipping. Moriarty seized +hold of the whip, and struggled to wrest it from his hand; Ormond then +snatched a pistol from his holster, telling Moriarty he would shoot him, +if he did not let the whip go. Moriarty, who was in a passion himself, +struggled, still holding the whip. Ormond cocked the pistol, and before +he was aware he had done so, the pistol accidentally went off--the ball +entered Moriarty’s breast. This happened within a quarter of a mile of +Castle Hermitage. The poor fellow bled profusely; and, in assisting to +lift him upon the hand-barrow, Ormond was covered with blood, as has +been already described. + +“Have you sent for a surgeon?” said Sir Ulick, coolly. + +“Certainly--sent off a fellow on my own horse directly. Sir, will you +come on to the gardener’s house; I want you to see him, to know what +you’ll think. If he die, I am a murderer,” repeated Ormond. + +This horrible idea so possessed his imagination, that he could not +answer or hear any of the farther questions that were asked by Lady +O’Shane and Miss Black; but after gazing upon them with unmeaning eyes +for a moment in silence, walked rapidly on: as he was passing by the +steps of the green-house, he stopped short at the sight of Miss Annaly, +who was still sitting there. “What’s the matter?” said he, in a tone of +great compassion, going close up to her. Then, recollecting himself, he +hurried forward again. + +“As I can be of no use--unless I can be of any use,” said Miss Annaly, +“I will, now that I am well enough, return--my mother will wonder what +has become of me.” + +“Sir Ulick, give me the key of the conservatory, to let Miss Annaly into +the ball-room.” + +“Miss Annaly does not wish to dance any more to-night, I believe,” said +Sir Ulick. + +“Dance--oh! no.” + +“Then, without exciting observation, you can all get in better at the +back door of the house, and Miss Annaly can go up the back stairs to +Lady Annaly’s room, without meeting any one; and you, Lady O’Shane,” + added he, in a low voice, “order up supper, and say nothing of what has +passed. Miss Black, you hear what I desire--no gossiping.” + +To get to the back door they had to walk round the house, and in their +way they passed the gardener’s. The surgeon had just arrived. + +“Go on, ladies, pray,” said Sir Ulick; “what stops you?” + +“‘Tis I stop the way, Sir Ulick,” said Lady O’Shane, “to speak a word to +the surgeon. If you find the man in any dangerous way, for pity’s sake +don’t let him die at our gardener’s--indeed, the bringing him here at +all I think a very strange step and encroachment of Mr. Ormond’s. It +will make the whole thing so public--and the people hereabouts are so +revengeful--if any thing should happen to him, it will be revenged on +our whole family--on Sir Ulick in particular.” + +“No danger--nonsense, my dear.” + +But now this idea had seized Lady O’Shane, it appeared to her a +sufficient reason for desiring to remove the man even this night. She +asked why he could not be taken to his own home and his own people; she +repeated, that it was very strange of Mr. Ormond to take such liberties, +as if every thing about Castle Hermitage was quite at his disposal. One +of the men who had carried the hand-barrow, and who was now standing at +the gardener’s door, observed, that Moriarty’s _people_ lived five miles +off. Ormond, who had gone into the house to the wounded man, being told +what Lady O’Shane was saying, came out; she repeated her words as he +re-appeared. Naturally of sudden violent temper, and being now in the +highest state of suspense and irritation, he broke out, forgetful of all +proper respect. Miss Black, who was saying something in corroboration +of Lady O’Shane’s opinion, he first attacked, pronouncing her to be an +unfeeling, _canting_ hypocrite: then, turning to Lady O’Shane, he said +that she might send the dying man away, if she pleased; but that if she +did, he would go too, and that never while he existed would he enter her +ladyship’s doors again. + +Ormond made this threat with the air of a superior to an inferior, +totally forgetting his own dependent situation, and the dreadful +circumstances in which he now stood. + +“You are drunk, young man! My dear Ormond, you don’t know what you are +saying,” interposed Sir Ulick. + +At his voice, and the kindness of his tone, Ormond recollected himself. +“Forgive me,” said he, in a very gentle tone. “My head certainly is +not--Oh! may you never feel what I have felt this last hour! If this man +die--Oh! consider.” + +“He will not die--he will not die, I hope--at any rate, don’t talk so +loud within hearing of these people. My dear Lady O’Shane, this foolish +boy--this Harry Ormond is, I grant, a sad scapegrace, but you must bear +with him for my sake. Let this poor wounded fellow remain here--I won’t +have him stirred to-night--we shall see what ought to be done in the +morning. Ormond, you forgot yourself strangely towards Lady O’Shane--as +to this fellow, don’t make such a rout about the business; I dare say he +will do very well: we shall hear what the surgeon says. At first I was +horribly frightened--I thought you and Marcus had been quarrelling. Miss +Annaly, are not you afraid of staying out? Lady O’Shane, why do you keep +Miss Annaly? Let supper go up directly.” + +“Supper! ay, every thing goes on as usual,” said Ormond, “and I--” + +“I must follow them in, and see how things _are_ going on, and prevent +gossiping, for your sake, my boy,” resumed Sir Ulick, after a moment’s +pause. “You have got into an ugly scrape. I pity you from my soul--I’m +rash myself. Send the surgeon to me when he has seen the fellow. Depend +upon me, if the worst come to the worst, there’s nothing in the world I +would not do to serve you,” said Sir Ulick: “so keep up your spirits, my +boy--we’ll contrive to bring you through--at the worst, it will only be +manslaughter.” + +Ormond wrung Sir Ulick’s hand--thanked him for his kindness; but +repeated, “it will be murder--it will be murder--my own conscience tells +me so! If he die, give me up to justice.” + +“You’ll think better of it before morning,” said Sir Ulick, as he left +Ormond. + +The surgeon gave Ormond little comfort. After extracting the bullet, and +examining the wound, he shook his head--he had but a bad opinion of the +case; and when Ormond took him aside, and questioned him more closely, +he confessed that he thought the man would not live--he should not be +surprised if he died before morning. The surgeon was obliged to leave +him to attend another patient; and Ormond, turning all the other people +out of the room, declared he would sit up with Moriarty himself. A +terrible night it was to him. To his alarmed and inexperienced eyes +the danger seemed even greater than it really was, and several times he +thought his patient expiring, when he was faint from loss of blood. The +moments in which Ormond was occupied in assisting him were the least +painful. It was when he had nothing left to do, when he had leisure to +think, that he was most miserable; then the agony of suspense, and the +horror of remorse, were felt, till feeling was exhausted; and he would +sit motionless and stupified, till he was wakened again from this +suspension of thought and feeling by some moan of the poor man, or some +delirious startings. Toward morning the wounded man lay easier; and as +Ormond was stooping over his bed to see whether he was asleep, Moriarty +opened his eyes, and fixing them on Ormond, said, in broken sentences, +but so as very distinctly to be understood, “Don’t be in such trouble +about the likes of me--I’ll do very well, you’ll see--and even suppose +I wouldn’t--not a friend I have shall ever prosecute--I’ll charge +‘em not--so be easy--for you’re a good heart--and the pistol went +off unknownst to you--I’m sure there was no malice--let that be your +comfort. It might happen to any man, let alone gentleman--don’t _take +on_ so. Only think of young Mr. Harry sitting up the night with me!--Oh! +if you’d go now and settle yourself yonder on t’other bed, sir--I’d be +a grate dale asier, and I don’t doubt but I’d get a taste of sleep +myself--while now wid you standing over or _forenent_ me, I can’t close +an eye for thinking of you, Mr. Harry.” + +Ormond immediately threw himself upon the other bed, that he might +relieve Moriarty’s feelings. The good nature and generosity of this poor +fellow increased Ormond’s keen sense of remorse. As to sleeping, for him +it was impossible; whenever his ideas began to fall into that sort of +confusion which precedes sleep, suddenly he felt as if his heart were +struck or twinged, and he started with the recollection that some +dreadful thing had happened, and wakened to the sense of guilt and all +its horrors. Moriarty now lying perfectly quiet and motionless, and +Ormond not hearing him breathe, he was struck with the dread that he had +breathed his last. A cold tremor came over Ormond--he rose in his bed, +listening in acute agony, when to his relief he at last distinctly heard +Moriarty breathing strongly, and soon afterwards (no music was ever so +delightful to Ormond’s ear) heard him begin to breathe loudly, as if +asleep. The morning light dawned soon afterwards, and the crowing of a +cock was heard, which Ormond feared might waken him; but the poor +man slept soundly through all these usual noises: the heaving of the +bed-clothes over his breast went on with uninterrupted regularity. The +gardener and his wife softly opened the door of the room, to inquire how +things were going on; Ormond pointed to the bed, and they nodded, and +smiled, and beckoned to him to come out, whispering that a _taste_ of +the morning air would do him good. He suffered them to lead him out, +for he was afraid of debating the point in the room with the sleeping +patient. The good people of the house, who had known Harry Ormond from +a child, and who were exceedingly fond of him, as all the poor people in +the neighbourhood were, said every thing they could think of upon this +occasion to comfort him, and reiterated about a hundred times their +prophecies, that Moriarty would be as sound and _good_ a man as ever in +a fortnight’s time. + +“Sure, when he’d take the soft sleep he couldn’t but do well.” + +Then perceiving that Ormond listened to them only with faint attention, +the wife whispered to her husband, “Come off to our work, Johnny--he’d +like to be alone--he’s not equal to listen to our talk yet--it’s the +surgeon must give him hope--and he’ll soon be here, I trust.” + +They went to their work, and left Ormond standing in the porch. It was +a fine morning--the birds were singing, and the smell of the honeysuckle +with which the porch was covered, wafted by the fresh morning air, +struck Ormond’s senses, but struck him with melancholy. + +“Every thing in nature is cheerful except myself! Every thing in this +world going on just the same as it was yesterday--but all changed for +me!--within a few short hours--by my own folly, my own madness! Every +animal,” thought he, as his attention was caught by the house dog, who +was licking his hand, and as his eye fell upon the hen and chickens, who +were feeding before the door, “every animal is happy--and innocent! But +_if this man die--I shall be a murderer_.” + +This thought, perpetually recurring, so oppressed him, that he stood +motionless, till he was roused by the voice of Sir Ulick O’Shane. + +“Well, Harry Ormond, how is it with you, my boy?--The fellow’s alive, I +hope?” + +“Alive--Thank Heaven!--yes; and asleep.” + +“Give ye joy--it would have been an ugly thing--not but what we could +have brought you through: I’d go through thick and thin, you know, for +you, as if it were for my own son. But Lady O’Shane,” said Sir Ulick, +changing his tone, and with a face of great concern, “I must talk to you +about her--I may as well speak now, since it must be said.” + +“I am afraid,” said Ormond, “that I spoke too hastily last night: I beg +your pardon.” + +“Nay, nay, put _me_ out of the question: you may do what you please with +me--always could, from the time you were four years old; but, you know, +the more I love any body, the more Lady O’Shane hates them. The fact +is,” continued Sir Ulick, rubbing his eyes, “that I have had a weary +night of it--Lady O’Shane has been crying and whining in my ears. She +says I encourage you in being insolent, and so forth: in short, she +cannot endure you in the house any longer. I suspect that sour one” (Sir +Ulick, among his intimates, always designated Miss Black in this manner) +“_puts her up to it_. But I will not give up my own boy--I will take +it with a high hand. Separations are foolish things, as foolish as +marriages; but I’d sooner part with Lady O’Shane at once than let Harry +Ormond think I’d forsake him, especially in awkward circumstances.” + +“That, Sir Ulick, is what Harry Ormond can never think of you. He would +be the basest, the most suspicious, the most ungrateful--But I must not +speak so loud,” continued he, lowering his voice, “lest it should waken +Moriarty.” Sir Ulick drew him away from the door, for Ormond was cool +enough at this moment to have common sense. + +“My dear guardian-father, allow me still to call you by that name,” + continued Ormond, “believe me, your kindness is too fully--innumerable +instances of your affection now press upon me, so that--I can’t express +myself; but depend upon it, suspicion of your friendship is the last +that could enter my mind: I trust, therefore, you will do me the same +sort of justice, and never suppose me capable of ingratitude--though the +time is come when we must _part_.” + +Ormond could hardly pronounce the word. + +“Part!” repeated Sir Ulick: “no, by all the saints, and all the devils +in female form!” + +“I am resolved,” said Ormond, “firmly resolved on one point--never to +be a cause of unhappiness to one who has been the source of so much +happiness to me: I will no more be an object of contention between you +and Lady O’Shane. Give her up rather than me--Heaven forbid! I the cause +of separation!--never--never! I am determined, let what will become of +me, I will no more be an inmate of Castle Hermitage.” + +Tears started into Ormond’s eyes; Sir Ulick appeared much affected, and +in a state of great embarrassment and indecision. + +He could not bear to think of it--he swore it must not be: then he +gradually sunk to hoping it was not necessary, and proposing palliatives +and half measures. Moriarty must be moved to-day--sent to his own +friends. That point he had, for peace sake, conceded to her ladyship, he +said; but he should expect, on her part, that after a proper, a decent +apology from Ormond, things might still be accommodated and go on +smoothly, if that meddling Miss Black would allow them. + +In short he managed so, that whilst he confirmed the young man in his +resolution to quit Castle Hermitage, he threw all the blame on Lady +O’Shane; Ormond never doubting the steadiness of Sir Ulick’s affection, +nor suspecting that he had any secret motive for wishing to get rid of +him. + +“But where can you go, my dear boy?--What will you do with +yourself?--What will become of you?” + +“Never mind--never mind what becomes of me, my dear sir: I’ll find +means--I have the use of head and hands.” + +“My cousin, Cornelius O’Shane, he is as fond of you almost as I am, and +he is not cursed with a wife, and is blessed with a daughter,” said Sir +Ulick, with a sly smile. + +“Oh! yes,” continued he, “I see it all now: you have ways and means--I +no longer object--I’ll write--no, you’d write better yourself to King +Corny, for you are a greater favourite with his majesty than I am. Fare +ye well--Heaven bless you! my boy,” said Sir Ulick, with warm emphasis. +“Remember, whenever you want supplies, Castle Hermitage is your +bank--you know I have a bank at my back (Sir Ulick was joined in +a banking-house)’--Castle Hermitage is your bank, and here’s your +quarter’s allowance to begin with.” + +Sir Ulick put a purse into Ormond’s hand, and left him. + + + +CHAPTER III. + +But is it natural, is it possible, that this Sir Ulick O’Shane could so +easily part with Harry Ormond, and thus “whistle him down the wind to +prey at fortune?” For Harry Ormond, surely, if for any creature living, +Sir Ulick O’Shane’s affection had shown itself disinterested and steady. +When left a helpless infant, its mother dead, its father in India, he +had taken the child from the nurse, who was too poor even to feed or +clothe it as her own; and he had brought little Harry up at his castle +with his own son--as his own son. He had been his darling--literally +his spoiled child; nor had this fondness passed away with the prattling, +playful graces of the child’s first years--it had grown with its +growth. Harry became Sir Ulick’s favourite companion--hunting, shooting, +carousing, as he had been his plaything during infancy. On no one +occasion had Harry, violent and difficult to manage as he was to others, +ever crossed Sir Ulick’s will, or in any way incurred his displeasure. +And now, suddenly, without any cause, except the aversion of a wife, +whose aversions seldom troubled him in any great degree, is it natural +that he should give up Harry Ormond, and suffer him to sacrifice himself +in vain for the preservation of a conjugal peace, which Sir Ulick ought +to have known could not by such a sacrifice be preserved? Is it possible +that Sir Ulick should do this? Is it in human nature? + +Yes, in the nature of Sir Ulick O’Shane. Long use had brought him to +this; though his affections, perhaps, were naturally warm, he had on +many occasions in his life sacrificed them to his scheming imaginations. +Necessity--the necessity of his affairs, the consequences of his +extravagance--had brought him to this: the first sacrifices had not been +made without painful struggles; but by degrees his mind had hardened, +and his warmth of heart had cooled. When he said or _swore_ in the +most cordial manner that he “would do any thing in the world to serve a +friend,” there was always a mental reservation of “any thing that does +not hurt my own interest, or cross my schemes.” + +And how could Harry Ormond hurt his interest, or cross his schemes? or +how had Sir Ulick discovered this so suddenly? Miss Annaly’s turning +pale was the first cause of Sir Ulick’s change of sentiments towards his +young favourite. Afterwards, during the whole that passed, Sir Ulick had +watched the impression made upon her--he had observed that it was not +for Marcus O’Shane’s safety that she was anxious; and he thought she +had betrayed a secret attachment, the commencement of an attachment he +thought it, of which she was perhaps herself unconscious. Were such an +attachment to be confirmed, it would disappoint Sir Ulick’s schemes: +therefore, with the cool decision of a practised _schemer_, he +determined directly to get rid of Ormond. He had no intention of +parting with him for ever, but merely while the Annalys were at Castle +Hermitage: till his scheme was brought to bear, he would leave Harry at +the Black Islands, and he could, he thought, recal him from banishment, +and force a reconciliation with Lady O’Shane, and reinstate him in +favour, at pleasure. + +But is it possible that Miss Annaly, such an amiable and elegant +young lady as she is described to be, should feel any attachment, any +predilection for such a young man as Ormond; ill-educated, unpolished, +with a violent temper, which had brought him early into life into the +dreadful situation in which he now stands? And at the moment when, +covered with the blood of an innocent man, he stood before her, an +object of disgust and horror; could any sentiment like love exist or +arise in a well-principled mind? + +Certainly not. Sir Ulick’s acquaintance with unprincipled women misled +him completely in this instance, and deprived him of his usual power +of discriminating character. Harry Ormond was uncommonly handsome; and +though so young, had a finely-formed, manly, graceful figure; and his +manner, whenever he spoke to women, was peculiarly prepossessing. These +personal accomplishments, Sir Ulick thought, were quite sufficient to +win any lady’s heart--but Florence Annaly was not to be won by such +means: no feeling of love for Mr. Ormond had ever touched her heart, nor +even crossed her imagination; none under such circumstances could have +arisen in her innocent and well-regulated mind. Sudden terror, and +confused apprehension of evil, made her grow very pale at the sight of +his bloody apparition at the window of the ball-room. Bodily weakness, +for she was not at this time in strong health, must be her apology, if +she need any, for the faintness and loss of presence of mind, which Sir +Ulick construed into proofs of tender anxiety for the personal fate of +this young man. In the scene that followed, horror of his crime, pity +for the agony of his remorse, was what she felt--what she strongly +expressed to her mother, the moment she reached her apartment that +night: nor did her mother, who knew her thoroughly, ever for an instant +suspect that in her emotion, there was a mixture of any sentiments +but those which she expressed. Both mother and daughter were extremely +shocked. They were also struck with regret at the idea, that a +young man, in whom they had seen many instances of a generous, good +disposition, of natural qualities and talents, which might have made +him a useful, amiable, and admirable member of society, should be, thus +early, a victim to his own undisciplined passion. During the preceding +winter they had occasionally seen something of Ormond in Dublin. In the +midst of the dissipated life which he led, upon one or two occasions, +of which we cannot now stop to give an account, he had shown that he was +capable of being a very different character from that which he had +been made by bad education, bad example, and profligate indulgence, or +shameful neglect on the part of his guardian. + +Immediately after Sir Ulick had left Ormond, the surgeon appeared, and +a new train of emotions arose. He had no time to reflect on Sir Ulick’s +conduct. He felt hurried on rapidly, like one in a terrible dream. He +returned with the surgeon to the wounded man. + +Moriarty had wakened, much refreshed from his sleep, and the surgeon +confessed that his patient was infinitely better than he had expected +to find him. Moriarty evidently exerted himself as much as he possibly +could to appear better, that he might calm Ormond’s anxiety, who stood +waiting, with looks that showed his implicit faith in the oracle, and +feeling that his own fate depended upon the next words that should be +uttered. Let no one scoff at his easy faith: at this time Ormond was +very young, not yet nineteen, and had no experience, either of the +probability, or of the fallacy of medical predictions. After looking +very grave and very wise, and questioning and cross-questioning a proper +time, the surgeon said it was impossible for him to pronounce any thing +decidedly, till the patient should have passed another night; but that +if the next night proved favourable, he might then venture to declare +him out of immediate danger, and might then begin to hope that, with +time and care, he would do well. With this opinion, guarded and dubious +as it was, Ormond was delighted--his heart felt relieved of part of the +heavy load by which it had been oppressed, and the surgeon was well feed +from the purse which Sir Ulick had put into Ormond’s hands. Ormond’s +next business was to send a _gossoon_ with a letter to his friend the +King of the Black Islands, to tell him all that had passed, and to +request an asylum in his dominions. By the time he had finished and +despatched his letter, it was eight o’clock in the morning; and he was +afraid that before he could receive an answer, it might be too late in +the day to carry a wounded man as far as the Black Islands: he therefore +accepted the hospitable offer of the village school-mistress, to give +him and his patient a lodging for that night. There was indeed no one in +the place who would not have done as much for Master Harry. All were in +astonishment and sorrow when they heard that he was going to leave the +castle; and their hatred to Lady O’Shane would have known no bounds, +had they learned that she was the cause of his _banishment_: but this he +generously concealed, and forbade those of his followers or partisans, +who had known any thing of what had passed, to repeat what they had +heard. It was late in the day before Marcus rose; for he had to sleep +off the effects of his last night’s intemperance. He was in great +astonishment when he learned that Ormond was really going away; and +“could scarcely believe,” as he said repeatedly, “that Harry was so mad, +or such a fool. As to Moriarty, a few guineas would have settled the +business, if no rout had been made about it. Sitting up all night with +such a fellow, and being in such agonies about him--how absurd! What +more could he have done, if he had shot a gentleman, or his best friend? +But Harry Ormond was always in extremes.” + +Marcus, though he had not a very clear recollection of the events of the +preceding night, was conscious, however, that he had been much more to +blame than Ormond had stated; he had a remembrance of having been very +violent, and of having urged Ormond to chastise Moriarty. It was not the +first time that Ormond had screened him from blame, by taking the whole +upon himself. For this Marcus was grateful to a certain degree: he +thought he was fond of Harry Ormond; but he had not for him the solid +friendship that would stand the test of adversity, still less would it +be capable of standing against any difference of party opinion. Marcus, +though he appeared a mild, indolent youth, was violent where his +prejudices were concerned. Instead of being governed by justice in his +conduct towards his inferiors, he took strong dislikes, either upon +false informations, or without sufficient examination of the facts: +cringing and flattery easily won his favour; and, on the other hand, he +resented any spirit of independence, or even the least contradiction, +from an inferior. These defects in his temper appeared more and more in +him every year. As he ceased to be a boy, and was called upon to act as +a man, the consequences of his actions became of greater importance; +but in acquiring more power, he did not acquire more reason, or greater +command over himself. He was now provoked with Ormond for being so +anxious about Moriarty Carroll, because he disliked the Carrolls, and +especially Moriarty, for some slight cause not worth recording. He went +to Ormond, and argued the matter with him, but in vain. Marcus resented +this sturdiness, and they parted, displeased with each other. Though +Marcus expressed in words much regret at his companion’s adhering to +the resolution of quitting his father’s house, yet it might be doubted +whether, at the end of the conference, these professions were entirely +sincere, whatever they might have been at the beginning: he had not a +large mind, and perhaps he was not sorry to get rid of a companion who +had often rivalled him in his father’s favour, and who might rival him +where it was still more his ambition to please. The coldness of Marcus’s +manner at parting, and the little difficulty which he felt in the +separation, gave exquisite pain to poor Ormond, who, though he was +resolved to go, did wish to be regretted, especially by the companion, +the friend of his childhood. The warmth of his guardian’s manner had +happily deceived him; and to the recollection of this he recurred +for comfort at this moment, when his heart ached, and he was almost +exhausted with the succession of the painful, violently painful, +feelings of the last four-and-twenty hours. + +The gossoon who had been sent with the despatch to the King of the Black +Islands did not return this day--disappointment upon disappointment. +Moriarty, who had exerted himself too much, that he might appear better +than he really was, suffered proportionably this night; and so did +Ormond, who, never before having been with any person delirious from +fever, was excessively alarmed. What he endured cannot be described: it +was, however, happy for him that he was forced to bear it all--nothing +less could have made a sufficient impression on his mind--nothing less +could have been a sufficient warning to set a guard upon the violence of +his temper. + +In the morning the fever abated: about eight o’clock the patient sunk +into a sound sleep; and Ormond, kneeling by his bedside, ardent in +devotion as in all his sentiments, gave thanks to Heaven, prayed for +Moriarty’s perfect recovery, and vowed with the strongest adjurations +that if he might be spared for this offence, if he might be saved from +the horror of being a murderer, no passion, no provocation should ever, +during the whole future course of his life, tempt him to lift his hand +against a fellow-creature. + +As he rose from his knees, after making this prayer and this vow, he was +surprised to see standing beside him Lady Annaly--she had made a sign +to the sick man not to interrupt Ormond’s devotion by any exclamation at +her entrance. + +“Be not disturbed--let me not feel that I embarrass you, Mr. Ormond,” + said she: “I came here not to intrude upon your privacy. Be not ashamed, +young gentleman,” continued she, “that I should have witnessed feelings +that do you honour, and that interest me in your future fate.” + +“Interest Lady Annaly in my future fate!--Is it possible!” exclaimed +Ormond: “Is it possible that one of whom I stood so much in awe--one +whom I thought so much too good, ever to bestow a thought on--such a one +as I am--as I was, even before this fatal--” (his voice failed). + +“Not fatal, I hope--I trust,” said Lady Annaly: “this poor man’s looks +at this moment assure me that he is likely to do well.” + +“True for ye, my lady,” said Moriarty, “I’ll do my best, surely: I’d +live through all, if possible, for his sake, let alone my mudther’s, or +shister’s, or my own--‘twould be too bad, after; all the trouble he +got these two nights, to be dying at last, I and _hanting_ him, may be, +whether I would or no--for as to prosecuting, that would never be any +way, if I died twenty times over. I sint off that word to my mudthier +and shister, with my curse if they’d do _other_--and only that they +were at the fair, and did not get the word, or the news of my little +accident, they’d have been here long ago; and the minute they come, I’ll +swear ‘em not to prosecute, or harbour a thought of revenge again’ him, +who had no malice again’ me, no more than a child. And at another’s +bidding, more than his own, he drew the trigger, and the pistol went off +unknownst, in a passion: so there’s the case for you, my lady.” + +Lady Annaly, who was pleased with the poor fellow’s simplicity and +generosity in this tragi-comic statement of the case, inquired if she +could in any way afford him assistance. + +“I thank your ladyship, but Mr. Harry lets me want for nothing.” + +“Nor ever will, while I have a farthing I can call my own,” cried +Ormond. + +“But I hope, Mr. Ormond,” said Lady Annaly, smiling, “that when +Moriarty--is not that his name?--regains his strength, to which he +seems well inclined, you do not mean to make him miserable and good for +nothing, by supporting him in idleness?” + +“No, he sha’n’t, my lady--I would not let him be wasting his little +substance on me. And did ye hear, my lady, how he is going to lave +Castle Hermitage? Well, of all the surprises ever I got! It come upon me +like a shot--_my shot_ was nothing to it!” + +It was necessary to insist upon Moriarty’s submitting to be silent +and quiet; for not having the fear of the surgeon before his eyes, and +having got over his first awe of the lady, he was becoming too full of +oratory and action. Lady Annaly took Ormond out with her, that she might +speak to him of his own affairs. + +“You will not, I hope, Mr. Ormond, ascribe it to idle curiosity, but to +a wish to be of service, if I inquire what your future plans in life may +be?” + +Ormond had never formed any, distinctly. “He was not fit for any +profession, except, perhaps, the army--he was too old for the navy--he +was at present going, he believed, to the house of an old friend, a +relation of Sir Ulick, Mr. Cornelius O’Shane.” + +“My son, Sir Herbert Annaly, has an estate in this neighbourhood, at +which he has never yet resided, but we are going there when we leave +Castle Hermitage. I shall hope to see you at Annaly, when you have +determined on your plans; perhaps you may show us how we can assist in +forwarding them.” + +“Is it possible,” repeated Ormond, in unfeigned astonishment, “that your +ladyship can be so very good, so condescending, to one who so +little deserves it? But I _will_ deserve it in future. If I get over +this--interested in _my_ future fate--Lady Annaly!” + +“I knew your father many years ago,” said Lady Annaly; “and as his son, +I might feel some interest for you; but I will tell you sincerely, that, +on some occasions, when we met in Dublin, I perceived traits of goodness +in you, which, on your own account, Mr. Ormond, have interested me +in your fate. But fate is an unmeaning commonplace--worse than +commonplace--word: it is a word that leads us to imagine that we are +_fated_ or doomed to certain fortunes or misfortunes in life. I have had +a great deal of experience, and from all I have observed, it appears +to me, that far the greatest part of our happiness or misery in life +depends upon ourselves.” + +Ormond stopped short, and listened with the eagerness of one of quick +feeling and quick capacity, who seizes an idea that is new to him, and +the truth and value of which he at once appreciates. For the first +time in his life he heard good sense from the voice of benevolence--he +anxiously desired that she should go on speaking, and stood in such an +attitude of attentive deference as fully marked that wish. + +But at this moment Lady O’Shane’s footman came up with a message from +his lady; her ladyship sent to let Lady Annaly know that breakfast was +ready. Repeating her good wishes to Ormond she bade him adieu, while +he was too much overpowered with his sense of gratitude to return her +thanks. + +“Since there exists a being, and such a being, interested for me, I must +be worth something--and I will make myself worth something more: I will +begin from this moment, I am resolved, to improve; and who knows but +in the end I may become every thing that is good? I don’t want to be +great.” + +Though this resolution was not steadily adhered to, though it was for +a time counteracted by circumstances, it was never afterwards entirely +forgotten. From this period, in consequence of the great and painful +impression which had been suddenly made on his mind, and from a few +words of sense and kindness spoken to him at a time when his heart was +happily prepared to receive them, we may date the commencement of our +hero’s reformation and improvement--hero, we say; but certainly never +man had more faults than Ormond had to correct, or to be corrected, +before he could come up to the received idea of any description of hero. +Most heroes are born perfect--so at least their biographers, or rather +their panegyrists, would have us believe. Our hero is far from this +happy lot; the readers of his story are in no danger of being wearied, +at first setting out, with the list of his merits and accomplishments; +nor will they be awed or discouraged by the exhibition of virtue above +the common standard of humanity--beyond the hope of imitation. On +the contrary, most people will comfort and bless themselves with the +reflection, that they never were quite so foolish, nor quite so bad, as +Harry Ormond. + +For the advantage of those who may wish to institute the comparison, his +biographer, in writing the life of Ormond, deems it a point of honour to +extenuate nothing; but to trace, with an impartial hand, not only every +improvement and advance, but every deviation or retrograde movement. + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +Full of sudden zeal for his own improvement, Ormond sat down at the foot +of a tree, determined to make a list of all his faults, and of all his +good resolutions for the future. He took out his pencil, and began on +the back of a letter the following resolutions, in a sad scrawling hand +and incorrect style. + +HARRY OSMOND’S GOOD RESOLUTIONS. + +Resolved 1st.--That I will never drink more than (_blank number_ of) +glasses. + +Resolved 2ndly.--That I will cure myself of being passionate. + +Resolved 3rdly.--That I will never keep low company. + +Resolved.--That I am too fond of flattery--women’s, especially, I like +most. To cure myself of that. + +_Ormond_. Here he was interrupted by the sight of a little gossoon, with +a short stick tucked under his arm, who came pattering on bare-foot in +a kind of pace indescribable to those who have never seen it--it was +something as like walking or running as chanting is to speaking or +singing. + +“The answer I am from the Black Islands, Master Harry; and would have +been back wid you afore nightfall yesterday, only _he_--King Corny--was +at the fair of Frisky--could not write till this morning any way--but +has his service to ye, Master Harry, will be in it for ye by half after +two with a bed and blanket for Moriarty, he bid me say on account he +forgot to put it in the note. In the Sally Cove the boat will be there +_abow_ in the big lough, forenent the spot where the fir dale was cut +last seraph by them rogues.” + +The despatch from the King of the Black Islands was then produced from +the messenger’s bosom, and it ran as follows: + +“Dear Harry. What the mischief has come over Cousin Ulick to be +banishing you from Castle Hermitage? But since he _conformed_, he was +never the same man, especially since his last mis-marriage. But no use +moralizing--he was always too much of a courtier for me. Come you to +me, my dear boy, who is no courtier, and you’ll be received and embraced +with open arms--was I Briareus, the same way--Bring Moriarty Carroll +(if that’s his name), the boy you shot, which has given you so much +concern--for which I like you the better--and honour that boy, who, +living or dying, forbade to prosecute. Don’t be surprised to see +the roof the way it is:--since Tuesday I wedged it up bodily without +stirring a stick:--you’ll see it from the boat, standing three foot +high above the walls, waiting while I’m building up to it--to get +attics--which I shall for next to nothing--by my own contrivance. +Meantime, good dry lodging, as usual, for all friends at the palace. +_He_ shall be well tended for you by Sheelah Dunshaughlin, the mother of +Betty, worth a hundred of her! and we’ll soon set him up again with the +help of such a nurse, as well as ever, I’ll engage; for I’m a bit of a +doctor, you know, as well as every thing else. But don’t let any other +doctor, surgeon, or apothecary, be coming after him for your life--for +none ever gets a permit to land, to my knowledge, on the Black +Islands--to which I attribute, under Providence, to say nothing of +my own skill in practice, the wonderful preservation of my people in +health--that, and woodsorrell, and another secret or two not to be +committed to paper in a hurry--all which I would not have written +to you, but am in the gout since four this morning, held by the foot +fast--else I’d not be writing, but would have gone every inch of the way +for you myself in style, in lieu of sending, which is all I can now do, +my six-oared boat, streamers flying, and piper playing like mad--for I +would not have you be coming like a banished man, but in all glory, to +Cornelius O’Shane, commonly called King _Corny_--but no _king_ to you, +only your hearty old friend.” + +“Heaven bless Cornelius O’Shane!” said Harry Ormond to himself, as he +finished this letter. “King or no king, the most warm-hearted man on +earth, let the other be who he will.” + +Then pressing this letter to his heart, he put it up carefully, and +rising in haste, he dropped the list of his faults. That train of +associations was completely broken, and for the present completely +forgotten; nor was it likely to be soon renewed at the Black Islands, +especially in the palace, where he was now going to take up his +residence. Moriarty was laid on a bed; and was transported, with Ormond, +in the six-oared boat, streamers flying, and piper playing, across the +lake to the islands. Moriarty’s head ached terribly, but he nevertheless +enjoyed the playing of the pipes in his ear, because of the air of +triumph it gave Master Harry, to go away in this grandeur, in the face +of the country. King Corny ordered the discharge of twelve guns on his +landing, which popped one after another gloriously--the _hospitable +echoes_, as Moriarty called them, repeating the sound. A horse, decked +with ribands, waited on the shore, with King Corny’s compliments for +_Prince_ Harry, as the boy, who held the stirrup for Ormond to mount, +said he was instructed to call him, and to proclaim him “_Prince Harry_” + throughout the island, which he did by sound of horn, the whole way they +proceeded to the palace--very much to the annoyance of the horse, but +all for the greater glory of the prince, who managed his steed to the +admiration of the shouting ragged multitude, and of his majesty, who +sat in state in his gouty chair at the palace door. He had had himself +rolled out to welcome the coming guest. + +“By all that’s princely,” cried he, “then, that young Harry Ormond was +intended for a prince, he sits ahorse so like myself; and that horse +requires a master hand to manage him.” + +Ormond alighted. + +The gracious, cordial, fatherly welcome, with which he was received, +delighted his heart. + +“Welcome, prince, my adopted son, welcome to Corny _castle--palace_, +I would have said, only for the constituted authorities of the +post-office, that might take exceptions, and not be sending me my +letters right. As I am neither bishop nor arch, I have, in their blind +eyes or conceptions, no right--Lord help them!--to a temporal palace. +Be that as it may, come you in with me, here into the big room--and +see! there’s the bed in the corner for your first object, my boy--your +wounded chap; and I’ll visit his wound, and fix it and him the first +thing for ye, the minute he comes up.” + +His majesty pointed to a bed in the corner of a large apartment, whose +beautiful painted ceiling and cornice, and fine chimney-piece with +caryatides of white marble, ill accorded with the heaps of oats and +corn, the thrashing cloth and flail, which lay on the floor. + +“It is intended for a drawing-room, understand,” said King Corny; “but +till it is finished, I use it for a granary or a barn, when it would not +be a barrack-room or hospital, which last is most useful at present.” + +To this hospital Moriarty was carefully conveyed. Here, notwithstanding +his gout, which affected only his feet, King Corny dressed Moriarty’s +wound with exquisite tenderness and skill; for he had actually acquired +knowledge and address in many arts, with which none could have suspected +him to have been in the least acquainted. + +Dinner was soon announced, which was served up with such a strange +mixture of profusion and carelessness, as showed that the attendants, +who were numerous and ill-caparisoned, were not much used to gala-days. +The crowd, who had accompanied Moriarty into the house, were admitted +into the dining-room, where they stood round the king, prince, and +Father Jos the priest, as the courtiers, during the king’s supper at +Versailles, surrounded the King of France. But these poor people were +treated with more hospitality than were the courtiers of the French +king; for as soon as the dishes were removed, their contents were +generously distributed among the attendant multitude. The people blest +both king and prince, “wishing them health and happiness long to reign +over them;” and bowing suitably to his majesty the king, and to his +reverence the priest, without standing upon the order of their going, +departed. + +“And now, Father Jos,” said the king to the priest, “say grace, and draw +close, and let me see you do justice to my claret, or the whiskey punch +if you prefer; and you, Prince Harry, we will set to it regally as long +as you please.” + +“Till tea-time,” thought young Harry. “Till supper-time,” thought Father +Jos. “Till bed-time,” thought King Corny. + +At tea-time young Harry, in pursuance of his _resolution_ the first, +rose, but he was seized instantly, and held down to his chair. The royal +command was laid upon him “to sit still and be a good fellow.” Moreover +the door was locked--so that there was no escape or retreat. + +The next morning when he wakened with an aching head, he recollected +with disgust the figure of Father Jos, and all the noisy mirth of the +preceding night. Not without some self-contempt, he asked himself what +had become of his resolution. + +“The wounded boy was axing for you, Master Harry,” said the girl, who +came in to open the shutters. + +“How is he?” cried Harry, starting up. + +“He is _but soberly_; [Footnote: But soberly--not very well, or in good +spirits.] he got the night but middling; he concaits he could not sleep +becaase he did not get a sight of your honour afore he’d settle--I tell +him ‘tis the change of beds, which always hinders a body to sleep the +first night.” + +The sense of having totally forgotten the poor fellow--the contrast +between this forgetfulness and the anxiety and contrition of the two +preceding nights, actually surprised Ormond: he could hardly believe +that he was one and the same person. Then came excuses to himself: +“Gratitude--common civility--the peremptoriness of King Corny--his +passionate temper, when opposed on this tender point--the locked +door--and two to one: in short, there was an impossibility in the +circumstances of doing otherwise than what he had done. But then the +same impossibility--the same circumstances--might recur the next night, +and the next, and so on: the peremptory temper of King Corny was not +likely to alter, and the moral obligation of gratitude would continue +the same; so that at nineteen was he to become, from complaisance, what +his soul and body abhorred--an habitual drunkard? And what would become +of Lady Annaly’s interest in his fate or his improvement?” + +The two questions were not of equal importance, but our hero was at this +time far from having any just proportion in his reasoning: it was well +he reasoned at all. The argument as to the obligation of gratitude--the +view he had taken of the never-ending nature of the evil, which must +be the consequence of beginning with weak complaisance--above all, the +_feeling_ that he had so lost his reason as not only to forget Moriarty, +but to have been again incapable of commanding his passions, if any +thing had occurred to cross his temper, determined Ormond to make a firm +resistance on the next occasion that should occur: it did occur the very +next night. After a dinner given to his chief tenants and the _genteel_ +people of the islands--a dinner in honour and in introduction of his +_adopted son_, King Corny gave a toast “to the Prince presumptive,” + as he now styled him--a bumper toast. Soon afterwards he detected +_daylight_ in Harry’s glass, and cursing it properly, he insisted on +flowing bowls and full glasses. “What! are you Prince _presumptuous_?” + cried he, with a half angry and astonished look. “Would you resist and +contradict your father and king at his own table after dinner? Down with +the glass!” + +Farther and steady resistance changed the jesting tone and half angry +look of King Corny into sullen silence, and a black portentous brow of +serious displeasure. After a decent time of sitting, the bottle passing +him without farther importunity, Ormond rose--it was a hard struggle; +for in the face of his benefactor he saw reproach and rage bursting from +every feature: still he moved on towards the door. He heard the words +“sneaking off sober!--let him sneak!” + +Ormond had his hand on the lock of the door--it was a bad lock, and +opened with difficulty. + +“There’s gratitude for you! No heart, after all--I mistook him.” + +Ormond turned back, and firmly standing and firmly speaking, he +said, “You did not mistake me formerly, sir; but you mistake me +now!--Sneaking!--Is there any man here, sober or drunk,” continued +be, impetuously approaching the table, and looking round full in every +face,--“is there any man here dares to say so but yourself?--You, _you_, +my benefactor, my friend; you have said it--think it you did not--you +could not, but say it you may--_You_ may say what you will to Harry +Ormond, bound to you as he is--bound hand and foot and heart I--Trample +on him as you will--_you_ may. _No heart_! Oblige me, gentlemen, some +of you,” cried he, his anger rising and his eyes kindling as he spoke, +“some of you gentlemen, if any of you think so, oblige me by saying so. +No gratitude, sir!” turning from them, and addressing himself to the old +man, who held an untasted glass of claret as he listened--“No gratitude! +Have not I?--Try me, try me to the death--you have tried me to the quick +of the heart, and I have borne it.” + +He could bear it no longer: he threw himself into the vacant chair, +flung out his arms on the table, and laying his face down upon them, +wept aloud. Cornelius O’Shane pushed the wine away. “I’ve wronged the +boy grievously,” said he; and forgetting the gout, he rose from his +chair, hobbled to him, and leaning over him, “Harry, ‘tis I--look up, +my own boy, and say you forgive me, or I’ll never forgive myself. That’s +well,” continued he, as Harry looked up and gave him his hand; “that’s +well!--you’ve taken the twinge out of my heart worse than the gout: not +a drop of gall or malice in your nature, nor ever was, more than in +the child unborn. But see, I’ll tell you what you’ll do now, Harry, to +settle all things--and lest the fit should take me ever to be mad +with you on this score again. You don’t choose to drink more than’s +becoming?--Well, you’se right, and I’m wrong. ‘Twould be a burning shame +of me to make of you what I have made of myself. We must do only as well +as we can. But I will ensure you against the future; and before we take +another glass--there’s the priest--and you, Tom Ferrally there, step +you for my swearing book. Harry Ormond, you shall take an oath against +drinking more glasses than you please evermore, and then you’re safe +from me. But stay--you are a heretic. Phoo! what am I saying? ‘twas +seeing the priest put that word _heretic_ in my head--you’re not +a catholic, I mean. But an oath’s an oath, taken before priest or +parson--an oath, taken how you will, will operate. But stay, to make all +easy, ‘tis I’ll take it.” + +“Against drinking, you! King Corny!” said Father Jos, stopping his hand, +“and in case of the gout in your stomach?” + +“Against drinking! do you think I’d perjure myself? No! But against +pressing _him_ to it--I’ll take my oath I’ll never ask him to drink +another glass more than he likes.” + +The oath was taken, and King Corny concluded the ceremony by observing +that, after all, there was no character he despised more than that of +a sot. But every gentleman knew that there was a wide and material +difference betwixt a gentleman who was fond of his bottle, and that +unfortunate being, an habitual drunkard. For his own part, it was his +established rule never to go to bed without a proper quantity of liquor +under his belt; but he defied the universe to say he was ever known to +be drunk. + +At a court where such ingenious casuistry prevailed, it was happy for +our hero that an unqualifying oath now protected his resolution. + + + +CHAPTER V. + +In the middle of the night our hero was wakened by a loud bellowing. It +was only King Corny in a paroxysm of the gout. His majesty was naturally +of a very impatient temper, and his maxims of philosophy encouraged him +to the most unrestrained expression of his feelings--the maxims of his +philosophy--for he had read, though in most desultory manner, and he had +thought often deeply, and not seldom justly. The turns of his mind, and +the questions he asked, were sometimes utterly unexpected. “Pray, now,” + said he to Harry, who stood beside his bed, “now that I’ve a moment’s +ease--did you ever hear of the Stoics that the bookmen talk of? and can +you tell me what good any one of them ever got by making it a point to +make no noise, when they’d be _punished_ and racked with pains of body +or mind? Why, I will tell you all they got--all they got was no pity: +who would give them pity that did not require it? I could bleed to death +in a bath, as well as the best of them, if I chose it; or chew a bullet +if I set my teeth to it, with any man in a regiment--but where’s the +use? nature knows best, and she says _roar_!” And he roared--for another +twinge seized him. + +Nature said _sleep_! several times this night to Harry, and to every +body in the palace; but they did not sleep, they could not, while +the roaring continued: so all had reason to rejoice, and Moriarty in +particular, when his majesty’s paroxysm was past. Harry was in a sound +sleep at twelve o’clock the next day, when he was summoned into the +royal presence. He found King Corny sitting at ease in his bed, and that +bed strewed over with a variety of roots and leaves, weeds and plants. +An old woman was hovering over the fire, stirring something in a black +kettle. “Simples these--of wonderful unknown power,” said King Corny +to Harry, as he approached the bed; “and I’ll engage you don’t know the +name even of the half of them.” + +Harry confessed his ignorance. + +“No shame for you--was you as wise as King Solomon himself, you might +not know them, for he did not, nor couldn’t, he that had never set his +foot a grousing on an Irish bog. Sheelah, come you over, and say what’s +this?” + +The old woman now came to assist at this bed of botany, and with +spectacles slipping off, and pushed on her nose continually, peered over +each green thing, and named in Irish “every herb that sips the dew.” + +Sheelah was deeper in Irish lore than King Corny could pretend to be: +but then he humbled her with the “black hellebore of the ancients,” and +he had, in an unaccountable manner, affected her imagination by talking +of “that famous howl of narcotic poisons, which that great man Socrates +drank off.” Sheelah would interrupt herself in the middle of a sentence, +and curtsy if she heard him pronounce the name of Socrates--and at the +mention of the bowl, she would regularly sigh, and exclaim, “Lord save +us!--But that was a wicked bowl.” + +Then after a cast of her eyes up to heaven, and crossing herself on the +forehead, she would take up her discourse at the word where she had left +off. + +King Corny set to work compounding plasters and embrocations, preparing +all sorts of decoctions of roots and leaves, famous _through the +country_. And while he directed and gesticulated from his bed, the old +woman worked over the fire in obedience to his commands; sometimes, +however, not with that “prompt and mute obedience,” which the great +require. + +It was fortunate for Moriarty that King Corny, not having the use of his +nether limbs, could not attend even in his gouty chair to administer the +medicines he had made, and to see them fairly swallowed. Sheelah, whose +conscience was easy on this point, contented herself with giving him a +strict charge to “take every bottle to the last drop.” All she insisted +upon for her own part was, that she must tie the charm round his neck +and arm. She would fain have removed the dressings of the wound to +substitute plasters of her own, over which she had pronounced certain +prayers or incantations; but Moriarty, who had seized and held fast +one good principle of surgery, that the air must never be let into +the wound, held mainly to this maxim, and all Sheelah could obtain was +permission to clap on her charmed plaster over the dressing. + +In due time, or, as King Corny triumphantly observed, in “a wonderful +short period,” Moriarty got quite well, long before the king’s gout was +cured, even with the assistance of the black hellebore of the ancients. +King Corny was so well pleased with his patient for doing such credit to +his medical skill, that he gave him and his family a cabin, and spot of +land, in the islands--a cabin near the palace; and at Harry’s request +made him his wood-ranger and his gamekeeper--the one a lucrative place, +the other a sinecure. + +Master Harry--Prince Harry--was now looked up to as a person +all-powerful with _the master_; and petitions and requests to speak for +them, to speak just one word, came pouring from all sides: but however +enviable his situation as favourite and prince presumptive might appear +to others, it was not in all respects comfortable to himself. + +Formerly, when a boy, in his visits to the Black Islands, he used to +have a little companion of whom he was fond--Dora--Corny’s daughter. +Missing her much, he inquired from her father where she was gone, and +when she was likely to return. + +“She is gone off to the _continent_--to the continent of Ireland, that +is; but not banished for any misdemeanour. You know,” said King Corny, +“‘tis generally considered as a punishment in the Black Islands to be +banished to Ireland. A threat of that kind, I find sufficient to bring +the most refractory and ill-disposed of my subjects, if I had any of +that description, to rason in the last resort; but to that ultimate law +I have not recourse, except in extreme cases; I understand my business +of king too well, to wear out either shame or fear; but you are no +legislator yet, Prince Harry. So what was you asking me about Dora? She +is only gone a trip to the continent, to her aunt’s, by the mother’s +side, Miss O’Faley, that you never saw, to get the advantage of a +dancing-master, which myself don’t think she wants--a natural carriage, +with native graces, being, in my unsophisticated opinion, worth all the +dancing-master’s positions, contortions, or drillings; but her aunt’s +of a contrary opinion, and the women say it is essential. So let ‘em put +Dora in the stocks, and punish her as they will, she’ll be the gladder +to get free, and fly back from their continent to her own Black Islands, +and to you and me--that is, to me--I ax your pardon, Harry Ormond; for +you know, or I should tell you in time, she is engaged already to White +Connal, of Glynn--from her birth. That engagement I made with the +father over a bowl of punch--I promised--I’m afraid it was a foolish +business--I promised if ever he, Old Connal, should have a son, and I +should have a daughter, his son should marry my daughter. I promised, I +say--I took my oath: and then Mrs. Connal that was, had, shortly after, +not one son, but two--and twins they were: and I had--unluckily--ten +years after, the daughter, which is Dora--and then as she could not +marry both, the one twin was to be fixed on for her, and that was him +they call White Connal--so there it was. Well, it was altogether a rash +act! So you’ll consider her as a married woman, though she is but a +child--it was a rash act, between you and I--for Connal’s not grown up a +likely lad for the girl to fancy; but that’s neither here nor there: no, +my word is passed--when half drunk, may be--but no matter--it must be +kept sober--drunk or sober, a gentleman must keep his word--_à fortiori_ +a king--_à fortiori_ King Corny. See! was there this minute no such +thing as parchment, deed, stamp, signature, or seal in the wide world, +when once Corny has squeezed a friend’s hand on a bargain, or a promise, +‘tis fast, was it ever so much against me--‘tis as strong to me as if I +had squeezed all the lawyers’ wax in the creation upon it.” + +Ormond admired the honourable sentiment; but was sorry there was any +occasion for it--and he sighed; but it was a sigh of pity for Dora: +not that he had ever seen White Connal, or known any thing of him--but +_White Connal_ did not sound well; and her father’s avowal, that it had +been a rash engagement, did not seem to promise happiness to Dora in +this marriage. + +From the time he had been a boy, Harry Ormond had been in the habit of +ferrying over to the Black Islands whenever Sir Ulick could spare him. +The hunting and shooting, and the life of lawless freedom he led on the +Islands, had been delightful. King Corny, who had the command not +only of boats, and of guns, and of fishing-tackle, and of men, but of +carpenters’ tools, and of smiths’ tools, and of a lathe, and of brass +and ivory, and of all the things that the heart of boy could desire, +had appeared to Harry, when he was a boy, the richest, the greatest, the +happiest of men--the cleverest, too--the most ingenious: for King Corny +had with his own hands made a violin and a rat-trap; and had made the +best coat, and the best pair of shoes, and the best pair of boots, and +the best hat; and had knit the best pair of stockings, and had made the +best dunghill in his dominions; and had made a quarter of a yard of fine +lace, and had painted a panorama. No wonder that King Corny had been +looked up to, by the imagination of childhood, as “a personage high as +human veneration could look.” + +But now, although our hero was still but a boy in many respects, yet in +consequence of his slight commerce with the world, he had formed some +comparisons, and made some reflections. He had heard, accidentally, the +conversation of a few people of common sense, besides the sly, witty, +and satirical remarks of Sir Ulick, upon _cousin Cornelius_; and it had +occurred to Harry to question the utility and real grandeur of some of +those things, which had struck his childish imagination. For example, he +began to doubt whether it were worthy of a king or a gentleman to be his +own shoemaker, hatter, and tailor; whether it were not better managed in +society, where these things are performed by different tradesmen: still +the things were wonderful, considering who made them, and under what +disadvantages they were made: but Harry having now seen and compared +Corny’s violin with other violins, and having discovered that so much +better could be had for money, with so much less trouble, his admiration +had a little decreased. There were other points relative to external +appearance, on which his eyes had been opened. In his boyish days, King +Corny, going out to hunt with hounds and horn, followed with shouts +by all who could ride, and all who could run, King Corny hallooing the +dogs, and cheering the crowd, appeared to him the greatest, the happiest +of mankind. + +But he had since seen hunts in a very different style, and he could no +longer admire the rabble rout. + +Human creatures, especially young human creatures, are apt to swing +suddenly from one extreme to the other, and utterly to despise that +which they had extravagantly admired. From this propensity Ormond was in +the present instance guarded by affection and gratitude. Through all the +folly of his kingship, he saw that Cornelius O’Shane was not a person to +be despised. He was indeed a man of great natural powers, both of body +and mind--of inventive genius, energy, and perseverance, which might +have attained the greatest objects; though from insufficient knowledge, +and self-sufficient perversity, they had wasted themselves on absurd or +trivial purposes. + +There was a strong contrast between the characters of Sir Ulick and +his cousin Cornelius O’Shane. They disliked and despised each other: +differing as far in natural disposition as the subtle and the bold, +their whole course through life, and the habits contracted during their +progress, had widened the original difference. + +The one living in the world, and mixing continually with men of all +ranks and character, had, by bending easily, and being all things to +all men, won his courtier-way onwards and upwards to the possession of a +seat in parliament, and the prospect of a peerage. + +The other, inhabiting a remote island, secluded from all men but those +over whom he _reigned_, caring for no earthly consideration, and for no +human opinion but his own, had _for_ himself and _by_ himself, hewed out +his way to his own objects, and then rested, satisfied-- + +“Lord of himself, and all his (_little_) world his own.” + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +One morning, when Harry Ormond was out shooting, and King Corny, who had +recovered tolerably from the gout, was reinstated in his arm-chair in +the parlour, listening to Father Jos reading “The Dublin Evening Post,” + a gossoon, one of the runners of the castle, opened the door, and +putting in his curly red head and bare feet, announced, _in all haste_, +that _he “just seen_ Sir Ulick O’Shane in the boat, crossing the lake +for the Black Islands.” + +“Well, breathless blockhead! and what of that?” said King Corny--“did +you never see a man in a boat before?” + +“I did, plase your honour.” + +“Then what is there extraordinary?” + +“Nothing at all, plase your honour, only--thought your honour might like +to know.” + +“Then you thought wrong, for I neither like it, nor mislike it. I don’t +care a rush about the matter--so take yourself down stairs.” + +“‘Tis a long time,” said the priest, as the gossoon closed the door +after him, “‘tis a longer time than he ought, since Sir Ulick O’Shane +paid his respects here, even in the shape of a morning visit.” + +“Morning visit!” repeated Mrs. Betty Dunshaughlin, the housekeeper, who +entered the room, for she was a privileged person, and had _les grandes +et les petites entrées in this palace_”--Morning visit!--are you sure, +Father Jos--are you clear he isn’t come intending to stay dinner?” + +“What, in the devil’s name, Betty, does it signify?” said the king. + +“About the dinner!” + +“What about it?” said Corny, proudly: “whether he comes, stays, or goes, +I’ll not have a scrap, or an iota of it changed,” added he in a despotic +tone. + +“_Wheugh_.’” said Betty, “one would not like to have a dinner of +scraps--for there’s nothing else to-day for him.” + +“Then if there _is_ nothing else, there _can_ be nothing else,” said the +priest, very philosophically. + +“But when strangers come to dine, one would make a bit of an exertion, +if one could,” said Betty. + +“It’s his own fault to be a stranger,” said Father Jos, watching his +majesty’s clouding countenance; then whispering to Betty, “that was a +faulty string you touched upon, Mrs. Betty; and can’t you make out your +dinner without saying any thing?” + +“A person may speak in this house, I suppose, besides the clergy, Father +Jos,” said Mrs. Betty, under her breath. + +Then looking out of the window, she added, “He’s half-way over the lake, +and he’ll make his own apologies good, I’ll engage, when he comes in; +for he knows how to speak for himself as well as any gentleman--and I +don’t doubt but he’ll get my Micky made an exciseman, as he promised +to; and sure he has a good right--Isn’t he a cousin of King Corny’s? +wherefore I’d wish to have all things proper. So I’ll step out and kill +a couple of chickens--won’t I?” + +“Kill what you please,” said King Corny; “but without my warrant, +nothing killed or unkilled shall come up to my table this day--and +that’s enough. No more reasoning--quit the subject and the room, Betty.” + +Betty quitted the room; but every stair, as she descended to the +kitchen, could bear witness that she did not quit the subject; and for +an hour afterwards, she reasoned against the obstinacy and folly of +man, and the chorus in the kitchen moralized, in conformity and +commiseration--in vain. + +Meantime Father Jos, though he regretted the exertions which Mrs. Betty +might discreetly have made in favour of a good dinner, was by no means, +as he declared, a friend or _fauterer_ of Sir Ulick O’Shane--how could +he, when Sir Ulick had recanted?--The priest looked with horror upon the +apostasy--the King with contempt upon the desertion of his party. “Was +he sincere any way, I’d honour him,” said Cornelius, “or forgive him; +but, not to be ripping up old grievances when there’s no occasion, can’t +forgive the way he is at this present double-dealing with poor Harry +Ormond--cajoling the grateful heart, and shirking the orphan boy that +he took upon him to patronise. Why there I thought nobly of him, and +forgave him all his sins, for the generous protection he afforded the +son of his friend.” + +“Had Captain Ormond, the father, no fortune?” asked the priest. + +“Only a trifle of three hundred a year, and no provision for the +education or maintenance of the boy. Ulick’s fondness for him, more than +all, showed him capable of the disinterested _touch_; but then to belie +his own heart--to abandon him he bred a favourite, just when the boy +wants him most--Oh! how could he? And all for what? To please the wife +he hates: that can’t be--that’s only the ostensible--but what the raal +rason is I can’t guess. No matter--he’ll soon tell us.” + +“Tell us! Oh! no,” said the priest, “he’ll keep his own secret.” + +“He’ll let it out, I’ll engage, trying to hide it,” said Corny: “like +all cunning people, he _woodcocks_--hides his head, and forgets his body +can be seen. But hark! he is coming up. Tommy!” said he, turning to +a little boy of five years old, Sheelah’s grandchild, who was playing +about in the room, “hand, me that whistle you’re whistling with, till I +see what’s the matter with it for you.” + +King Corny seemed lost in examination of the whistle when Sir Ulick +entered the room; and after receiving and seating him with proud +courtesy, he again returned to the charge, blowing through the whistle, +earnestly dividing his observation between Sir Ulick and little Tommy, +and asking questions, by turns, about the whistle, and about all at +Castle Hermitage. + +“Where’s my boy? Where’s Harry Ormond?” was the first leading question +Sir Ulick asked. + +“Harry Ormond’s out shooting, I believe, somewhere or somehow, taking +his pleasure, as I hope he will long, and always as long as he likes it, +at the Black Islands; at least as long as I live.” + +Sir Ulick branched off into hopes of his cousin Cornelius’s living long, +very long; and in general terms, that were intended to avoid committing +himself, or pinning himself to any thing, he protested that he must not +be robbed of his boy, that he had always, with good reason, been jealous +of Harry’s affection for King Corny, and that he could not consent to +let his term of stay at the Black Islands be either as long as Harry +himself should like, or during what he hoped would be the life of his +cousin, Cornelius O’Shane. + +“There’s something wrong, still, in this whistle. Why, if you loved him +so, did you let him go when you had him?” said Corny. + +“He thought it necessary, for domestic reasons,” replied Sir Ulick. + +“_Continental policy_, that is; what I never understood, nor never +shall,” said Corny. “But I don’t inquire any farther. If you are +satisfied with yourself, we are all satisfied, I believe.” + +“Pardon me, I cannot be satisfied without seeing Harry this morning, for +I’ve a little business with him--will you have the goodness to send for +him?” + +Father Jos, who, from the window, saw Harry’s dog snuffing along the +path to the wood, thought he could not be far from the house, and went +to make inquiries; and now when Sir Ulick and King Corny were left alone +together, a dialogue--a sort of single combat, without any object but +to try each other’s powers and temper--ensued between them; in which the +one on the offensive came on with a tomahawk, and the other stood on +the defensive parrying with a polished blade of Damascus; and sometimes, +when the adversary was off his guard, making a sly cut at an exposed +part. + +“What are you so busy about?” said Sir Ulick. + +“Mending the child’s toy,” said Cornelius. “A man must be doing +something in this world.” + +“But a man of your ingenuity! ‘tis a pity it should be wasted, as I have +often said, upon mere toys.” + +“Toys of one sort or other we are all taken up with through life, from +the cradle to the grave. By-the-bye, I give you joy of your baronetage. +I hope they did not make you pay, now, too much in conscience for that +poor tag of nobility.” + +“These things are not always matters of bargain and sale--mine was quite +an unsolicited honour, a mark of approbation and acceptance of my poor +services, and as such, gratifying;--as to the rest, believe me, it was +not, if I must use so coarse an expression, _paid_ for.” + +“Not paid for--what, then, it’s owing for? To be paid for still? Well, +that’s too hard, after all you’ve done for them. But some men have no +manner of conscience. At least, I hope you paid the fees.” + +“The fees, of course--but we shall never understand one another,” said +Sir Ulick. + +“Now what will be the next title or string you look forward to, Ulysses, +may I ask? Is it to be Baron Castle Hermitage, or to get a riband, or a +garter, or a thistle, or what?--A thistle! What asses some men are!” + +What savages some men are, thought Sir Ulick: he walked to the window, +and looking out, hoped that Harry Ormond would soon make his appearance. +“You are doing, or undoing, a great deal here, cousin Cornelius, I see, +as usual.” + +“Yes, but what I am doing, stand or fall, will never be my undoing--I am +no speculator. How do your silver mines go on, Sir Ulick? I hear all the +silver mines in Ireland turn out to be lead.” + +“I wish they did,” said Sir Ulick, “for then we could turn all our lead +to gold. Those silver mines certainly did not pay--I’ve a notion +you found the same with your reclaimed bog here, cousin Cornelius--I +understand that after a short time it relapses, and is worse than ever, +like most things pretending to be reclaimed.” + +“Speak for yourself, there, Sir Ulick,” said Cornelius; “you ought to +know, certainly, for some thirty years ago, I think you pretended to be +a reclaimed rake.” + +“I don’t remember it,” said Sir Ulick. + +“I do, and so would poor Emmy Annaly, if she was alive, which it’s +fortunate for her she is not (broken-hearted angel, if ever there was +one, by wedlock! and the only one of the Annalys I ever liked),” said +Cornelius to himself, in a low leisurely voice of soliloquy. Then +resuming his conversation tone, and continuing his speech to Sir Ulick, +“I say you pretended thirty years ago, I remember, to be a reformed +rake, and looked mighty smooth and plausible--and promised fair that +the improvement was solid, and was to last for ever and a day. But six +months after marriage comes a relapse, and the reclaimed rake’s worse +than ever. Well, to be sure, that’s in favour of your opinion against +all things pretending to be reclaimed. But see, my poor bog, without +promising so well, performs better; for it’s six years, instead of six +months, that I’ve seen no tendency to relapse. See, the _cattle_ upon it +speak for themselves; an honest calf won’t lie for any man.” + +“I give you joy of the success of your improvements. I admire, too, your +ploughing team and ploughing tackle,” said Sir Ulick, with an ironical +smile. “You don’t go into any indiscreet expense for farming implements +or prize cattle.” + +“No,” said Cornelius, “I don’t prize the prize cattle; the best prize a +man can get, and the only one worth having, is that which he must give +himself, or not get, and of which he is the best judge at all sasons.” + +“What prize, may I ask?” + +“You may ask, and I’ll answer--the prize of _success_; and, success to +myself, I have, it.” + +“And succeeding in all your ends by such noble means must be doubly +gratifying--and is doubly commendable and surprising,” said Sir Ulick. + +“May I ask--for it’s my turn now to play ignoramus--may I ask, what +noble means excites this gratuitous commendation and surprise?” + +“I commend, in the first place, the economy of your ploughing +tackle--hay ropes, hay traces, and hay halters--doubly useful and +convenient for harness and food.” + +Corny replied, “Some people I know, think the most expensive harness and +tackle, and the most expensive ways of doing every thing, the best; but +I don’t know if that is the way for the poor to grow rich--it may be +the way for the rich to grow poor: we are all poor people in the Black +Islands, and I can’t afford, or think it good policy, to give the +example of extravagant new ways of doing old things.” + +“‘Tis a pity you don’t continue the old Irish style of ploughing by the +tail,” said Sir Ulick. + +“That is against humanity to brute _bastes_, which, without any +sickening palaver of sentiment, I practise. Also, it’s against an act of +parliament, which I regard sometimes--that is, when I understand them; +which, the way you parliament gentlemen draw them up, is not always +particularly intelligible to plain common sense; and I have no lawyers +here, thank Heaven! to consult: I am forced to be legislator, and +lawyer, and ploughman, and all, you see, the best I can for myself.” + +He opened the window, and called to give some orders to the man, or, as +he called him, the boy--a boy of sixty--who was ploughing. + +“Your team, I see, is worthy of your tackle,” pursued Sir Ulick--“A +mule, a bull, and two lean horses. I pity the foremost poor devil of a +horse, who must starve in the midst of plenty, while the horse, bull, +and even mule, in a string behind him, are all plucking and _munging_ +away at their hay ropes.” + +Cornelius joined in Sir Ulick’s laugh, which shortened its duration. + +“‘Tis comical ploughing, I grant,” said he, “but still, to my fancy, any +thing’s better and more profitable _nor_ the tragi-comic ploughing you +practise every sason in Dublin.” + +“I?” said Sir Ulick. + +“Ay, you and all your courtiers, ploughing the half acre [Footnote: +Ploughing the half acre. The English reader will please to inquire the +meaning of this phrase from any Irish courtier.] continually, pacing +up and down that Castle-yard, while you’re waiting in attendance there. +Every one to his taste, but-- + + ‘If there’s a man on earth I hate, + Attendance and dependence be his fate.’” + +“After all, I have very good prospects in life,” said Sir Ulick. + +“Ay, you’ve been always living on prospects; for my part, I’d rather +have a mole-hill in possession than a mountain in prospect.” + +“Cornelius, what are you doing here to the roof of your house?” said Sir +Ulick, striking off to another subject. “What a vast deal of work you do +contrive to cut out for yourself.” + +“I’d rather cut it out for myself than have any body to cut it out for +me,” said Cornelius. + +“Upon my word, this will require all your extraordinary ingenuity, +cousin.” + +“Oh, I’ll engage I’ll make a good job of it, in my sense of the word, +though not in yours; for I know, in your vocabulary, that’s only a good +job where you pocket money and do nothing; now my good jobs never bring +me in a farthing, and give me a great deal to do into the bargain.” + +“I don’t envy you such jobs, indeed,” said Sir Ulick; “and are you sure +that at last you make them good jobs in any acceptation of the term?” + +“Sure! a man’s never sure of any thing in this world, but of being +abused. But one comfort, my own conscience, for which I’ve a trifling +respect, can’t reproach me; since my jobs, good or bad, have cost my +poor country nothing.” + +On this point Sir Ulick was particularly sore, for he had the character +of being one of the greatest _jobbers_ in Ireland. With a face of +much political prudery, which he well knew how to assume, he began +to exculpate himself. He confessed that much public money had passed +through his hands; but he protested that none of it had stayed with him. +No man, who had done so much for different administrations, had been so +ill paid. + +“Why the deuce do you work for them, then? You won’t tell me it’s for +love--Have you got any character by it?--if you haven’t profit, what +have you? I would not let them make me a dupe, or may be something +worse, if I was you,” said Cornelius, looking him full in the face. + +“Savage!” said Sir Ulick again to himself. The tomahawk was too much for +him--Sir Ulick felt that it was fearful odds to stand fencing according +to rule with one who would not scruple to gouge or scalp, if provoked. +Sir Ulick now stood silent, smiling forced smiles, and looking on while +Cornelius played quite at his ease with little Tommy, blew shrill blasts +through the whistle, and boasted that he had made a good job of that +whistle any way. + +Harry Ormond, to Sir Ulick’s great relief, now appeared. Sir Ulick +advanced to meet him with an air of cordial friendship, which brought +the honest flush of pleasure and gratitude into the young man’s face, +who darted a quick look at Cornelius, as much as to say, “You see you +were wrong--he is glad to see me--he is come to see me.” + +Cornelius said nothing, but stroked the child’s head, and seemed taken +up entirely with him; Sir Ulick spoke of Lady O’Shane, and of his hopes +that prepossessions were wearing off. “If Miss Black were out of the +way, things would all go right; but she is one of the mighty good--too +good ladies, who are always meddling with other people’s business, and +making mischief.” + +Harry, who hated her, that is, as much as he could hate any body, +railed at her vehemently, saying more against her than he thought, and +concluded by joining in Sir Ulick’s wish for her departure from Castle +Hermitage, but not with any view to his own return thither: on that +point he was quite resolute and steady. He would never, he said, be the +cause of mischief. Lady O’Shane did not like him--why, he did not know, +and had no right to inquire--and was too proud to inquire, if he had a +right. It was enough that her ladyship had proved to him her dislike, +and refused him protection at his utmost need: he should never again +sue for her hospitality. He declared that Sir Ulick should no more be +disquieted by his being an inmate at Castle Hermitage. + +Sir Ulick became more warm and eloquent in dissuading him from this +resolution, the more he perceived that Ormond was positively fixed in +his determination. + +The cool looker-on all the time remarked this, and Cornelius was +convinced that he had from the first been right in his own opinion, that +Sir Ulick was “_shirking the boy_.” + +“And where’s Marcus, sir? would not he come with you to see us?” said +Ormond. + +“Marcus is gone off to England. He bid me give you his kindest love: he +was hurried, and regretted he could not come to take leave of you; but +he was obliged to go off with the Annalys, to escort her ladyship to +England, where he will remain this year, I dare say. I am much concerned +to say, that poor Lady Annaly and Miss Annaly--” Sir Ulick cleared his +throat, and gave a suspicious look at Ormond. + +This glance at Harry, the moment Sir Ulick pronounced the words _Miss +Annaly_, first directed aright the attention of Cornelius. + +“Lady Annaly and Miss Annaly! are they ill? What’s the matter, for +Heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Harry with great anxiety; but pronouncing both +the ladies’ names precisely in the same tone, and with the same freedom +of expression. + +Sir Ulick took breath. “Neither of the ladies are ill--absolutely ill; +but they have both been greatly shocked by accounts of young Annaly’s +sudden illness. It is feared an inflammation upon his lungs, brought on +by violent cold--his mother and sister left us this morning--set off +for England to him immediately. Lady Annaly thought of you, Harry, +my boy--you must be a prodigious favourite--in the midst of all her +affliction, and the hurry of this sudden departure, this morning: she +gave me a letter for you, which I determined to deliver with my own +hands.” + +While he spoke, Sir Ulick, affecting to search for the letter among +many in his pocket, studied with careless intermitting glances our young +hero’s countenance, and Cornelius O’Shane studied Sir Ulick’s: Harry +tore open the letter eagerly, and coloured a good deal when he saw the +inside. + +“I have no business here reading that boy’s secrets in his face,” cried +Cornelius O’Shane, raising himself on his crutches--“I’ll step out and +look at my roof. Will you come, Sir Ulick, and see how the job goes on?” + His crutch slipped as he stepped across the hearth--Harry ran to him: +“Oh, sir, what are you doing? You are not able to walk yet without +me--why are you going? Secrets did you say?” (The words recurred to +his ear.) “I have no secrets--there’s no secrets in this letter--it’s +only--the reason I looked foolish was that here’s a list of my own +faults, which I made like a fool, and dropped like a fool--but they +could not have fallen into better or kinder hands than Lady Annaly’s.” + +He offered the letter and its enclosure to Cornelius and Sir Ulick. +Cornelius drew back. “I don’t want to see the list of your faults, man,” + said he: “do you think I haven’t them all by heart already? and as to +the lady’s letter, while you live never show a lady’s letter.” + +Sir Ulick, without ceremony, took the letter, and in a moment satisfying +his curiosity that it was merely a friendly note, returned it and the +list of his faults to Harry, saying. “If it had been a young lady’s +letter, I am sure you would not have shown it to me, Harry, nor, of +course, would I have looked at it. But I presumed that a letter from old +Lady Annaly could only be, what I see it is, very edifying.” + +“Old Lady Annaly, is it?” cried Cornelius: “oh! then there’s no +indiscretion, young man, in the case. You might as well scruple about +your mother’s letter, if you had one; or your mother’s-in-law, which, to +be sure, you’ll have, I hope, in due course of nature.” + +At the sound of the words mother-in-law, a cloud passed over Sir Ulick’s +brow, not unnoticed by the shrewd Cornelius; but the cloud passed away +quickly, after Sir Ulick had darted another reconnoitring glance on +Harry’s open unconscious countenance. + +“All’s safe,” said Sir Ulick to himself, as he took leave. + +“_Woodcocked_! that he has--as I foresaw he would,” cried King Corny, +the moment his guest had departed. “_Woodcocked_! if ever man did, by +all that’s cunning!” + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +King Corny sat for some minutes after Sir Ulick’s departure perfectly +still and silent, leaning both hands and his chin on his crutch. Then, +looking up at Harry, he exclaimed, “What a dupe you are! but I like you +the better for it.” + +“I am glad you like me the better, at all events,” said Harry; “but I +don’t think I am a dupe.” + +“No--if you _did_, you would not be one: so you don’t see that it was +and _is_ Sir Ulick, and not her ladyship, that wanted and wants to get +rid of you?” + +No, Harry did not see this, and would not be persuaded of it. He +defended his guardian most warmly; he was certain of Sir Ulick’s +affection; he was sure Sir Ulick was incapable of acting with such +duplicity. + +His majesty repeated, at every pause, “You are a dupe; but I like you +the better for it. And,” added he, “you don’t--blind buzzard! as your +want of conceit makes you, for which I like you the better, too--you +don’t see the reason why he banished you from Castle Hermitage--you +don’t see that he is jealous of your rivalling that puppy, Marcus, his +son.” + +“Rivalling Marcus in what, or how?” + +“_With_ whom? boy, is the question you should ask; and in that case the +answer is--Dunce, can’t you guess now?--Miss Annaly.” + +“Miss Annaly!” repeated Harry with genuine surprise, and with a quick +sense of inferiority and humiliation. “Oh, sir, you would not be +so ill-natured as to make a jest of me!--I know how ignorant, how +uninformed, what a raw boy I am. Marcus has been educated like a +gentleman.” + +“More shame for his father that couldn’t do the same by you when he was +about it.” + +“But Marcus, sir--there ought to be a difference--Marcus is heir to +a large fortune--I have nothing. Marcus may hope to marry whoever he +pleases.” + +“Ay, whoever he _pleases_; and who will that be, if women are of my +mind?” muttered Corny. “I’ll engage, if you had a mind to rival him--” + +“Rival him! the thought of rivalling my friend never entered my head.” + +“But is he your friend?” said Cornelius. + +“As to that, I don’t know: he was my friend, and I loved him +sincerely--warmly--he has cast me off--I shall never complain--never +blame him directly or indirectly; but don’t let me be accused or +suspected unjustly--I never for one instant had the treachery, +presumption, folly, or madness, to think of Miss Annaly.” + +“Nor she of you, I suppose, you’ll swear?” + +“Nor she of me! assuredly not, sir,” said Harry, with surprise at the +idea. “Do you consider what I am--and what she is?” + +“Well, I am glad they are gone to England out of the way!” said +Cornelius. + +“I am very sorry for that,” said Harry; “for I have lost a kind friend +in Lady Annaly--one who at least I might have hoped would have become my +friend, if I had deserved it.” + +“_Might have hoped!--would have become!_--That’s a friend in the air, +who may never be found on earth. _If you deserved it_!--Murder!--who +knows how that might turn out--_if_--I don’t like that kind of +subjunctive mood tenure of a friend. Give me the good imperative mood, +which I understand--be my friend--at once--or not at all--that’s my +mood. None of your _if_ friends for me, setting out with a proviso and +an excuse to be off; and may be when you’d call upon ‘em at your utmost +need, ‘Oh! I said if you deserve it--Lie there like a dog.’ Now, what +kind of a friend is that? If Lady Annaly is that sort, no need to regret +her. My compliments to her, and a good journey to England--Ireland well +rid of her! and so are you, too, my boy!” + +“But, dear sir, how you have worked yourself up into a passion against +Lady Annaly for nothing.” + +“It’s not for nothing--I’ve good rason to dislike the woman. What +business had she, because she’s an old woman and you a young man, to set +up preaching to you about your faults? I hate prachers, feminine gender, +especially.” + +“She is no preacher, I assure you, sir.” + +“How dare you tell me that--was not her letter very _edifying?_ Sir +Ulick said.” + +“No, sir; it was very kind--will you read it?” + +“No, sir, I won’t; I never read an edifying letter in my life with my +eyes open, nor never will--quite enough for me that impertinent list of +your faults she enclosed you.” + +“That list was my own, not hers, sir: I dropped it under a tree.” + +“Well, drop it into the fire now, and no more about it. Pray, after all, +Harry, for curiosity’s sake, what faults have you?” + +“Dear sir, I thought you told me you knew them by heart.” + +“I always forget what I learn by heart; put me in mind, and may be I’ll +recollect as you go on.” + +“Well, sir, in the first place, I am terribly passionate.” + +“Passionate! true; that is Moriarty you are thinking of; and I grant +you, that had like to have been a sad job--you had a squeak for your +life there, and I pitied you as if it had been myself; for I know what +it is after one of them blind rages is over, and one opens one’s eyes +on the wrong one has done--and then such a cursed feel to be penitent in +vain--for that sets no bones. You were blind drunk that night, and that +was my fault; but my late vow has prevented the future, and Moriarty’s +better in the world than ever he was.” + +“Thanks to your goodness, sir.” “Oh! I wasn’t thinking of my +goodness--little enough that same; but to ease your conscience, it was +certainly the luckiest turn ever happened him the shot he got, and so he +says himself. Never think of that more in the way of penitence.” + +“In the way of reformation though, I hope, I shall all my life,” said +Harry. “One comfort--I have never been in a passion since.” + +“But, then, a rasonable passion’s allowable: I wouldn’t give a farthing +for a man that couldn’t be in a passion on a proper occasion. I’m +passionate myself, rasonably passionate, and I like myself the better +for it.” + +“I thought you said just now you often repented.” + +“Oh! never mind what I said _just now_--mind what I’m saying now. Isn’t +a red heat that you can see, and that warms you, better than a white +heat that blinds you? I’d rather a man would knock me down than stand +smiling at me, as cousin Ulick did just now, when I know he could have +kilt me; he is not passionate--he has the command of himself--every +feature under the courtier’s regimen of hypocrisy. Harry Ormond, don’t +set about to cure yourself of your natural passions--why, this is rank +methodism, all!” + +“Methodism, sir?” + +“_Methodism_, sir!--don’t contradict or repeat me--methodism, that the +woman has brought you to the brink of, and I warn you from it! I did not +know till now that your Lady Annaly was such a methodist--no methodist +shall ever darken my doors, or lighten them either, with their _new_ +lights. New lights! new nonsense!--for man, woman, or beast. But enough +of this, and too much, Harry. Prince Harry, pull that bell a dozen times +for me this minute, till they bring out my old horse.” + +Before it was possible that any one could have come up stairs, the +impatient monarch, pointing with his crutch, added, “Run to the head of +the stairs, Prince Harry dear, and call and screech to them to make no +delay; and I want you out with me; so get your horse, Harry.” + +“But, sir--is it possible--are you able?” + +“I am able, sir, possible or not,” cried King Corny, starting up on +his crutches. “Don’t stand talking to me of possibilities, when ‘tis a +friend I am going to serve, and that friend as dear as yourself. Aren’t +you at the head of the stairs yet? Must I go and fall down them myself?” + +To prevent this catastrophe, our young hero ran immediately and ordered +the horses: his majesty mounted, or rather was mounted, and they +proceeded to one of the prettiest farms in the Black Islands. As they +rode to it, he seemed pleased by Harry’s admiring, as he could, with +perfect truth, the beauty of the situation. + +“And the land--which you are no judge of yet, but you will--is as good +as it is pretty,” said King Corny, “which I am glad of for your sake, +Prince Harry; I won’t have you, like that _donny_ English prince or +king, they nicknamed _Lackland_.--No: you sha’n’t lack land while I have +it to let or give. I called you prince--Prince of the Black Islands--and +here’s your principality. Call out my prime minister, Pat Moore. I sent +him across the bog to meet us at Moriarty’s. Here he is, and +Moriarty along with him to welcome you. Patrick, give Prince Harry +possession--with sod and twig. Here’s the kay from my own hand, and I +give you joy. Nay, don’t deny me the pleasure--I’ve a right to it. +No wrong to my daughter, if that’s what you are thinking of--a clear +improvement of my own,--and she will have enough without it. Besides, +her betrothed White Connal is a fat grazier, who will make her as rich +as a Jew; and any way she is as generous as a princess herself. But if +it pains you so, and weighs you down, as I see it does, to be under any +obligation--you shall be under none in life. You shall pay me rent for +it, and you shall give it up whenever you please. Well! we’ll settle +that between ourselves,” continued his majesty; “only take possession, +that’s all I ask. But I hope,” added he, “before we’ve lived a year, or +whatever time it is till you arrive at years of discretion, you’ll know +me well enough, and love me well enough, not to be so stiff about a +trifle, that’s nothing between friend and friend--let alone the joke of +king and prince, dear Harry.” + +The gift of this _principality_ proved a most pernicious, nearly a +fatal, gift to the young prince. The generosity, the delicacy, with +which it was made, a delicacy worthy of the most polished, and little to +have been expected from the barbarian mock-monarch, so touched our young +hero’s heart, so subjected his grateful spirit to his benefactor, that +he thenceforth not only felt bound to King Corny for life, but prone to +deem every thing he did or thought, wisest, fittest, best. + +When he was invested with his petty principality, it was expected of him +to give a dinner and a dance to the island: so he gave a dinner and a +dance, and every body said he was a fine fellow, and had the spirit of a +prince. “King Corny, God bless him! couldn’t go astray in his choice of +a favourite--long life to him and Prince Harry! and no doubt there’d be +fine hunting, and shooting, and coursing continually. Well, was not it +a happy thing for the islands, when Harry Ormond first set foot on them? +From a boy ‘twas _a_sy to see what a man he’d be. Long may he live to +_reign_ over us!” + +The taste for vulgar praise grew by what it fed upon. Harry was in great +danger of forgetting that he was too fond of flattery, and too fond of +company--not the best. He excused himself to himself, by saying that +companions of some kind or other he must have, and he was in a situation +where good company was not to be had. Then Moriarty Carroll was +gamekeeper, and Moriarty Carroll was always out hunting or shooting with +him, and he was led by kind and good feelings to be more familiar and +_free_ with this man than he would have been with any other in the +same rank of life. The poor fellow was ardently attached to him, and +repeated, with delight, all the praises he heard of Master Harry, +through _the Islands_. The love of popularity seized him--popularity +on the lowest scale! To be popular among the unknown, unheard-of +inhabitants of the Black Islands,--could this be an object to any man +of common sense, any one who had lived in civilized society, and who had +had any thing like the education of a gentleman? The fact, argue about +it as you will--the fact was as is here stated; and let those who hear +it with a disdainful smile recollect that whether in Paris, London, or +the Black Islands, the mob are, in all essential points, pretty nearly +the same. + +It happened about this time that Betty Dunshaughlin was rummaging in +her young lady’s work-basket for some riband, “which she knew she might +take,” to dress a cap that was to be hung upon a pole as a prize, to +be danced for at the _pattern_, [Footnote: _Patron_, probably--an +entertainment held in honour of the _patron_ saint. A festive meeting, +similar to a wake in England.] to be given next Monday at Ormond +Vale, by Prince Harry. Prince Harry was now standing by, giving some +instructions about the ordering of the entertainment; Betty, in the +mean time, pursued her own object of the riband, and as she emptied the +basket in haste, threw out a book, which Harry, though not much at this +time addicted to reading, snatched impatiently, eager to know what book +it was: it was one he had often heard of--often intended to read some +time or other, but somehow or other he had never had time: and now he +was in the greatest possible hurry, for the hounds were out. But when +once he had opened the book, he could not shut it: he turned over page +after page, peeped at the end, the beginning, and the middle, then +back to the beginning; was diverted by the humour--every Irishman loves +humour; delighted with the wit--what Irishman is not? And his curiosity +was so much raised by the story, his interest and sympathy so excited +for the hero, that he read on, standing for a quarter of an hour, fixed +in the same position, while Betty held forth unheard, about cap, supper, +and _pattern_. At last he carried off the book to his own room, that he +might finish it in peace; nor did he ever stop till he came to the end +of the volume. The story not finishing there, and breaking off in a most +interesting part, he went in search of the next volume, but that was not +to be found. His impatience was ravenous. + +“Mercy, Master Harry,” cried Mrs. Betty, “don’t eat one up! I know +nothing at-all-at-all about the book, and I’m very sorry I tumbled it +out of the basket. That’s all there is of it to be had high or low--so +don’t be tormenting me any more out of my life for nothing.” + +But having seized upon her, he refused to let her go, and protested that +he would continue to be the torment of her life, till she should find +the other volume. Betty, when her memory was thus racked, put her hand +to her forehead, and recollected that in _the apple-room_ there was a +heap of old books. Harry possessed himself of the key of the apple-room, +tossed over the heap of tattered mouldy books, and at last found the +precious volume. He devoured it eagerly--nor was it forgotten as soon +as finished. As the chief part of the entertainment depended on the +characters, it did not fade from his imagination. He believed the story +to be true, for it was constructed with unparalleled ingenuity, +and developed with consummate art. The character which particularly +interested him was that of the hero, the more peculiarly, because +he saw, or fancied that he saw, a resemblance to his own; with some +differences, to be sure--but young readers readily assimilate and +identify themselves with any character, the leading points of which +resemble their own, and in whose general feelings they sympathize. In +some instances, Harry, as he read on, said to himself, “I would not--I +could not have done so and so.” But upon the whole, he was charmed by +the character--that of a warm-hearted, generous, imprudent young man, +with little education, no literature, governed more by feeling than by +principle, never upon any occasion reasoning, but keeping right by happy +moral instincts; or when going wrong, very wrong, forgiven easily by the +reader and by his mistress, and rewarded at the last with all that +love and fortune can bestow, in consideration of his being “a very fine +fellow.” + +Closing the book, Harry Ormond resolved to be what he admired--and, if +possible, to shine forth an Irish Tom Jones. For this purpose he was +not at all bound to be a moral gentleman, nor, as he conceived, to be a +_gentleman_ at all--not, at least, in the commencement of his career: +he might become accomplished at any convenient period of his life, +and become moral at the end of it, but he might begin by being an +accomplished--blackguard. Blackguard is a harsh word; but what other +will express the idea? Unluckily, the easiest points to be imitated in +any character are not always the best; and where any latitude is given +to conscience, or any precedents are allowed to the grosser passions +for their justification, those are the points which are afterwards +remembered and applied in practice, when the moral salvo sentences are +forgotten, or are at best but of feeble countervailing effect. + +At six o’clock on Monday evening the cap--the prize cap, flaming with +red ribands from the top of the pole, streamed to the summer air, and +delighted the upturned eyes of assembled crowds upon the green below. +The dance began, and our popular hero, the delight of all the nymphs, +and the envy of all the swains, danced away with one of the prettiest, +“smartest,” “most likely-looking” “lasses,” that ever appeared at any +former patron. She was a degree more refined in manner, and polished in +appearance, than the fair of the Black Islands, for she came from the +continent of Ireland--she had the advantage of having been sometimes +at the big house at Castle Hermitage--she was the gardener’s +daughter--Peggy Sheridan--distinguished among her fellows by a nosegay, +such as no other could have procured--distinguished more by her figure +and her face than by her nosegay, and more by her air and motions, than +even by her figure or her face: she stepped well, and stepped out--she +danced an Irish jig to admiration, and she was not averse from +admiration; village prudes, perhaps, might call her a village coquette; +but let not this suggest a thought derogatory to the reputation of +the lively Peggy. She was a well-behaved, well-meaning, innocent, +industrious girl--a good daughter, a good sister, and more than one in +the neighbourhood thought she would make a good wife. She had not only +admirers, but suitors in abundance. Harry Ormond could not think of +her as a wife, but he was evidently--more evidently this day than ever +before--one of Peggy’s admirers. His heart or his fancy was always +warmly susceptible to the charms of beauty; and, never well guarded by +prudence, he was now, with his head full of Tom Jones, prone to run into +danger himself, and rashly ready to hurry on an innocent girl to her +destruction. He was not without hopes of pleasing--what young man of +nineteen or twenty is? He was not without chance of _success_, as it is +called, with Peggy--what woman can be pronounced safe, who ventures to +extend to a young lover the encouragement of coquettish smiles? +Peggy said, “innocent smiles sure,” “meaning nothing;” but they were +interpreted to mean something: less would in his present dispositions +have excited the hero who imitated Tom Jones to enterprise. Report says +that, about this time, Harry Ormond was seen disguised in a slouched +hat and _trusty_ [Footnote: Great coat.], wandering about the grounds +at Castle Hermitage. Some swear they saw him pretending to dig in the +garden; and even under the gardener’s windows, seeming to be nailing up +jessamine. Some would not swear, but if they might trust their own eyes, +they might verily believe, and _could_, only that they would not, take +their oath to having seen him once cross the lake alone by moonlight. +But without believing above half what the world says, candour obliges us +to acknowledge, that there was some truth in these scandalous reports. +He certainly pursued, most imprudently “pursued the chase of youth and +beauty;” nor would he, we fear, have dropped the chase till Peggy +was his prey, but that _fortunately_, in the full headlong career of +passion, he was suddenly startled and stopped by coming in view of +an obstacle that he could not overleap--a greater wrong than he had +foreseen, at least a different wrong, and in a form that made his heart +tremble. He reined in his passion, and stood appalled. + +In the first hurry of that passion he had seen nothing, heard nothing, +understood nothing, but that Peggy was pretty, and that he was in love. +It happened one evening that he, with a rose yet unfaded in his hand--a +rose which he had snatched from Peggy Sheridan--took the path towards +Moriarty Carroll’s cottage. Moriarty, seeing him from afar, came out +to meet him; but when he came within sight of the rose, Moriarty’s pace +slackened, and turning aside, he stepped out of the path, as if to let +Mr. Ormond pass. + +“How now, Moriarty?” said Harry. But looking in his face, he saw the +poor fellow pale as death. + +“What ails you, Moriarty?” + +“A pain I just took about my heart,” said Moriarty, pressing both hands +to his heart. + +“My poor fellow!--Wait!--you’ll be better just now, I hope,” said +Ormond, laying his hand on Moriarty’s shoulder. + +“I’ll never be better of it, I fear,” said Moriarty, withdrawing his +shoulder; and giving a jealous glance at the rose, he turned his head +away again. + +“I’ll thank your honour to go on, and leave me--I’ll be better by +myself. It is not to your honour, above all, that I can open my heart.” + +A suspicion of the truth now flashed across Ormond’s mind--he was +determined to know whether it was the truth or not. + +“I’ll not leave you, till I know what’s the matter,” said he. + +“Then none will know that till I die,” said Moriarty; adding, after a +little pause, “there’s no knowing what’s wrong withinside of a man till +he is opened.” + +“But alive, Moriarty, if the heart is in the case only,” said Ormond, “a +man can open himself to a friend.” + +“Ay, if he had a friend,” said Moriarty. “I’ll beg your honour to let me +pass--I am able for it now--I am quite stout again.” + +“Then if you are quite stout again, I shall want you to row me across +the lake.” + +“I am not able for that, sir,” replied Moriarty, pushing past him. + +“But,” said Ormond, catching hold of his arm, “aren’t you able or +willing to carry a note for me?” As he spoke, Ormond produced the note, +and let him see the direction--to Peggy Sheridan. + +“Sooner stab me to the heart _again_,” cried Moriarty, breaking from +him. + +“Sooner stab myself to the heart then,” cried Ormond, tearing the note +to bits. “Look, Moriarty: upon my honour, till this instant, I did +not know you loved the girl--from this instant I’ll think of her no +more--never more will I see her, hear of her, till she be your wife.” + +“Wife!” repeated Moriarty, joy illuminating, but fear as instantly +darkening his countenance. “How will that be now?” + +“It _will_ be--it shall be--as happily as honourably. Listen to me, +Moriarty--as honourably now as ever. Can you think me so wicked, so +base, as to say, _wife_, if--no, passion might hurry me to a rash, but +of a base action I’m incapable. Upon my soul, upon the sacred honour of +a gentleman--” + +Moriarty sighed. + +“Look!” continued Ormond, taking the rose from his breast; “this is the +utmost that ever passed between us, and that was my fault: I snatched +it, and thus--thus,” cried he, tearing the rose to pieces, “I scatter it +to the winds of heaven; and thus may all trace of past fancy and folly +be blown from remembrance!” + +“Amen!” said Moriarty, watching the rose-leaves for an instant, as they +flew and were scattered out of sight; then, as Ormond broke the stalk +to pieces, and flung it from him, he asked, with a smile, “Is the pain +about your heart gone now, Moriarty?” + +“No, plase your honour, not gone; but a quite different--better--but +worse. So strange with me--I can’t speak rightly--for the pleasure has +seized me stronger than the pain.” + +“Lean against me, poor fellow. Oh, if I had broken such a heart!” + +“Then how wrong I was when I said that word I did!” said Moriarty. “I +ask your honour, your dear honour’s pardon on my knees.” + +“For what?--For what?--You have done no wrong.” + +“No:--but I said wrong--very wrong--when I said stab me to the heart +_again_. Oh, that word _again_--it was very ungenerous.” + +“Noble fellow!” said Ormond. + +“Good night to your honour, kindly,” said Moriarty. + +“How happy I am now!” said our young hero to himself, as he walked home, +“which I never should have been if I had done this wrong.” + +A fortunate escape!--yes: but when the escape is owing to good fortune, +not to prudence--to good feeling, not to principle--there is no security +for the future. + +Ormond was steady to his promise toward Moriarty: to do him justice, he +was more than this--he was generous, actively, perseveringly generous, +in his conduct to him. With open heart, open purse, public overture, +and private negotiation with the parents of Peggy Sheridan, he at last +succeeded in accomplishing Moriarty’s marriage. + +Ormond’s biographer may well be allowed to make the most of his +persevering generosity on this occasion, because no other scrap of good +can be found, of which to make any thing in his favour, for several +months to come. Whether Tom Jones was still too much, and Lady Annaly +too little, in his head--whether it was that King Corny’s example and +precepts were not always edifying--whether this young man had been +prepared by previous errors of example and education--or whether he fell +into mischief because he had nothing else to do in these Black Islands; +certain it is, that from the operation of some or all of these causes +conjointly, he deteriorated sadly. He took to “vagrant courses,” in +which the muse forbears to follow him. + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +It is said that the Turks have a very convenient recording angel, who, +without dropping a tear to blot out that which might be wished unsaid or +undone, fairly shuts his eyes, and forbears to record whatever is said +or done by man in three circumstances: when he is drunk, when he is in a +passion, and while he is _under age_. What the _under age_, or what +the years of discretion of a Turk may be, we do not at this moment +recollect. We only know that our own hero is not yet twenty. Without +being quite as accommodating as the Mahometan angel, we should wish to +obliterate from our record some months of Ormond’s existence. He felt +and was ashamed of his own degradation; but, after having lost, or worse +than lost, a winter of his life, it was in vain to lament; or rather, it +was not enough to weep over the loss--how to repair it was the question. + +Whenever Ormond returned to his better self, whenever he thought of +improving, he remembered Lady Annaly; and he now recollected with +shame, that he had never had the grace to answer or to thank her for her +letter. He had often thought of writing, but he had put it off from day +to day, and now months had passed; he wrote a sad scrawling hand, and +he had always been ashamed that Lady Annaly should see it; but now the +larger shame got the better of the lesser, and he determined he would +write. He looked for her letter, to read it over again before he +answered it--the letter was very safe, for he considered it as his +greatest treasure. + +On recurring to the letter, he found that she had mentioned a present of +books which she intended for him: a set of books which belonged to her +son, Sir Herbert Annaly, and of which she found they had duplicates in +their library. She had ordered the box containing them to be sent to +Annaly, and had desired her agent there to forward it; but in case any +delay should occur, she begged Mr. Ormond would take the trouble to +inquire for them himself. This whole affair about the books had escaped +Ormond’s memory: he felt himself blush all over when he read the letter +again; and sent off a messenger immediately to the agent at Annaly, who +had kept the box till it was inquired for. It was too heavy for the boy +to carry, and he returned, saying that two men would not carry it, nor +four--a slight exaggeration! A car was sent for it, and at last Harry +obtained possession of the books. It was an excellent collection of what +may be called the English and French classics: the French books were, +at this time, quite useless to him, for he could not read French. Lady +Annaly, however, sent these books on purpose to induce him to learn a +language, which, if he should go into the army, as he seemed inclined to +do, would be particularly useful to him. Lady Annaly observed that Mr. +Ormond, wherever he might be in Ireland, would probably find even the +priest of the parish a person who could assist him sufficiently in +learning French; as most of the Irish parish priests were, at that time, +educated at St. Omer’s or Louvain. + +Father Jos had been at St. Omer’s, and Harry resolved to attack him +with a French grammar and dictionary; but the French that Father Jos had +learnt at St. Omer’s was merely from ear--he could not bear the sight of +a French grammar. Harry was obliged to work on by himself. He again put +off writing to thank Lady Annaly, till he could tell her that he had +obeyed her commands; and that he could read at least a page of Gil Blas. +Before this was accomplished, he learnt from the agent that Lady Annaly +was in great affliction about her son, who had broken a blood-vessel. He +could not think of intruding upon her at such a time--and, in short, he +put it off till it seemed too late to write at all. + +Among the English books was one in many volumes, which did not seize his +attention forcibly, like Tom Jones, at once, but which won upon him by +degrees, drew him on against his will, and against his taste. He hated +moralizing and reflections; and there was here an abundance both of +reflections and morality; these he skipped over, however, and went on. +The hero and the heroine too were of a stiff fashion, which did not suit +his taste; yet still there was something in the book that, in spite +of the terrible array of _good people_, captivated his attention. The +heroine’s perpetual egotism disgusted him--she was always too good and +too full of herself--and she wrote dreadfully long letters. The hero’s +dress and manner were too splendid, too formal, for every day use: at +first he detested Sir Charles Grandison, who was so different from the +friends he loved in real life, or the heroes he had admired in books; +just as in old portraits, we are at first struck with the costume, but +soon, if the picture be really by a master hand, our attention is fixed +on the expression of the features and the life of the figure. + +Sensible as Ormond was of the power of humour and ridicule, he was still +more susceptible, as all noble natures are, of sympathy with elevated +sentiments and with generous character. The character of Sir Charles +Grandison, in spite of his ceremonious bowing on the hand, touched the +nobler feelings of our young hero’s mind, inspired him with virtuous +emulation, and made him ambitious to be a _gentleman_ in the best and +highest sense of the word: in short, it completely counteracted in his +mind the effects of his late study. All the generous feelings which were +so congenial to his own nature, and which he had seen combined in +Tom Jones, as if necessarily, with the habits of an adventurer, a +spendthrift, and a rake, he now saw united with high moral and religious +principles, in the character of a man of virtue, as well as a man of +honour; a man of cultivated understanding, and accomplished manners. +In Sir Charles Grandison’s history, he read that of a gentleman, who, +fulfilling every duty of his station in society, eminently _useful_, +respected and beloved, as brother, friend, master of a family, guardian, +and head of a large estate, was admired by his own sex, and, what struck +Ormond far more forcibly, was loved, passionately loved, by women--not +by the low and profligate, but by the highest and most accomplished of +the sex. Indeed, to him it appeared no fiction, while he was reading +it; his imagination was so full of Clementina, and the whole Porretta +family, that he saw them in his sleeping and waking dreams. The deep +pathos so affected him, that he could scarcely recall his mind to +the low concerns of life. Once, when King Corny called him to go out +shooting--he found him with red eyes. Harry was ashamed to tell him the +cause, lest he should laugh at him. But Corny was susceptible of the +same kind of enthusiasm himself; and though he had, as he said, never +been regularly what is called a _reading man_, yet the books he had read +left ineffaceable traces in his memory. Fictions, if they touched him at +all, struck him with all the force of reality; and he never spoke of the +characters as in a book, but as if they had lived and acted. Harry was +glad to find that here again, as in most things, they sympathized, and +suited each other. + +But Corny, if ready to give sympathy, was likewise imperious in +requiring it; and Harry was often obliged to make sudden transitions +from his own thoughts and employments, to those of his friend. These +transitions, however difficult and provoking at the time, were useful +discipline to his mind, giving him that versatility, in which persons of +powerful imagination, accustomed to live in retirement, and to command +their own time and occupations, are often most deficient. At this +period, when our young hero was suddenly seized with a voracious +appetite for books, it was trying to his patience to be frequently +interrupted. + +“Come, come--Harry Bookworm you are growing!--no good!--come out!” cried +King Corny. “Lay down whatever you have in your hand, and come off this +minute, till I show you a badger at bay, with half-a-dozen dogs.” + +“Yes, sir--this minute--be kind enough to wait one minute.” + +“It has been hiding and skulking this week from me--we have got it out +of its snug hole at last. I bid them keep the dogs off till you came. +Don’t be waiting any longer. Come off, Harry, come! Phoo! phoo! +That book will keep cold, and what is it? Oh! the last volume of Sir +Charles--not worth troubling your eyes with. The badger is worth a +hundred of it--not a pin’s worth in that volume but worked stools and +chairs, and China jugs and mugs. Oh! throw it from you. Come away.” + +Another time, at the very death of Clarissa, King Corny would have Harry +out to see a Solan goose. + +“Oh! let Clarissa die another time; come now, you that never saw a Solan +goose--it looks for all the world as if it wore spectacles; Moriarty +says so.” + +Harry was carried off to see the goose in spectacles, and was pressed +into the service of King Corny for many hours afterwards, to assist +in searching for its eggs. One of the Black Islands was a bare, high, +pointed, desert rock, in which the sea-fowl built; and here, in the +highest point of rock, this Solan goose had deposited some of her eggs, +instead of leaving them in nests on the ground, as she usually does. The +more dangerous it was to obtain the eggs, which the bird had hidden in +this pinnacle of the rock, the more eager Corny was to have them; and +he, and Ormond, and Moriarty, were at this perilous work for hours. King +Corny directing and bawling, and Moriarty and Ormond with pole, net, +and polehook, swinging and leaping from one ledge of rock to another, +clambering, clinging, sliding, pushing, and pulling each other +alternately, from hold to hold, with frightful precipices beneath them. +As soon as Ormond had warmed to the business, he was delighted with the +dangerous pursuit; but suddenly, just as he had laid his hand on the +egg, and that King Corny shouted in triumph, Harry, leaping back across +the cleft in the rock, missed his footing and fell, and must have been +dashed to pieces, but for a sort of projecting landing-place, on which +he was caught, where he lay for some minutes stunned. The terror of poor +Corny was such that he could neither move nor look up, till Moriarty +called out to him, that Master Harry was safe all to a sprained ankle. +The fall, and the sprain, would not have been deemed worthy of a +place in these memoirs of our hero but from their consequences--the +consequences not on his body but on his mind. He could not for some +weeks afterwards stir out, or take any bodily exercise; confined to the +house, and forced to sit still, he was glad to read, during these +long hours, to amuse himself. When he had read all the novels in the +collection, which were very few, he went on to other books. Even those, +which were not mere works of amusement, he found more entertaining than +netting, fishing-nets, or playing backgammon with Father Jos, who was +always cross when he did not win. Kind-hearted King Corny, considering +always that Harry’s sprain was incurred in his service, would have sat +with him all day long; but this Harry would not suffer, for he knew that +it was the greatest _punishment_ to Corny to stay within doors a whole +day. When Corny in the evening returned from his various out-of-doors +occupations and amusements, Harry was glad to talk to him of what he had +been reading, and to hear his odd summary reflections. + +“Well, Harry, my boy, now I’ve told you how it has been with me all day, +let’s hear how you have been getting on with your bookmen:--has it been +a good day with you to-day?--were you with Shakspeare--worth all the +rest--all the world in him?” + +Corny was no respecter of authorities in hooks; a great name went for +nothing with him--it did not awe his understanding in the slightest +degree. + +If it were poetry, “did it touch the heart, or inflame the imagination?” + If it were history, “was it true?” If it were philosophy, “was it sound +reasoning?” These were the questions he asked. “No cramming any thing +down his throat,” he said. This daring temper of mind, though it +sometimes led him wrong, was advantageous to his young friend. It +wakened Ormond’s powers, and prevented his taking upon trust the +assertions, or the reputations, even of great writers. + +The spring was now returning, and Dora was to return with spring. He +looked forward to her return as to a new era in his existence: then he +should live in better company, he should see something better than he +had seen of late--be something better. His chief, his best occupations +during this winter, had been riding, leaping, and breaking in horses: +he had broken in a beautiful mare for Dora. Dora, when a child, was very +fond of riding, and constantly rode out with her father. At the time +when Harry Ormond’s head was full of Tom Jones, Dora had always been his +idea of Sophy Western, though nothing else that he could recollect in +her person, mind, or manner, bore any resemblance to Sophia: and now +that Tom Jones had been driven out of his head by Sir Charles Grandison; +now that his taste for women was a little raised by the pictures which +Richardson had left in his imagination, Dora, with equal facility, +turned into his new idea of a heroine--not _his_ heroine, for she was +engaged to White Connal--merely a heroine in the abstract. Ormond had +been warned that he was to consider Dora as a married woman--well, so +he would, of course. She was to be Mrs. Connal--so much the better:--he +should be quite at ease with her, and she should teach him French, and +drawing, and dancing, and improve his manners. He was conscious that his +manners had, since his coming to the Black Islands, rusticated sadly, +and lost the little polish they had acquired at Castle Hermitage, and +during one _famous_ winter in Dublin. His language and dialect, he was +afraid, had become somewhat vulgar; but Dora, who had been refined by +her residence with her aunt, and by her dancing-master, would polish +him, and set all to rights, in the most agreeable manner possible. In +the course of these his speculations on his rapid improvements, and his +reflections on the perfectibility of man’s nature under the tuition of +woman, some idea of its fallibility did cross his imagination or his +memory; but then he blamed, most unjustly, his imagination for +the suggestion. The danger would prove, as he would have it, to be +imaginary. What danger could there be, when he knew, as he began and +ended by saying to himself, that he was to consider Dora as a married +woman--Mrs. Connal? + +Dora’s aunt, an aunt by the mother’s side, a maiden aunt, who had never +before been at the Black Islands, and whom Ormond had never seen, was to +accompany Dora on her return to Corny Castle: our young hero had settled +it in his head that this aunt must be something like Aunt Ellenor in Sir +Charles Grandison; a stiff-backed, prim, precise, old-fashioned looking +aunt. Never was man’s astonishment more visible in his countenance than +was that of Harry Ormond on the first sight of Dora’s aunt. His surprise +was so great as to preclude the sight of Dora herself. + +There was nothing surprising in the lady, but there was, indeed, an +extraordinary difference between our hero’s preconceived notion, and +the real person whom he now beheld. _Mademoiselle_--as Miss O’Faley +was called, in honour of her French parentage and education, and in +commemoration of her having at different periods spent above half +her life in France, looking for an estate that could never be +found--Mademoiselle was dressed in all the peculiarities of the French +dress of that day; she was of that indefinable age, which the French +describe by the happy phrase of “une femme _d’un certain age_,” and +which Miss O’Faley happily translated, “a woman of _no particular age_.” + Yet though of no particular age in the eye of politeness, to the vulgar +eye she looked like what people, who knew no better, might call an +elderly woman; but she was as alert and lively as a girl of fifteen: a +little wrinkled, but withal in fine preservation. She wore abundance of +rouge, obviously--still more obviously took superabundance of snuff--and +without any obvious motive, continued to play unremittingly a pair +of large black French eyes, in a manner impracticable to a mere +Englishwoman, and which almost tempted the spectator to beg she would +let them rest. Mademoiselle, or Miss O’Faley, was in fact half French +and half Irish--born in France, she was the daughter of an officer of +the Irish brigade, and of a French lady of good family. In her gestures, +tones, and language, there was a striking mixture or rapid succession of +French and Irish. When she spoke French, which she spoke well, and with +a true Parisian accent, her voice, gestures, air, and ideas, were all +French; and she looked and moved a well-born, well-bred woman: +the moment she attempted to speak English, which she spoke with an +inveterate brogue, her ideas, manner, air, voice, and gestures were +Irish; she looked and moved a vulgar Irishwoman. + +“What do you see so wonderful in Aunt O’Faley?” said Dora. + +“Nothing--only--” + +The sentence was never finished, and the young lady was satisfied; for +she perceived that the course of his thoughts was interrupted, and all +idea of her aunt effaced, the moment he turned his eyes upon herself. +Dora, no longer a child and his playfellow, but grown and formed, +was, and looked as if she expected to be treated as, a woman. She was +exceedingly pretty, not regularly handsome, but with most brilliant +eyes--there was besides a childishness in her face, and in her slight +figure, which disarmed all criticism on her beauty, and which contrasted +strikingly, yet as our hero thought agreeably, with her womanish airs +and manner. Nothing but her external appearance could be seen this first +evening--she was tired and went to bed early. + +Ormond longed to see more of her, on whom so much of his happiness was +to depend. + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +This was the first time Mdlle. O’Faley had ever been at Corny Castle. +Hospitality, as well as gratitude, determined the King of the Black +Islands to pay her honour due. + +“Now Harry Ormond,” said he, “I have made one capital good resolution. +Here is my sister-in-law, Mdlle. O’Faley, coming to reside with me here, +and has conquered her antipathy to solitude, and the Black Islands, and +all from natural love and affection for my daughter Dora; for which I +have a respect for her, notwithstanding all her eternal jabbering about +_politesse_, and all her manifold absurdities, and infinite female +vanities, of which she has a double proportion, being half French. But +so was my wife, that I loved to distraction--for a wise man may do a +foolish thing. Well, on all those accounts, I shall never contradict or +gainsay this Mademoiselle--in all things, I shall make it my principle +to give her her swing and her fling. But now observe me, Harry, I have +no eye to her money--let her leave that to Dora or the cats, whichever +pleases her--I am not looking to, nor squinting at, her succession. I +am a great hunter, but not legacy-hunter--that is a kind of hunting +I despise--and I wish every hunter of that kind may be thrown out, or +thrown off, and may never be in at the death!” + +Corny’s tirade against legacy-hunters was highly approved of by Ormond, +but as to the rest, he knew nothing about Miss O’Faley’s fortune. He was +now to learn that a rich relation of hers, a merchant in Dublin, whom +living she had despised, because he was “neither _noble_, nor _comme il +faut_,” dying had lately left her a considerable sum of money: so that +after having been many years in straitened circumstances, she was now +quite at her ease. She had a carriage, and horses, and servants; she +could indulge her taste for dress, and make a figure in a country place. + +The Black Islands were, to be sure, of all places, the most unpromising +for her purpose, and the first sight of Corny Castle was enough to throw +her into despair. + +As soon as breakfast was over, she begged her brother-in-law would show +her the whole of the chateau from the top to the bottom. + +With all the pleasure in life, he said, he would attend her from the +attics to the cellar, and show her all the additions, improvements, and +contrivances, he had made, and all he intended to make, if Heaven should +lend him life to complete every thing, or any thing--there was nothing +_finished_. + +“Nor ever will be,” said Dora, looking from her father to her aunt with +a sort of ironical smile. + +“Why, what has he been doing all this life?” said mademoiselle. + +“Making a _shift_,” said Dora: “I will show you dozens of them as we go +over this house. He calls them substitutes--_I_ call them make-shifts.” + +Ormond followed as they went over the house; and though he was sometimes +amused by the smart remarks which Dora made behind backs as they +went on, yet he thought she laughed too scornfully at her father’s +_oddities_, and he was often in pain for his good friend Corny. + +His majesty was both proud and ashamed of his palace: proud of the +various instances it exhibited of his taste, originality, and _daring_; +ashamed of the deficiencies and want of comfort and finish. + +His ready wit had excuses, reasons, or remedies, for all Mademoiselle’s +objections. Every alteration she proposed, he promised to get executed, +and he promised impossibilities with the best faith imaginable. + +“As the Frenchman answered to the Queen of France,” said Corny, “if it +is possible, it _shall_ be done; and if it is impossible, it _must_ be +done.” + +Mademoiselle, who had expected to find her brother-in-law, as she +owned, a little more difficult to manage, a little savage, and a little +restive, was quite delighted with his politeness; but presuming on his +complaisance, she went too far. In the course of a week, she made so +many innovations, that Corny, seeing the labour and ingenuity of his +life in danger of being at once destroyed, made a sudden stand. + +“This is Corny Castle, Mademoiselle,” said he, “and you are making it +Castle Topsy-Turvy, which must not be. Stop this work; for I’ll have no +more architectural innovations done here--but by my own orders. Paper +and paint, and furnish and finish, you may, if you will--I give you a +carte-blanche; but I won’t have another wall touched, or chimney +pulled down: so far shalt thou go, but no farther, Mdlle. O’Faley.” + Mademoiselle was forced to submit, and to confine her brilliant +imagination to papering, painting, and glazing. + +Even in the course of these operations, King Corny became so impatient, +that she was forced to get them finished surreptitiously, while he was +out of the way in the mornings. + +She made out who resided at every place within possible reach of morning +or dinner visit: every house on the opposite banks of the lake was +soon known to her, and she was current in every house. The boat was +constantly rowing backwards and forwards over the lake; cars waiting or +driving on the banks: in short, this summer all was gaiety at the +Black Islands. Miss O’Faley was said to be a great acquisition in the +neighbourhood: she was so gay, so sociable, so communicative; and she +certainly, above all, knew so much of the world; she was continually +receiving letters, and news, and patterns, from Dublin, and the Black +Rock, and Paris. Each of which places, and all standing nearly upon +the same level, made a great figure in her conversation, and in the +imagination of the half or quarter gentry, with whom she consorted in +this remote place. Every thing is great or small by comparison, and she +was a great person in this little world. It had been the report of the +country, that her niece was promised to the eldest son of Mr. Connal of +Glynn; but the aunt seemed so averse to the match, and expressed this so +openly, that some people began to think it would be broken off; others, +who knew Cornelius O’Shane’s steadiness to his _word of honour_, were +convinced that Miss O’Faley would never shake King Corny, and that +Dora would assuredly be Mrs. Connal. All agreed that it was a foolish +promise--that he might do better for his daughter. Miss O’Shane, with +her father’s fortune and her aunt’s, would be a great prize; besides, +she was thought quite a beauty, and _remarkable elegant_. + +Dora was just the thing to be the belle and coquette of the Black +Islands; the alternate scorn and familiarity with which she treated +her admirers, and the interest and curiosity she excited, by sometimes +taking delightful pains to attract, and then capriciously repelling, +_succeeded_, as Miss O’Faley observed, admirably. Harry Ormond +accompanied her and her aunt on all their parties of pleasure: Miss +O’Faley would never venture in the boat or across the lake without him. +He was absolutely essential to their parties: he was useful in the boat; +he was useful to drive the car--Miss O’Faley would not trust any body +else to drive her; he was an ornament to the ball--Miss O’Faley dubbed +him her beau: she undertook to polish him, and to teach him to speak +French--she was astonished by the quickness with which he acquired +the language, and caught the true Parisian pronunciation. She often +reiterated to her niece, and to others, who repeated it to Ormond, +“that it was the greatest of pities he had but three hundred a year upon +earth; but that, even with that pittance, she would prefer him for a +nephew to another with his thousands. Mr. Ormond was well-born, and he +had some _politesse_; and a winter at Paris would make him quite another +person, quite a charming young man. He would have great _success_, she +could answer for it, in certain _circles_ and _salons_ that she could +name, only it might turn his head too much.” So far she said, and more +she thought. + +It was a million of pities that such a woman as herself, and such a girl +as Dora, and such a young man as Mr. Ormond might be made, should be +buried all their days in the Black Islands. Mdlle. O’Faley’s heart +still turned to Paris: in Paris she was determined to live--there was no +_living_, what you call _living_, any where else--elsewhere people only +vegetate, as somebody said. Miss O’Faley, nevertheless, was excessively +fond of her niece; and how to make the love for her niece and the love +for Paris coincide, was the question. She long had formed a scheme of +carrying her dear niece to Paris, and marrying her there to some M. le +Baron or M. le Marquis; but Dora’s father would not hear of her living +any where but in Ireland, or marrying any one but an Irishman. Miss +O’Faley had lived long enough in Ireland to know that the usual method, +in all disputes, is to split the difference: therefore she decided that +her niece should marry some Irishman who would take her to Paris, and +reside with her there, at least a great part of his time--the latter +part of the bargain to be kept a secret from the father till the +marriage should be accomplished. Harry Ormond appeared to be the very +man for this purpose: he seemed to hang loosely upon the world--no +family connexions seemed to have any rights over him; he had no +profession--but a very small fortune. Miss O’Faley’s fortune might be +very convenient, and Dora’s person very agreeable to him; and it was +scarcely to be doubted that he would easily be persuaded to quit the +Black Islands, and the British Islands, for Dora’s sake. The petit +menage was already quite arranged in Mdlle. O’Faley’s head--even the +wedding-dresses had floated in her fancy. “As to the promise given to +White Connal,” as she said to herself, “it would be a mercy to save her +niece from such a man; for she had seen him lately, when he had called +upon her in Dublin, and he was a vulgar person: his hair looked as if it +had not been cut these hundred years, and he wore--any thing but what he +should wear; therefore it would be a favour to her brother-in-law, for +whom she had in reality a serious regard,--it would be doing him the +greatest imaginable benefit, to save him from the shame of either +keeping or breaking his ridiculous and savage promise.” Her plan was +therefore to prevent the possibility of his keeping it, by marrying her +niece privately to Ormond before White Connal should return in October. +When the thing was done, and could not be undone, Cornelius O’Shane, +she was persuaded, would be very glad of it, for Harry Ormond was his +particular favourite: he had called him his son--son-in-law was almost +the same thing. Thus arguing with happy female casuistry, Mademoiselle +went on with the prosecution of her plan. To the French spirit of +intrigue and gallantry she joined Irish acuteness, and Irish varieties +of odd resource, with the art of laying suspicion asleep by the +appearance of an imprudent, blundering good nature; add to all this a +degree of _confidence_, that could not have been acquired by any means +but one. Thus accomplished, “rarely did she manage matters.” By the very +boldness and openness of her railing against the intended bridegroom, +she convinced her brother-in-law that she meant nothing more than +_talk_. Besides, through all her changing varieties of objections, there +was one point on which she never varied--she never objected to going to +Dublin, in September, to buy the wedding-clothes for Dora. This seemed +to Cornelius O’Shane perfect proof, that she had no serious intention to +break off or defer the match. As to the rest, he was glad to see his own +Harry such a favourite: he deserved to be a favourite with every body, +Cornelius thought. The young people were continually together. “So much +the better,” he would say: “all was above-board, and there could be no +harm going forward, and no danger in life.” All was above-board on Harry +Ormond’s part; he knew nothing of Miss O’Faley’s designs, nor did he as +yet feel that there was for him much _danger_. He was not thinking as a +lover of Dora in particular, but he felt a new and extraordinary desire +to please in general. On every fair occasion, he liked to show how well +he could ride; how well he could dance; how gallant and agreeable he +could be: his whole attention was now turned to the cultivation of +his personal accomplishments. He succeeded: he danced, he rode to +admiration--his glories of horsemanship, and sportsmanship, the birds +that he shot, and the fish that he caught, and the leaps that he took, +are to this hour recorded in the tradition of the inhabitants of the +Black Islands. At that time, his feats of personal activity and address +made him the theme of every tongue, the delight of every eye, the +admiration of every woman, and the envy of every man: not only with the +damsels of Peggy Sheridan’s class was he _the_ favourite, but with +all the young ladies, the belles of the half gentry, who filled the +ball-rooms; and who made the most distinguished figure in the riding, +boating, walking, tea-drinking parties. To all, or any of these belles, +he devoted his attention rather than to Dora, for he was upon honour; +and very honourable he was, and very prudent, moreover, he thought +himself. He was, at present, quite content with general admiration: +there was, or there seemed, at this time, more danger for his head than +his heart--more danger that his head should be turned with the foolish +attentions paid him by many silly girls, than that he should be a dupe +to a passion for any one of them: there was imminent danger of his +becoming a mere dancing, driving, country coxcomb. + + + +CHAPTER X. + +One day when Harry Ormond was out shooting with Moriarty Carroll, +Moriarty abruptly began with, “Why then, ‘tis what I am thinking, Master +Harry, that King Corny don’t know as much of that White Connal as I do.” + “What do _you_ know of Mr. Connal?” said Harry, loading his piece. “I +didn’t know you had ever seen him.” “Oh! but I did, and no great sight +to see. Unlike the father, old Connal, of Glynn, who is the gentleman to +the last, every inch, even with the coat dropping off his back; and the +son, with the best coat in Christendom, has not the look of a gentleman +at-all--at-all--nor hasn’t it in him, inside no more than outside.” + “You may be mistaken there, as you have never been withinside of him, +Moriarty,” said Ormond. “Oh! faith, and if I have not been withinside of +him, I have heard enough from them that seen him turned inside out, hot +and cold. Sure I went down there last summer, to his country, to see a +shister of my own that’s married in it; and lives just by Connal’s Town, +as the man calls that sheep farm of his.” “Well, let the gentleman call +his own place what he will--” “Oh! he may call it what he plases for +me--I know what the country calls him; and lest your honour should not +ax me, I’ll tell you: they call him White Connal the negre!--Think of +him that would stand browbating the butcher an hour, to bate down the +farthing a pound in the price of the worst bits of the mate, which he’d +bespake always for the servants; or stand, he would--I’ve seen him with +my own eyes--higgling with the poor child with the apron round the neck, +that was sent to sell him the eggs--” “Hush! Moriarty,” said Ormond, who +did not wish to hear any farther particulars of Mr. Connal’s domestic +economy: and he silenced Moriarty, by pointing to a bird. But the bird +flew away, and Moriarty returned to his point. “I wouldn’t be telling +the like of any jantleman, but to show the nature of him. The minute +after he had screwed the halfpenny out of the child, he’d throw down, +may be, fifty guineas in gould, for the horse he’d fancy for his own +riding: not that he rides better than the sack going to the mill, nor so +well; but that he might have it to show, and say he was better mounted +than any man at the fair: and the same he’d throw away more guineas than +I could tell, at the head of a short-horned bull, or a long-horned bull, +or some kind of a bull from England, may be, just becaase he’d think +nobody else had one of the breed in all Ireland but himself.” “A very +good thing, at least, for the country, to improve the breed of cattle.” + “The country!--‘Tis little the man thinks of the country that never +thought of any thing but himself, since his mother sucked him.” “Suckled +him, you mean,” said Harry. “No matter--I’m no spaker--but I know that +man’s character nevertheless: he is rich; but a very bad character the +poor gives him up and down.” “Perhaps, because he is rich.” “Not at all; +the poor loves the rich that helps with the kind heart. Don’t we +all love King Corny to the blacking of his shoes?--Oh! there’s the +difference!--who could like the man that’s always talking of the +_craturs_, and yet, to save the life of the poorest cratur that’s forced +to live under him, wouldn’t forbear to drive, and pound, and process, +for the little _con_ acre, the potatoe ridge, the cow’s grass, or the +trifle for the woman’s peck of flax, was she dying, and sell the +woman’s last blanket?--White Connal is a hard man, and takes all to the +uttermost farthing the law allows.” “Well, even so, I suppose the law +does not allow him more than his due,” said Ormond. “Oh! begging your +pardon, Master Harry,” said Moriarty, “that’s becaase you are not a +lawyer.” “And are you?” said Harry. + +“Only as we all are through the country. And now I’ll only just tell +you, Master Harry, how this White Connal sarved my shister’s husband, +who was an under-tenant to him:--see, the case was this--” “Oh! don’t +tell me a long case, for pity’s sake. I am no lawyer--I shall not +understand a word of it.” “But then, sir, through the whole consarning +White Connal, what I’m thinking of, Master Harry,” said Moriarty, “is, +I’m grieving that a daughter of our dear King Corny, and such a pretty +likely girl as Miss Dora--” “Say no more, Moriarty, for there’s a +partridge.” “Oh! is it so with you?” thought Moriarty--“that’s just +what I wanted to know--and I’ll keep your secret: I don’t forget Peggy +Sheridan--and his goodness.” + +Moriarty said not a word more about White Connal, or Miss Dora; and he +and Harry shot a great many birds this day. + +It is astonishing how quickly, and how justly, the lower class of people +in Ireland discover and appreciate the characters of their superiors, +especially of the class just above them in rank. + +Ormond hoped that Moriarty had been prejudiced in his account of White +Connal, and that private feelings had induced him to exaggerate. Harry +was persuaded of this, because Cornelius O’Shane had spoken to him +of Connal, and had never represented him to be a _hard_ man. In fact, +O’Shane did not know him. White Connal had a property in a distant +county, where he resided, and only came from time to time to see his +father. O’Shane had then wondered to see the son grown so unlike the +father; and he attributed the difference to White Connal’s having turned +grazier. The having derogated from the dignity of an idle gentleman, and +having turned grazier was his chief fault in King Corny’s eyes: so that +the only point in Connal’s character and conduct, for which he deserved +esteem, was that for which his intended father-in-law despised him. +Connal had early been taught by his father’s example, who was an idle, +decayed, good gentleman, of the old Irish stock, that genealogies and +old maps of estates in other people’s possessions, do not gain quite +so much respect in this world as solid wealth. The son was determined, +therefore, to get money; but in his horror of his father’s indolence and +poverty, he ran into a contrary extreme--he became not only industrious, +but rapacious. + +In going lately to Dublin to settle with a sales master, he had called +on Dora at her aunt’s in Dublin, and he had been “greatly struck,” as he +said, “with Miss O’Shane; she was as fine a girl as any in Ireland--turn +out who they could against her; all her _points_ good. But, better +than beauty, she would be no contemptible fortune: with her aunt’s +assistance, she would cut up well; she was certain of all her father’s +Black Islands--fine improvable land, if well managed.” + +These considerations had their full effect. Connal, knowing that the +young lady was his destined bride, had begun by taking the matter +coolly, and resolving to wait for the properest time to wed; yet +the sight of Dora’s charms had so wrought upon him, that he was now +impatient to conclude the marriage immediately. Directly after seeing +Dora in Dublin, he had gone home and “put things in order and in train +to bear his absence,” while he should pay a visit to the Black Islands. +Business, which must always be considered before pleasure, had detained +him at home longer than he had foreseen: but now certain rumours he +heard of gay doings in the Black Islands, and a letter from his father, +advising him not to delay longer paying his respects at Corny Castle, +determined him to set out. He wrote to Mr. O’Shane to announce his +intention, and begged to have the answer directed to his father’s at +Glynn. + +One morning as Miss O’Faley, Mr. O’Shane, and Ormond, were at breakfast, +Dora, who was usually late, not having yet appeared, Miss O’Faley saw a +little boy running across the fields towards the house. “That boy runs +as if he was bringing news,” said she. + +“So he has a right to do,” said Corny: “if I don’t mistake that’s the +post; that is, it is not the post, but a little _special_ of my own--a +messenger I sent off to _catch post_.” + +“To do what?” said Mademoiselle. + +“Why, to catch post,” said Corny. “I bid him gallop off for the life +and _put across (lake_ understood) to the next post town, which is +Ballynaslugger, and to put in the letters that were too late here +at that office there; and to bring back whatever he found, with no +delay--but gallop off for the bare life.” + +This was an operation which the boy performed, whenever requisite, at +the imminent hazard of his neck every time, to say nothing of his chance +of drowning. + +“Well, Catch-post, my little rascal,” said King Corny, “what have you +for us the day?” + +“I got nothing at all, only a wetting for myself, plase your honour, and +one bit of a note for your honour, which I have here for you as dry as +the bone in my breast.” + +He produced the bit of a note, which, King Corny’s hands being at that +time too full of the eggs and the kettle to receive graciously, was laid +down on the corner of the table, from which it fell, and Miss O’Faley +picking it up, and holding it by one corner, exclaimed, “Is this what +you call dry as a bone, in this country? And mighty clean, too--faugh! +When will this entire nation leave off chewing tobacco, I wonder! This +is what you style clean, too, in this country?” + +“Why, then,” said the boy, looking close at the letter, “I thought it +was clane enough when I got it--and give it--but ‘tis not so clane now, +sure enough; this corner--whatever come over it--would it be the snuff, +my lady?” + +The mark of Miss O’Faley’s thumb was so visible, and the snuff so +palpable, and the effort to brush it from the wet paper so disastrous, +that Miss O’Faley let the matter rest where it was. King Corny put +silver into the boy’s hand, bidding him not be too much of a rogue; the +boy, smiling furtively, twitched the hair on his forehead, bobbed his +head in sign of thanks, and drawing, not shutting, the door after him, +disappeared. + +“As sure as I’m Cornelius O’Shane, this is White Connal _in propria +persona_,” said he, opening the note. + +“Mon Dieu! Bon Dieu! Ah, Dieu!” cried Mdlle. O’Faley. + +“Hush! Whisht!” cried the father--“here’s Dora coming.” Dora came in. +“Any letter for me?” “Ay, darling, one for _you_.” + +“Oh, give it me! I’m always in a desperate hurry for my letters: where +is it?” + +“No--you need not hold out your pretty hand; the letter is _for you_, +but not to you,” said King Corny; “and now you know--ay, now you +guess--my quick little blusher, who ‘tis from.” + +“I guess? not I, indeed--not worth my guessing,” cried Dora, throwing +herself sideways into a chair. “My tea, if you please, aunt.” Then, +taking the cup, without adverting to Harry, who handed it to her, she +began stirring the tea, as if it and all things shared her scorn. + +“Ma chère! mon chat!” said Mdlle. O’Faley, “you are quite right to spare +yourself the trouble of guessing; for I give it you in two, I give it +you in four, I give it you in eight, and you would never guess right. +Figure to yourself only, that a man, who has the audacity to call +himself a lover of Miss O’Shane’s, could fold, could seal, could direct +a letter in such a manner as this, which you here behold.” + +Dora, who during this speech had sat fishing for sugar in her tea-cup, +raised her long eyelashes, and shot a scornful glance at the letter; +but intercepting a crossing look of Ormond’s, the expression of her +countenance suddenly changed, and with perfect composure she observed, +“A man may fold a letter badly, and be nevertheless a very good man.” + +“That nobody can possibly contradict,” said her father; “and on all +occasions ‘tis a comfort to be able to say what no one can contradict.” + +“No well-bred person will never contradict nothing,” said Miss O’Faley. +“But, without contradicting you, my child.” resumed Miss O’Faley, “I +maintain the impossibility of his being a _gentleman_ who folds a letter +so.” + +“But if folding a letter is all a man wants of being a gentleman,” said +Dora, “it might be learnt, I should think; it might be taught--” + +“If you were the teacher, Dora, it might, surely,” said her father. + +“But Heaven, I trust, will arrange that better,” said mademoiselle. + +“Whatever Heaven arranges must be best,” said Dora. + +“Heaven and your father, if you please, Dora,” said her father: “put +that and that together, like a dutiful daughter, as you must be.” + +“Must!” said Dora, angrily. + +“That offensive _must_ slipped out by mistake, darling; I meant only +being _you_, you must be all that’s dutiful and good.” + +“Oh!” said Dora, “that’s another view of the subject.” + +“You have a very imperfect view of the subject, yet,” said her father; +“for you have both been so taken up with the manner, that you have never +thought of inquiring into the matter of this letter.” + +“And what is the matter?” said Miss O’Faley. + +“_Form_!” continued the father, addressing himself to his daughter; +“_form_, I acknowledge, is one thing, and a great thing in a daughter’s +eyes.” + +Dora blushed. “But in a father’s eyes substance is apt to be more.” + +Dora raised her cup and saucer together to her lips at this instant, +so that the substance of the saucer completely hid her face from her +father. + +“But,” said Miss O’Faley, “you have not told us yet what the man says.” + +“He says he will be here whenever we please.” + +“That’s never,” said Miss O’Faley: “never, I’d give for answer, if my +pleasure is to be consulted.” + +“Luckily, there’s another person’s pleasure to be consulted here,” said +the father, keeping his eyes fixed upon his daughter. + +“Another cup of tea, aunt, if you please.” + +“Then the sooner the better, I say,” continued her father; “for when a +disagreeable thing is to be done--that is, when a thing that’s not quite +agreeable to a young lady, such as marriage--” Dora took the cup of +tea from her aunt’s hand, Harry not interfering--“I say,” persisted her +father, “the sooner it’s done and over, the better.” + +Dora saw that Ormond’s eyes were fixed upon her: she suddenly tasted, +and suddenly started back from her scalding tea; Harry involuntarily +uttered some exclamation of pity; she turned, and seeing his eyes still +fixed upon her, said, “Very rude, sir, to stare at any one so.” + +“I only thought you had scalded yourself.” + +“Then you only thought wrong.” + +“At any rate, there’s no great occasion to be angry with me, Dora.” + +“And who is angry, pray, Mr. Ormond? What put it in your head that I was +doing you the honour to be angry with you?” + +“The cream! the cream!” cried Miss O’Faley. + +A sudden motion, we must not say an angry motion of Dora’s elbow, had +at this moment overset the cream ewer; but Harry set it up again, before +its contents poured on her new riding-habit. + +“Thank you,” said she, “thank you; but,” added she, changing the places +of the cream ewer and cups and saucers before her, “I’d rather manage +my own affairs my own way, if you’d let me, Mr. Ormond--if you’d leave +me--I can take care of myself my own way.” + +“I beg your pardon for saving your habit from destruction, for that is +the only cause of offence that I am conscious of having given. But I +leave you to your own way, as I am ordered,” said he, rising from the +breakfast table. + +“Sparring! sparring again, you two!” said Dora’s father: “but, Dora, +I wonder whether you and White Connal were sparring that way when you +met.” + +“Time enough for that, sir, after marriage,” said Dora. + +Our hero, who had stood leaning on the back of his chair, fearing that +he had been too abrupt in what he had said, cast a lingering look at +Dora, as her father spoke about White Connal, and as she replied; but +there was something so unfeminine, so unamiable, so decided and bold, +he thought, in the tone of her voice, as she pronounced the word +_marriage_, that he then, without reluctance, and with a feeling of +disgust, quitted the room, and left her “to manage her own affairs, and +to take her own way.” + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +Our young hero, hero-like, took a solitary walk to indulge his feelings; +and as he rambled, he railed to his heart’s content against Dora. + +“Here all my plans of happiness and improvement are again overturned: +Dora cannot improve me, can give me no motive for making myself any +thing better than what I am. Polish my manners! no, when she has such +rude, odious manners herself; much changed for the worse--a hundred +times more agreeable when she was a child. Lost to me she is every +way--no longer my playfellow--no chance of her being my friend. Her good +father hoped she would be a sister to me--very sorry I should be to have +such a sister: then I am to consider her as a married woman--pretty +wife she will make! I am convinced she cares no more for that man she is +going to marry than I do--marrying merely to be married, to manage her +own affairs, and have her own way--so childish!--or marrying merely +to get an establishment--so base! How women, and such young creatures, +_can_ bring themselves to make these venal matches--I protest Peggy +Sheridan’s worth a hundred of such. Moriarty may think himself a happy +fellow--Suzy--Jenny, any body--only with dress and manner a little +different--is full as good in reality. I question whether they’d give +themselves, without liking, to any White Connal in their own rank, at +the first offer, for a few sheep, or a cow, or to have their own way.” + +Such was the summing up of the topics of invective, which, during a two +hours’ walk, had come round and round continually in Ormond’s indignant +fancy. He went plucking off the hawthorn blossoms in his path, till at +one desperate tug, that he gave to a branch which crossed his way, he +opened to a bank that sloped down to the lake. At a little distance +below him he saw old Sheelah sitting under a tree rocking herself +backwards and forwards; while Dora stood motionless opposite to her, +with her hand covering her eyes, and her head drooping. They neither of +them saw Ormond, and he walked on pursuing his own path; it led close +behind the hedge to the place where they were, so close, that the +sounds “Willastrew! Willastrew!” from Old Sheelah, in her funereal tone, +reached his ear, and then the words, “Oh, my heart’s darling! so young +to be a sacrifice--But what next did he say?” + +Ormond’s curiosity was strongly excited; but he was too honourable to +listen or to equivocate with conscience: so to warn them that some one +was within hearing, he began to whistle clear and strong. Both the old +woman and the young lady started. + +“Murder!” cried Sheelah, “it’s Harry Ormond. Oh! did he overhear any +thing--or all, think ye?” + +“Not I,” answered Ormond, leaping over the hedge directly, and standing +firm before them: “I _overheard_ nothing--I _heard_ only your last +words, Sheelah--you spoke so loud I could not help it. They are as safe +with me as with yourself--but don’t speak so loud another time, if +you are talking secrets; and whatever you do, never suspect me of +listening--I am incapable of _that_, or any other baseness.” + +So saying, he turned his back, and was preparing to vault over the hedge +again, when he heard Dora, in a soft low voice, say, “I never suspected +you, Harry, of that, or any other baseness.” + +“Thank you, Dora,” said he, turning with some emotion, “thank you, Dora, +for this first, this only kind word you’ve said to me since you came +home.” + +Looking at her earnestly, as he approached nearer, he saw the traces of +tears, and an air of dejection in her countenance, which turned all +his anger to pity and tenderness in an instant. With a soothing tone he +said, “Forgive my unseasonable reproach--I was wrong--I see you are not +as much to blame as I thought you were.” + +“To blame!” cried Dora. “And pray how--and why--and for what did you +think me to blame, sir?” + +The impossibility of explanation, the impropriety of what he had said +flashed suddenly on his mind; and in a few moments a rapid succession +of ideas followed. “Was Dora to blame for obeying her father, for being +ready to marry the man to whom her father had destined--promised her +hand; and was he, Harry Ormond, the adopted child, the trusted friend of +the family, to suggest to the daughter the idea of rebelling against her +father’s will, or disputing the propriety of his choice?” + +Ormond’s imagination took a rapid flight on Dora’s side of the question, +and he finished with the _conviction_ that she was “a sacrifice, a +martyr, and a miracle of perfection!” “Blame you, Dora!” cried he, +“blame you! No--I admire, I esteem, I respect you. Did I say that I +blamed you? I did not know what I said, or what I meant.” + +“And are you sure you know any better what you say or what you mean, +now?” said Dora. + +The altered look and tone of tartness in which this question was asked +produced as sudden a change in Harry’s _conviction_. He hesitatingly +answered, “I am--” + +“He is,” said Sheelah, confidently. + +“I did not ask your opinion, Sheelah: I can judge for myself,” said +Dora. “Your words tell me one thing, sir, and your looks another,” said +she, turning to Ormond; “which am I to believe, pray?” + +“Oh! believe the young man any way, sure,” said Sheelah; “silence speaks +best for him.” + +“Best against him, in my opinion,” said Dora. + +“Dora, will you hear me?” Ormond began. + +“No, sir, I will not,” interrupted Dora. “What’s the use of hearing or +listening to a man who does not, by the confession of his own eyes, and +his own tongue, know two minutes together _what_ he means, or mean two +minutes together the same thing? A woman might as well listen to a fool +or a madman!” + +“Too harsh, too severe, Dora,” said he. + +“Too true, too sincere, perhaps you mean.” + +“Since I am allowed, Dora, to speak to you as a brother--” + +“Who allowed you, sir?” interrupted Dora. + +“Your father, Dora.” + +“My father cannot, shall not! Nobody but nature can make any man my +brother--nobody but myself shall allow any man to call himself my +brother.” + +“I am sorry I presumed so far, Miss O’Shane--I was only going to offer +one word of advice.” + +“I want no advice--I will take none from you, sir.” + +“You shall have none, madam, henceforward, from Harry Ormond.” + +“‘Tis well, sir. Come away, Sheelah.” + +“Oh! wait, dear--Och! I am too old,” said Sheelah, groaning as she rose +slowly. “I’m too slow entirely for these quick passions.” + +“Passions!” cried Dora, growing scarlet and pale in an instant: “what do +you mean by passions, Sheelah?” + +“I mean _changes_,” said Sheelah, “changes, dear. I am ready +now--where’s my stick? Thank you, Master Harry. Only I say I can’t +change my quarters and march so quick as you, dear.” + +“Well, well, lean on me,” said Dora impatiently. + +“Don’t hurry, poor Sheelah--no necessity to hurry away from me,” said +Ormond, who had stood for a few moments like one transfixed. “‘Tis for +me to go--and I will go as fast and as far as you please, Dora, away +from you and for ever.” + +“For ever!” said Dora: “what do you mean?” + +“Away from the Black Islands? he can’t mean that,” said Sheelah. + +“Why not?--Did not I leave Castle Hermitage at a moment’s warning?” + +“_Warning!_ Nonsense!” cried Dora: “lean on him, Sheelah--he has +frightened you; lean on him, can’t you?--sure he’s better than your +stick. Warning!--where did you find that pretty word? Is Harry Ormond +then turned footman?” + +“Harry Ormond!--and a minute ago she would not let me--Miss O’Shane, I +shall not forget myself again--amuse yourself with being as capricious +as you please, but not at my expense; little as you think of me, I am +not to be made your butt or your dupe: therefore, I must seriously beg, +at once, that I may know whether you wish me to stay or to go.” + +“To stay, to be sure, when my father invites you. Would you expose me to +his displeasure? you know he can’t bear to be contradicted; and you know +that he asked you to stay and live here.” + +“But without exposing you to any displeasure, I can,” replied Ormond, +“contrive--” + +“Contrive nothing at all--do leave me to contrive for myself. I don’t +mean to say _leave_ me--you take up one’s words so quickly, and are so +passionate, Mr. Ormond.” + +“If you would have me understand you, Dora, explain how you wish me to +live with you.” + +“Lord bless me! what a fuss the man makes about living with one--one +would think it was the most difficult thing in the world. Can’t you +live on like any body else? There’s my aunt in the hedge-row walk, +all alone--I must go and take care of her: I leave you to take care +of Sheelah--you know you were always very good-natured when we were +children.” + +Dora went off quick as lightning, and what to make of her, Ormond did +not well know. Was it mere childishness, or affectation, or coquetry? +No; the real tears, and real expression of look and word forbade each +of these suppositions. One other cause for her conduct might have been +suggested by a vain man. Harry Ormond was not a vain man; but a little +fluttering delight was just beginning to play round his head, when +Sheelah, leaning heavily on his arm as they ascended the bank, reminding +him of her existence--“My poor old Sheelah!” said he, “are you not +tired?” + +“Not now, thanks to your arm, Master Harry, dear, that was always good +to me--not now--I am not a whit tired; now I see all right again between +my childer--and happy I was, these five minutes past, watching you +smiling to yourself; and I don’t doubt but all the world will smile on +ye yet. If it was my world, it should. But I can only wish you my best +wish, which I did long ago--_may you live to wonder at your own good +luck!_” + +Ormond looked as if he was going to ask some question that interested +him much, but it ended by wondering what o’clock it was. Sheelah +wondered at him for thinking what the hour was, when she was talking of +Miss Dora. After a silence, which brought them to the chicken-yard door, +where Sheelah was “to quit his arm,” she leaned heavily again. + +“The marriage--that they are all talking of in the kitchen, and every +where through the country--Miss Dora’s marriage with White Connal, is +reprieved for the season. She axed time till she’d be seventeen--very +rasonable. So it’s to be in October--if we all live till those days--in +the same mind. Lord, he knows--I know nothing at all about it; but I +thank you kindly, Master Harry, and wish you well, any way. Did you ever +happen to see the bridegroom that is to be?” + +“Never.” + +Harry longed to hear what she longed to say; but he did not deem it +prudent, he did not think it honourable, to let her enter on this topic. +The prudential consideration might have been conquered by curiosity; +but the honourable repugnance to obtaining second-hand information, and +encouraging improper confidence, prevailed. He deposited Sheelah safe on +her stone bench at the chicken-yard door, and, much against her will, he +left her before she had told or hinted to him all she did know--and all +she did not know. + +The flattering delight that played about our young hero’s head had +increased, was increasing, and ought to be diminished. Of this he +was sensible. It should never come near his heart--of that he was +determined; he would exactly follow the letter and spirit of his +benefactor’s commands--he would always consider Dora as a married woman; +but the prospect of there being some temptation, and some struggle, was +infinitely agreeable to our young hero--it would give him something to +do, something to think of, something to feel. + +It was much in favour of his resolution, that Dora really was not at +all the kind of woman he had pictured to himself, either as amiable or +charming: she was not in the least like his last patterns of heroines, +or any of his approved imaginations of the _beau ideal_. But she was +an exceedingly pretty girl; she was the only very pretty and tolerably +accomplished girl immediately near him. A dangerous propinquity! + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +White Connal and his father--we name the son first, because his superior +wealth inverting the order of nature, gave him, in his own opinion, +the precedency on all occasions--White Connal and his father arrived +at Corny Castle. King Corny rejoiced to see his old friend, the elder +Connal; but through all the efforts that his majesty made to be more +than civil to the son, the degenerate grazier, his future son-in-law, +it was plain that he was only keeping his promise, and receiving such a +guest as he ought to be received. + +Mademoiselle decided that old Connal, the father, was quite a gentleman, +for he handed her about, and in his way had some politeness towards the +sex; but as for the son, her abhorrence must have burst forth in +plain English, if it had not exhaled itself safely in French, in every +exclamation of contempt which the language could afford. She called +him _bête!_ and _grand bête!_ by turns, _butor! âne!_ and _grand +butor!--nigaud!_ and _grand nigaud!_--pronounced him to be “Un homme +qui ne dit rien--d’ailleurs un homme qui n’a pas l’air comme il faut--un +homme, enfin, qui n’est pas présentable--même en fait de mari.” + +Dora looked unutterable things; but this was not unusual with her. Her +scornful airs, and short answers, were not more decidedly rude to White +Connal than to others; indeed she was rather more civil to him than to +Ormond. There was nothing in her manner of keeping Connal at a distance, +beyond what he, who had not much practice or skill in the language of +female coquetry, might construe into maiden coyness to the acknowledged +husband lover. + +It seemed as if she had some secret hope, or fear, or reason, for +not coming to open war: in short, as usual, she was odd, if not +unintelligible. White Connal did not disturb himself at all to follow +her doublings: his pleasure was not in the chase--he was sure the game +was his own. + +Be bold, but not too bold, White Connal!--be negligent, but not too +negligent, of the destined bride. ‘Tis bad, as you say, to be spoiling +a _wife_ before marriage; but what if she should never _be_ your wife? +thought some. + +That was a contingency that never had occurred to White Connal. Had he +not horses, and saddles, and bridles, and bits, finer than had ever been +seen before in the Black Islands? And had he not thousands of sheep, and +hundreds of oxen? And had he not the finest pistols, and the most famous +fowling-pieces? And had he not thousands in paper, and thousands in +gold; and if he lived, would he not have tens of thousands more? And had +he not brought with him a plan of Connal’s-town, the name by which he +dignified a snug slated lodge he had upon one of his farms--an elevation +of the house to be built, and of the offices that had been built? + +He had so. But it happened one day, when Connal was going to ride out +with Dora, that just as he mounted, her veil fluttering before his +horse’s eyes, startled the animal; and the awkward rider being unable +to manage him, King Corny begged Harry Ormond to change horses with +him, that Mr. Connal might go quietly beside Dora, “who was a bit of a +coward.” + +Imprudent father! Harry obeyed--and the difference between the riders +and the gentlemen was but too apparent. For what avails it that you have +the finest horse, if another ride him better? What avails it that you +have the finest saddle, if another become it better? What use to you +your Wogden pistols, if another hit the mark you miss? What avails +the finest fowling-piece to the worst sportsman? The thousands upon +thousands to him who says but little, and says that little ill? What +avail that the offices at Connal’s town be finished, dog-kennel and +all? or what boots it that the plan and elevation of Connal’s-town be +unrolled, and submitted to the fair one’s inspection and remarks, if the +fair disdain to inspect, and if she remark only that a cottage and +love are more to her taste? White Connal put none of these questions to +himself--he went on his own way. Faint heart never won fair lady. Then +no doubt he was in a way to win, for his heart never quailed, his colour +never changed when he saw his fair one’s furtive smiles, or heard her +aunt’s open praises of the youth, by whom riding, dancing, shooting, +speaking, or silent, he was always eclipsed. Connal of Connal’s-town +despised Harry Ormond of no-town--viewed him with scornful, but not with +jealous eyes: idle jealousies were far from Connal’s thoughts--he was +intent upon the noble recreation of cock-fighting. Cock-fighting had +been the taste of his boyish days, before he became a money-making man; +and at every interval of business, at each intermission of the passion +of avarice, when he had leisure to think of amusement, this his first +idea of pleasure recurred. Since he came to Corny Castle, he had at +sundry times expressed to his father his “hope in Heaven, that before +they would leave the Black Islands, they should get some good _fun_, +cock-fighting; for it was a poor case for a man that is not used to +it, to be tied to a woman’s apron-strings, twirling his thumbs all the +mornings, for form’s sake.” + +There was a strolling kind of gentleman in the Islands, a Mr. O’Tara, +who was a famous cock-fighter. O’Tara came one day to dine at Corny +Castle. The kindred souls found each other out, and an animated +discourse across the table commenced concerning cocks. After dinner, as +the bottle went round, the rival cock-fighters, warmed to enthusiasm in +praise of their birds. Each relating wonders, they finished by proposing +a match, laying bets and despatching messengers and hampers for their +favourites. The cocks arrived, and were put in separate houses, under +the care of separate feeders. + +Moriarty Carroll, who was curious, and something of a sportsman, had +a mind to have a peep at the cocks. Opening the door of one of the +buildings hastily, he disturbed the cock, who taking fright, flew about +the barn with such violence, as to tear off several of his feathers, +and very much to deface his appearance. Unfortunately, at this instant, +White Connal and Mr. O’Tara came by, and finding what had happened, +abused Moriarty with all the vulgar eloquence which anger could +supply. Ormond, who had been with Moriarty, but who had no share in +the disaster, endeavoured to mitigate the fury of White Connal and +apologized to Mr. O’Tara: O’Tara was satisfied!--shook hands with +Ormond, and went off. But White Connal’s anger lasted longer: for many +reasons he disliked Ormond; and thinking from Harry’s gentleness, that +he might venture to insult him, returned to the charge, and becoming +high and brutal in his tone, said that “Mr. Ormond had committed an +ungentlemanlike action, which it was easier to apologize for than to +defend.” Harry took fire, and instantly was much more ready than his +opponent wished to give any other satisfaction that Mr. Connal desired. +Well, “Name his hour--his place.” “To-morrow morning, six o’clock, in +the east meadow, out of reach and sight of all,” Ormond said; or he was +ready at that instant, if Mr. Connal pleased: he hated, he said, to bear +malice--he could not sleep upon it. + +Moriarty now stepping up privately, besought Mr. Connal’s “honour, for +Heaven and earth’s sake, to recollect, if he did not know it, what a +desperate good shot Mr. Harry notoriously was always.” + +“What, you rascal! are you here still?” cried White Connal: “Hold your +peace! How dare you speak between gentlemen?” + +Moriarty begged pardon and departed. The hint he had given, however, +operated immediately upon White Connal. + +“This scattered-brained young Ormond,” said he to himself, “desires +nothing better than to fight. Very natural--he has nothing to lose in +the world but his bare life: neither money, nor landed property as I +have to quit, in leaving the world--unequal odds. Not worth my while +to stand his shot, for the feather of a cock,” concluded Connal, as he +pulled to pieces one of the feathers, which had been the original cause +of all the mischief. + +Thus cooled, and suddenly become reasonable, he lowered his tone, +declaring that he did not mean to say any thing in short that could +give offence, nothing but what it was natural for any man in the heat +of passion to say, and it was enough to put a man in a passion at first +sight to see his favourite bird disfigured. If he had said any thing too +strong, he hoped Mr. Ormond would excuse it. + +Ormond knew what the heat of passion was, and was willing to make all +proper allowances. White Connal made more than proper apologies; and +Ormond rejoiced that the business was ended. But White Connal, conscious +that he had first bullied, then quailed, and that if the story were +repeated, it would tell to his disadvantage, made it his anxious request +that he would say nothing to Cornelius O’Shane of what had passed +between them, lest it should offend Cornelius, who he knew was so fond +of Mr. Ormond. Harry eased the gentleman’s mind, by promising that he +would never say a word about the matter. Mr. Connal was not content till +this promise was solemnly repeated. Even this, though it seemed quite +to satisfy him at the time, did not afterwards relieve Connal from the +uneasy consciousness he felt in Ormond’s company. He could bear it only +the remainder of this day. The next morning he left the Black Islands, +having received letters of business, he said, which required his +immediate presence at Connal’s-town. Many at Corny Castle seemed willing +to dispense with his further stay, but King Corny, true to his word and +his character, took leave of him as his son-in-law, and only, as far +as hospitality required, was ready to “speed the parting guest.” At +parting, White Connal drew his future father-in-law aside, and gave him +a hint, that he had better look sharp after that youth he was fostering. + +“Harry Ormond, do you mean?” said O’Shane. + +“I do,” said Connal: “but, Mr. O’Shane, don’t go to mistake me, I am +not jealous of the man--not capable--of such a fellow as that--a wild +scatterbrains, who is not worth a sixpence scarce--I have too good an +opinion of Miss Dora. But if I was in your place, her father, just for +the look of the thing in the whole country, I should not like it: not +that I mind what people say a potato skin; but still, if I was her +father, I’d as soon have the devil an inmate and intimate in my house, +muzzling in my daughter’s ear behind backs.” + +Cornelius O’Shane stoutly stood by his young friend. + +He never saw Harry Ormond _muzzling_--behind backs, especially--did not +believe any such thing: all Harry said and did was always above-board, +and before faces, any way. “In short,” said Cornelius, “I will answer +for Harry Ormond’s honour with my own honour. After that, ‘twould be +useless to add with my life, if required--that of course; and this ought +to satisfy any son-in-law, who was a gentleman--none such could glance +or mean to reflect on Dora.” + +Connal, perceiving he had overshot himself, made protestations of his +innocence of the remotest intention of glancing at, or reflecting upon, +or imagining any thing but what was perfectly angelic and proper in Miss +Dora--Miss O’Shane. + +“Then that was all as it should be,” Mr. O’Shane said, “so far: but +another point he would not concede to mortal man, was he fifty times his +son-in-law promised, that was, his own right to have who he pleased and +_willed_ to have, at his own castle, his inmate and his intimate.” + +“No doubt--to be sure,” Connal said: “he did not mean--he only meant--he +could not mean--in short, he meant nothing at all, only just to put Mr. +O’Shane on his guard--that was all he meant.” + +“Phoo!” said Cornelius O’Shane; but checking the expression of his +contempt for the man, he made an abrupt transition to Connal’s horse, +which had just come to the door. + +“That’s a handsome horse! certainly you are well mounted, Mr. Connal.” + +O’Shane’s elision of contempt was beyond Mr. Connal’s understanding or +feeling. + +“Well mounted! certainly I am _that_, and ever will be, while I can +so well afford it,” said Connal, mounting his horse; and identifying +himself with the animal, he sat proudly, then bowing to the ladies, who +were standing at an open window, “Good day to ye, ladies, till October, +when I hope--” + +But his horse, who did not seem quite satisfied of his identity with the +man, would not permit him to say more, and off he went--half his hopes +dispersed in empty air. + +“I know I wish,” said Cornelius O’Shane to himself, as he stood on the +steps, looking after the man and horse, “I wish that that unlucky bowl +of punch had remained for ever unmixed, at the bottom of which I found +this son-in-law for my poor daughter, my innocent Dora, then unborn; but +she must make the best of him for me and herself, since the fates and +my word, irrevocable as the Styx, have bound me to him, the purse-proud +grazier and mean man--not a remnant of a gentleman! as the father was. +Oh, my poor Dora!” + +As King Corny heaved a heartfelt sigh, very difficult to force from his +anti-sentimental bosom, Harry Ormond, with a plate of meat in his hand, +whistling to his dog to follow him, ran down the steps. + +“Leave feeding that dog, and come here to me, Harry,” said O’Shane, “and +answer me truly such questions as I shall ask.” + +“_Truly_--if I answer at all,” said Harry. + +“Answer you must, when I ask you: every man, every gentleman, must +answer in all honour for what he does.” + +“Certainly, answer _for_ what he does,” said Harry. + +“_For!_--Phoo! Come, none of your tricks upon prepositions to gain +time--I never knew you do the like--you’ll give me a worse opinion. I’m +no schoolmaster, nor you a grammarian, I hope, to be equivocating on +monosyllables.” + +“Equivocate! I never equivocated, sir,” said Harry. + +“Don’t begin now, then,” said Cornelius: “I’ve enough to put me out of +humour already--so answer straight, like yourself. What’s this you’ve +done to get the ill-will of White Connal, that’s just gone?” + +Surprised and embarrassed, Ormond answered, “I trust I have not his +ill-will, sir.” + +“You have, sir,” said O’Shane. + +“Is it possible?” cried Harry, “when we shook hands; you must have +misunderstood, or have been misinformed. How do you know, my dear sir?” + +“I know it from the man’s own lips, see! I can give you a straight +answer at once. Now answer me, was there any quarrel between you? and +what cause of offence did you give?” + +“Excuse me, sir--those are questions which I cannot answer.” + +“Your blush, young man, answers me enough, and too much. Mark me, I +thought I could answer for your honour with my own, and I did so.” + +“Thank you, sir, and you shall never have reason--” + +“Don’t interrupt me, young man. What reason can I have to judge of the +future, but from the past? I am not an idiot to be bothered with fair +words.” + +“Oh! sir, can you suspect?” + +“I suspect nothing, Harry Ormond: I am, I thank my God, above suspicion. +Listen to me. You know--whether I ever told it you before or not, I +can’t remember--but whether or not, you _know_ as well as if you were +withinside of me--that in my heart’s core there’s not a man alive I +should have preferred for my son-in-law to the man I once thought Harry +Ormond, without a penny--” + +“Once thought!” + +“Interrupt me again, and I’ll lave you, sir. In confidence between +ourselves, thinking as once I did, that I might depend on your +friendship and discretion, equally with your honour, I confessed, I +repented a rash promise, and let you see my regret deep enough that my +son-in-law will never be what Dora deserves--I said, or let you see +as much, no matter which; I am no equivocator, nor do I now unsay or +retract a word. You have my secret; but remember when first I had the +folly to tell it you, same time I warned you--I warned you, Harry, like +the moth from the candle--I warned you in vain. In another tone I warn +you now, young man, for the last time--I tell you my promise to me is +sacred--she is as good as married to White Connal--fairly tied up neck +and heels--and so am I, to all intents and purposes; and if I thought it +were possible you could consider her, or make her by any means consider +herself, in any other light, I will tell you what I would do--I would +shoot myself; for one of us must fall, and I wouldn’t choose it should +be you, Harry. That’s all.” + +“Oh! hear me, sir,” cried Harry, seizing his arm as he turned away, +“kill me if you will, but hear me--I give you my word you are from +beginning to end mistaken. I cannot tell you the whole--but this much +believe, Dora was not the cause of quarrel.” + +“Then there was a quarrel. Oh, for shame! for shame!--you are not used +to falsehood enough yet--you can’t carry it through--why did you attempt +it with _me_?” + +“Sir, though I can’t tell you the truth, the foolish truth, I tell you +no falsehood. Dora’s name, a thought of Dora, never came in question +between Mr. Connal and me, upon my honour.” + +“Your honour!” repeated Cornelius, with a severe look--severe more in +its sorrow than its anger. “O Harry Ormond! what signifies whether the +name was mentioned? You know she was the thing--the cause of offence. +Stop! I charge you--equivocate no more. If a lie’s beneath a gentleman, +an equivocation is doubly beneath a man.” + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +Harry Ormond thought it hard to bear unmerited reproach and suspicion; +found it painful to endure the altered eye of his once kind and always +generous, and to him always dear, friend and benefactor. But Ormond had +given a solemn promise to White Connal never to mention any thing that +had passed between them to O’Shane; and he could not therefore explain +these circumstances of the quarrel. Conscious that he was doing right, +he kept his promise to the person he hated and despised, at the hazard, +at the certainty, of displeasing the man he most loved in the world; and +to whom he was the most obliged. While his heart yearned with tenderness +towards his adopted father, he endured the reproach of ingratitude; and +while he knew he had acted perfectly honourably, he suffered under the +suspicion of equivocation and breach of confidence: he bore it all; and +in reward he had the conviction of his own firmness, and an experience, +upon trial, of his adherence to his word of honour. The trial may seem +but trivial, the promise but weak: still it was a great trial to him, +and he thought the promise as sacred as if it had been about an affair +of state. + +It happened some days after the conversation had passed between him and +O’Shane, that Cornelius met O’Tara, the gentleman who had laid the +bets about the cock-fight with Connal; and chancing to ask him what had +prevented the intended battle, O’Tara told all he knew of the adventure. +Being a good-natured and good-humoured man, he stated the matter as +playfully as possible--acknowledged that they had all been foolish and +angry; but that Harry Ormond and Moriarty had at last pacified them by +proper apologies. Of what had passed afterwards, of the bullying, and +the challenge, and the submission, O’Tara knew nothing; but King Corny +having once been put on the right scent, soon made it all out. He sent +for Moriarty, and cross-questioning him, heard the whole; for Moriarty +had not been sworn to secrecy, and had very good ears. When he had been +turned out of the stable, he had retreated only to the harness-room, +and had heard all that had passed. King Corny was delighted with +Harry’s spirit--and now he was Prince Harry again, and the generous, +warm-hearted Cornelius went, in impatience, to seek him out, and to beg +his pardon for his suspicions. He embraced him, called him son, and +dear son--said he had now found out, no thanks to him, Connal’s cause of +complaint, and it had nothing to do with Dora.--“But why could not you +say so, man?” + +He had said so repeatedly. + +“Well, so I suppose it is to be made out clearly to be all my fault, +that was in a passion, and could not hear, understand, or believe. +Well, be it so; if I was unjust, I’ll make it up to you, for I’ll never +believe my own ears, or eyes, against you, Harry, while I live, depend +upon it:--if I heard you asking her to marry you, I would believe my +ears brought me the words wrong; if I saw you even leading her into the +church instead of the chapel, and the priest himself warning me of it, +I’d say and think, Father Jos, ‘tis a mistake--a vision--or a defect of +vision. In short, I love and trust you as my own soul, Harry Ormond, for +I did you injustice.” + +This full return of kindness and confidence, besides the present delight +it gave him, left a permanent and beneficial impression upon our young +hero’s mind. The admiration he felt for O’Shane’s generous conduct, and +the self-approbation he enjoyed in consequence of his own honourable +firmness, had a great effect in strengthening and forming his character: +it also rendered him immediately more careful in his whole behaviour +towards Miss O’Shane. He was prudent till both aunt and niece felt +indignant astonishment. There was some young lady with whom Harry had +danced and walked, and of whom he had, without any design, spoken as +a pleasing _gentle_ girl. Dora recollected this praise, and joining it +with his present distant behaviour toward herself, she was piqued and +jealous; and then she became, what probably she would never otherwise +have been, quite decided in her partiality for Harry Ormond. The proofs +of this were soon so manifest, that many thought, and Miss O’Faley in +particular, that Harry was grown stupid, blind, and deaf. He was not +stupid, blind, or deaf--he had felt the full power of Dora’s personal +charms, and his vanity had been flattered by the preference which Dora +showed for him. Where vanity is the ruling passion, young men are easily +flattered into being in love with any pretty, perhaps with any ugly +girl, who is, or who affects to be, in love with them. But Harry Ormond +had more tenderness of heart than vanity: against the suggestions of +his vanity he had struggled successfully; but now his heart had a hard +trial. Dora’s spirits were failing, her cheek growing pale, her tone of +voice was quite softened; sighs would sometimes break forth--persuasive +sighs!--Dora was no longer the scornful lady in rude health, but the +interesting invalid--the victim going to be sacrificed. Dora’s aunt +talked of the necessity of _advice_ for her niece’s health. Great stress +was laid on air and exercise, and exercise on horseback. Dora rode every +day on the horse Harry Ormond broke in for her, the only horse she could +now ride; and Harry understood _its ways_, and managed it so much better +than any body else; and Dora was grown a coward, so that it was quite +necessary he should ride or walk beside her. Harry Ormond’s tenderness +of heart increased his idea of the danger. Her personal charms became +infinitely more attractive to him; her defects of temper and character +were forgotten and lost in his sense of pity and gratitude; and the +struggle of his feelings was now violent. + +One morning our young hero rose early, for he could no longer sleep, +and he walked out, or, more properly, he rambled, or he strolled, or +_streamed_ out, and he took his way--no, his steps were irresistibly +led--to his accustomed haunt by the water side, under the hawthorn bank, +and there he walked and picked daisies, and threw stones into the lake, +and he loitered on, still thinking of Dora and death, and of the +circles in the water, and again of the victim and of the sacrifice, when +suddenly he was roused from his reverie by a shrill whistle, that seemed +to come from the wood above, and an instant afterwards he heard some one +shouting, “Harry Ormond!--Harry Ormond!” + +“Here!” answered Harry; and as the shouts were repeated he recognized +the voice of O’Tara, who now came, whip in hand, followed by his dogs, +running down the bank to him. + +“Oh! Harry Ormond, I’ve brought great news with me for all at Corny +Castle; but the ladies are not out of their nests, and King Corny’s Lord +knows how far off. Not a soul or body to be had but yourself here, by +good luck, and you shall have the first of the news, and the telling of +it.” + +“Thank you,” said Ormond; “and what is the news?” + +“First and foremost,” said O’Tara, “you know birds of a feather flock +together. White Connal, though, except for the cock-fighting, I +never relished him, was mighty fond of me, and invited me down to +Connal’s-town, where I’ve been with him this week--you know that much, I +conclude.” + +Harry owned he did not. + +O’Tara wondered how he could help knowing it. “But so it was; we had a +great cock-fight, and White Connal, who knew none of my _secrets_ in the +feeding line, was bet out and out, and angry enough he was; and then I +offered to change birds with him, and beat him with his own Ginger by my +superiority o’ feeding, which he scoffed at, but lookup the bet.” + +Ormond sighed with impatience in vain--he was forced to submit, and to +go through the whole detail of the cock-fight. “The end of it was, that +White Connal was _worsted_ by his own bird, and then mad angry was he. +So, then,” continued O’Tara, “to get the triumph again on his side, one +way or another, was the thing. I had the advantage of him in dogs, +too, for he kept no hounds--you know he is close, and hounds lead to a +gentlemanlike expense; but very fine horses he had, I’ll acknowledge, +and, Harry Ormond, you can’t but remember that one which he could not +manage the day he was out riding here with Miss Dora, and you changed +with him.” + +“I remember it well,” said Ormond. + +“Ay, and he has got reason to remember it now, sure enough.” + +“Has he had a fall?” said Ormond, stopping. + +“Walk on, can’t ye--keep up, and I’ll tell you all regular.” + +“There is King Corny!” exclaimed Ormond, who just then saw him come in +view. + +“Come on, then,” cried O’Tara, leaping over a ditch that was between +them, and running up to King Corny. “Great news for you, King Corny, +I’ve brought--your son-in-law elect, White Connal, is off.” + +“Off--how?” + +“Out of the world clean! Poor fellow, broke his neck with that horse +he could never manage--on Sunday last. I left him for dead Sunday +night--found him dead Monday morning--came off straight with the news to +you.” + +“Dead!” repeated Corny and Harry, looking at one another. “Heaven +forbid!” said Corny, “that I should--” + +“Heaven forbid!” repeated Harry; “but--” + +“But good morning to you both, then,” said O’Tara: “shake hands either +way, and I’ll condole or congratulate to-morrow as the case may be, with +more particulars if required.” + +O’Tara ran off, saying he would be back again soon; but he had great +business to do. “I told the father last night.” + +“I am no hypocrite,” said Corny. “Rest to the dead and all their +faults! White Connal is out of my poor Dora’s way, and I am free from +my accursed promise!” Then clasping his hands, “Praised be Heaven for +_that_!--Heaven is too good to me!--Oh, my child! how unworthy White +Connal of her!--Thank Heaven on my knees, with my whole heart, thank +Heaven that I am not forced to the sacrifice!--My child, my darling +Dora, she is free!--Harry Ormond, my dear boy, I’m free,” cried O’Shane, +embracing Harry with all the warmth of paternal affection. + +Ormond returned that embrace with equal warmth, and with a strong sense +of gratitude: but was his joy equal to O’Shane’s? What were his feelings +at this moment? They were in such confusion, such contradiction, he +could scarcely tell. Before he heard of White Connal’s death, at the +time when he was throwing pebbles into the lake, he desired nothing so +much as to be able to save Dora from being sacrificed to that odious +marriage; he thought, that if he were not bound in honour to his +benefactor, he should instantly make that offer of his hand and heart +to Dora, which would at once restore her to health, and happiness, +and fulfil the wishes of her kind, generous father. But now, when +all obstacles seemed to vanish--when his rival was no more--when his +benefactor declared his joy at being freed from his promise--when he was +embraced as O’Shane’s _son_, he did not feel joy: he was surprised to +find it; but he could not. Now that he could marry Dora, now that her +father expected that he should, he was not clear that he wished it +himself. Quick as obstacles vanished, objections recurred: faults which +he had formerly seen so strongly, which of late compassion had veiled +from his view, reappeared; the softness of manner, the improvement +of temper, caused by love, might be transient as passion. Then her +coquetry--her frivolity. She was not that superior kind of woman which +his imagination had painted, or which his judgment could approve of in a +wife. How was he to explain this confusion of feeling to Corny? Leaning +on his arm, he walked on towards the house. He saw Corny, smiling at his +own meditations, was settling the match, and anticipating the joy to all +he loved. Harry sighed, and was painfully silent. + +“Shoot across like an arrow to the house,” cried Corny, turning suddenly +to him, and giving him a kind push--“shoot off, Harry, and bring Dora to +meet me like lightning, and the poor aunt, too--‘twould be cruel else! +But what stops you, son of my heart?” + +“Stay!” cried Corny, a sudden thought striking him, which accounted for +Harry Ormond’s hesitation; “Stop, Harry! You are right, and I am a fool. +There is Black Connal, the twin-brother--oh, mercy!--against us still. +May be Old Connal will keep me to it still--as he couldn’t, no more than +I could, foresee that when I promised Dora that was not then born, it +would be twins--and as I said son, and surely I meant the son that +would be born then--and twins is all as one as one, they say. Promise +fettering still! Bad off as ever, may be,” said Cornelius. His whole +countenance and voice changed; he sat down on a fallen tree, and +rested his hands on his knees. “What shall we do now, Harry, with Black +Connal?” + +“He may be a very different man from White Connal--in every respect,” + said Ormond. + +O’Shane looked up for a moment, and then interpreting his own way, +exclaimed, “That’s right, Harry--that thought is like yourself, and the +very thought I had myself. We must make no declarations till we have +cleared the point of honour. Not the most beautiful angel that ever +took woman’s beautiful form--and that’s the greatest temptation man can +meet--could tempt my Harry Ormond from the straight path of honour!” + +Harry Ormond stood at this moment abashed by praise which he did not +quite deserve. “Indeed, sir,” said he, “you give me too much credit.” “I +cannot give you too much credit; you are an honourable young man, and I +understand you through and through.” + +That was more than Harry himself did. Corny went on talking to himself +aloud, “Black Connal is abroad these great many years, ever since he was +a boy--never saw him since a child that high--an officer he is in the +Irish brigade now--black eyes and hair; that was why they called him +Black Connal--Captain Connal now; and I heard the father say he was come +to England, and there was some report of his going to be married, if I +don’t mistake,” cried Corny, turning again to Harry, pleasure rekindling +in his eye. “If that should be! there’s hope for us still; but I see you +are right not to yield to the hope till we are clear. My first step, +in honour, no doubt, must be across the lake this minute to the +father--Connal of Glynn; but the boat is on the other side. The horn is +with my fishing-tackle, Harry, down yonder--run, for you can run--horn +the boat, or if the horn be not there, sign to the boat with your +handkerchief--bring it up here, and I will put across before ten minutes +shall be over--my horse I will have down to the water’s edge by the time +you have got the boat up--when an honourable tough job is to be done, +the sooner the better.” + +The horse was brought to the water’s edge, the boat came across, Corny +and his horse were in; and Corny, with his own hands on the oar, pushed +away from land: then calling to Harry, he bid him wait on the shore _by_ +such an hour, and he should have the first news. + +“Rest on your oars, you, while I speak to Prince Harry. + +“That you may know all, Harry, sooner than I can tell you, if all be +safe, or as we wish it, see, I’ll hoist my neckcloth, _white_, to the +top of this oar; if not, the _black_ flag, or none at all, shall tell +you. Say nothing till then--God bless you, boy!” Harry was glad that he +had these orders, for he knew that as soon as Mademoiselle should be up, +and hear of O’Tara’s early visit, with the message he said he had left +at the house that he brought _great news_, Mademoiselle would soon sally +forth to learn what that news might be. In this conjecture Ormond was +not mistaken. He soon heard her voice “Mon-Dieu!-ing” at the top of the +bank: he ducked--he dived--he darted through nettles and brambles, and +escaped. Seen or unseen he escaped, nor stopped his flight even when +out of reach of the danger. As to trusting himself to meet Dora’s eyes, +“‘twas what he dared not.” + +He hid, and wandered up and down, till near dinner-time. At last, +O’Shane’s boat was seen returning--but no white flag! The boat rowed +nearer and nearer, and reached the spot where Harry stood motionless. + +“Ay, my poor boy, I knew I’d find you so,” said O’Shane, as he got +ashore. “There’s my hand, you have my heart--I wish I had another hand +to give you--but it’s all over with us, I fear. Oh! my poor Dora!--and +here she is coming down the bank, and the aunt!--Oh, Dora! you have +reason to hate me!” + +“To hate you, sir? Impossible!” said Ormond, squeezing his hand +strongly, as he felt. + +“Impossible!--true--for _her_ to hate, who is all love and +loveliness!--impossible too for _you_, Harry Ormond, who is all +goodness!” + +“Bon Dieu!” cried Mademoiselle, who was now within exclamation distance. +“What a _course_ we have had after you, gentlemen! Ladies looking +for gentlemen!--C’est inouï!--What is it all? for I am dying with +curiosity.” + +Without answering Mademoiselle, the father, and Harry’s eyes, at the +same moment, were fixed on one who was some steps behind, and who looked +as if dying with a softer passion. Harry made a step forward to offer +his arm, but stopped short; the father offered his, in silence. + +“Can nobody speak to me?--Bien poli!” said Mademoiselle. + +“If you please, Miss O’Faley, ma’am,” cried a hatless footman, who +had run after the ladies the wrong way from the house: “if you please, +ma’am, will _she_ send up dinner now?” + +“Oui, qu’on serve!--Yes, she will. Let her dish--by that time she is +dished, we shall be in--and have satisfied our curiosity, I hope,” added +she, turning to her brother-in-law. + +“Let us dine first,” said Cornelius, “and when the cloth is removed, +and the waiting-ears out of hearing, time enough to have our talk to +ourselves.” + +“Bien singulier, ces Anglois!” muttered Mademoiselle to herself, as they +proceeded to the house. “Here is a young man, and the most polite of the +silent company, who may well be in some haste for his dinner; for to my +knowledge, he is without his breakfast.” + +Harry had no appetite for dinner, but swallowed as much as Mademoiselle +O’Faley desired. A remarkably silent meal it would have been, but for +her happy volubility, equal to all occasions. At last came the long +expected words, “Take away.” When all was taken away, and all were gone, +but those who, as O’Shane said, would too soon wish unheard what they +were dying to hear, he drew his daughter’s chair close to him, placed +her so as “to save her blushes,” and began his story, by relating all +that O’Tara had told. + +“It was a sudden death--shocking!” Mademoiselle repeated several +times; but both she and Dora recovered from the shock, or from the word +“shocking!” and felt the delight of Dora’s being no longer a sacrifice. + +After a general thanksgiving having been offered for her escape from the +_butor_, Mademoiselle, in transports, was going on to say that now her +niece was free to make a suitable match, and she was just turning to +wonder that Harry Ormond was not that moment at her niece’s feet; and +Dora’s eyes, raised slowly towards him and suddenly retracted, abashed +and perplexed Harry indescribably; when Corny continued thus: “Dora is +not free, nor am I free in honour yet, nor can I give any body freedom +of tongue or heart until I know farther.” + +Various exclamations of surprise and sorrow interrupted him. + +“Am I never, never, to be free!” cried Dora: “Oh! am not I now at +liberty?” + +“Hear me, my child,” said her father; “I feel it as you do.” + +“And what is it next--Qu’est-ce que c’est--this new obstacle?--What can +it be?” said Mademoiselle. + +The father then stated sorrowfully, that Old Connal of Glynn would by no +means relinquish the promise, but considered it equally binding for the +twin born with White Connal, considering both twins as coming under +the promise to his _son_ that was to be born. He said he would write +immediately to his son, who was now in England. + +“And now tell me what kind of a person is this new pretender, this Mr. +Black Connal,” cried Mademoiselle. + +“Of him we know nothing as yet,” said O’Shane; “but I hope, in Heaven, +that the man that is coming is as different from the man that’s gone as +black from white.” + +Harry heard Dora breathe quick and quicker, but she said nothing. + +“Then we shall get his answer to the father’s letter in eight days, I +count,” said Mademoiselle; “and I have great hopes we shall never be +troubled with him: we shall know if he will come or not, in eight days.” + +“About that time,” said O’Shane: “but, sister O’Faley, do not nurse my +child or yourself up with deceitful hopes. There’s not a man alive--not +a Connal, surely, hearing what happiness he is heir to, but would +come flying over post-haste. So you may expect his answer, in eight +days--Dora, my darling, and God grant he may be--” + +“No matter what he is, sir--I’ll die before I will see him,” cried Dora, +rising, and bursting into tears. + +“Oh, my child, you won’t die!--you can’t--from me, your father!” Her +father threw his arms round her, and would have drawn her to him, but +she turned her face from him: Harry was on the other side--her eyes met +his, and her face became covered with blushes. + +“Open the window, Harry!” said O’Shane, who saw the conflict; “open the +window!--we all want it.” + +Harry opened the window, and hung out of it gasping for breath. + +“She’s gone--the aunt has taken her off--it’s over for this fit,” said +O’Shane. “Oh, my child, I must go through with it! My boy, I honour as I +love you--I have a great deal to say about your own affairs, Harry.” + +“My affairs--oh! what affairs have I? Never think of me, dear sir--” + +“I will--but can’t now--I am spent for this day--leave out the bottle of +claret for Father Jos, and I’ll get to bed--I’ll see nobody, tell Father +Jos--I’m gone to my room.” + +The next morning O’Tara came to breakfast. Every person had a different +question to ask him, except Dora, who was silent. + +Corny asked what kind of man Black Connal was. Mademoiselle inquired +whether he was most French or English; Ormond, whether he was going to +be married. + +To all these questions O’Tara pleaded ignorance: except with respect to +the sports of the field, he had very little curiosity or intelligence. + +A ray of hope again darted across the mind of Corny. From his knowledge +of the world, he thought it very probable that a young officer in the +French brigade would be well contented to be heir to his brother’s +fortune, without encumbering himself with an Irish wife, taken from an +obscure part of the country. Corny, therefore, eagerly inquired from +O’Tara what became of White Connal’s property. O’Tara answered, that the +common cry of the country was, that all White Connal’s profitable farms +were leasehold property, and upon his own life. Poor Corny’s hopes were +thus frustrated: he had nothing left to do for some days but to pity +Harry Ormond, to bear with the curiosity and impatience of Mademoiselle, +and with the froward sullenness of Dora, till some intelligence should +arrive respecting the new claimant to her destined hand. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +A few days afterwards, Sheelah, bursting into Dora’s room, exclaimed, +“Miss Dora! Miss Dora! for the love of God, they are coming! They’re +coming down the avenue, _powdering_ along! Black Connal himself flaming +away, with one in a gold hat, this big, galloping after, and all gold +over, he is entirely!--Oh! what will become of us, Master Harry, now! +Oh! it took the sight out of my eyes!--And yours as red as ferrets, +dear!--Oh! the _cratur_. But come to the window and look out--nobody +will mind--stretch out the body, and I’ll hold ye fast, never fear!--at +the turn of the big wood do you see them behind the trees, the fir +dales, glittering and flaming? Do you see them at all?” + +“Too plainly,” said Dora, sighing; “but I did not expect he would come +in such a grand style. I wonder--” + +“Oh! so do I, greatly--mostly at the carriage. Never saw the like with +the Connals, so grand--but the queer thing--” + +“Ah! my dear Dore, un cabriolet!” cried Mademoiselle, entering in +ecstacy. “Here is Monsieur de Connal for you in a French cabriolet, and +a French servant riding on to advertise you and all. Oh! what are you +twisting your neck, child? I will have no toss at him now--he is all +the gentleman, you shall see: so let me set you all to rights while +your father is receive. I would not have him see you such a horrible +figure--not presentable! you look--” + +“I do not care how I look--the worse the better,” said Dora: “I wish to +look a horrible figure to him--to Black Connal.” + +“Oh! put your Black Connals out of your head--that is always in your +mouth: I tell you he is call M. de Connal. Now did I not hear him this +minute announced by his own valet?--Monsieur de Connal presents his +compliments--he beg permission to present himself--and there was I, +luckily, to answer for your father in French.” + +“French! sure Black Connal’s Irish born!” said Sheelah: “that much I +know, any way.” + +A servant knocked at the door with King Corny’s request that the ladies +would come down stairs, to see, as the footman added to his master’s +message, to see old Mr. Connal and the French gentleman. + +“There! French, I told you,” said Mademoiselle, “and quite the +gentleman, depend upon it, my dear--come your ways.” + +“No matter what he is,” said Dora, “I shall not go down to see him; so +you had better go by yourself, aunt.” + +“Not one step! Oh! that would be the height of impolitesse and +disobedience--you could not do that, my dear Dore; consider, he is not +a man that nobody knows, like your old butor of a White Connal. Not +signify how bad you treat him--like the dog; but here is a man of a +certain quality, who knows the best people in Paris, who can talk, and +tell every where. Oh! in conscience, my dear Dore, I shall not suffer +these airs with a man who is somebody, and--” + +“If he were the king of France,” cried Dora, “if he were Alexander +the Great himself, I would not be forced to see the man, or marry him +against my will!” + +“Marry! Who talk of marry? Not come to that yet; ten to one he has no +thought of you, more than politeness require.” + +“Oh! as to that,” said Dora, “aunt, you certainly are mistaken there. +What do you think he comes over to Ireland, what do you think he comes +here for?” + +“Hark! then,” said Sheelah, “don’t I hear them out of the window? +Faith! there they are, walking and talking and laughing, as if there was +nothing at all in it.” + +“Just Heavens! What a handsome uniform!” said Miss O’Faley; “and a very +proper-looking man,” said Sheelah. + +“Well, who’d have thought Black Connal, if it’s him, would ever have +turned out so fine a presence of a man to look at?” + +“Very cavalier, indeed, to go out to walk, without waiting to see us,” + said Dora. + +“Oh! I will engage it was that dear father of yours hoisted him out.” + +“Hoisted him out! Well, aunt, you do sometimes speak the oddest English. +But I do think it strange that he should be so very much at his +ease. Look at him--hear him--I wonder what he is saying--and Harry +Ormond!--Give me my bonnet, Sheelah--behind you, quick. Aunt, let us go +out of the garden door, and meet them out walking, by accident--that is +the best way--I long to see how _somebody_ will look.” + +“Very good--now you look all life and spirit--perfectly charming! Look +that manner, and I’ll engage he will fall in love with you.” + +“He had better not, I can tell him, unless he has a particular pleasure +in being refused,” said Dora, with a toss of her head and neck, and at +the same time a glance at her looking-glass, as she passed quickly out +of the room. + +Dora and her aunt walked out, and accidentally met the gentlemen in +their walk. As M. de Connal approached, he gave them full leisure to +form their opinions as to his personal appearance. He had the air of a +foreign officer--easy, fashionable, and upon uncommonly good terms with +himself--conscious, but with no vulgar consciousness, of possessing a +fine figure and a good face: his was the air of a French coxcomb, who +in unconstrained delight, was rather proud to display, than anxious to +conceal, his perfect self-satisfaction. Interrupting his conversation +only when he came within a few paces of the ladies, he advanced with an +air of happy confidence and Parisian gallantry, begging that Mr. O’Shane +would do him the honour and pleasure to present him. After a bow, that +said nothing, to Dora, he addressed his conversation entirely to +her aunt, walking beside Mademoiselle, and neither approaching nor +attempting to speak to Dora; he did not advert to her in the least, and +seemed scarcely to know she was present. This quite disconcerted the +young lady’s whole plan of proceedings--no opportunity was afforded +her of showing disdain. She withdrew her arm from her aunt’s, though +Mademoiselle held it as fast as she could--but Dora withdrew it +resolutely, and falling back a step or two, took Harry Ormond’s arm, and +walked with him, talking with as much unconcern, and as loudly as she +could, to mark her indifference. But whether she talked or was silent, +walked on with Harry Ormond, or stayed behind, whispered or laughed +aloud, it seemed to make no impression, no alteration whatever in +Monsieur de Connal: he went on conversing with Mademoiselle, and with +her father, alternately in French and English. In English he spoke +with a native Irish accent, which seemed to have been preserved from +childhood; but though the brogue was strong, yet there were no vulgar +expressions: he spoke good English, but generally with somewhat of +French idiom. Whether this was from habit or affectation it was not +easy to decide. It seemed as if the person who was speaking, thought in +French, and translated it into English as he went on. The peculiarity +of manner and accent--for there was French mixed with the Irish--fixed +attention; and besides Dora was really curious to hear what he was +saying, for he was very entertaining. Mademoiselle was in raptures while +he talked of Paris and Versailles, and various people of consequence and +fashion at the court. The Dauphiness!--she was then but just married--de +Connal had seen all the fêtes and the fireworks--but the beautiful +Dauphiness!--In answering a question of Mademoiselle’s about the colour +of her hair, he for the first time showed that he had taken notice of +Dora. “Nearly the colour, I think, of that young lady’s hair, as well +as one can judge; but powder prevents the possibility of judging +accurately.” + +Dora was vexed to see that she was considered merely _as a young lady_: +she exerted herself to take a part in the conversation, but Mr. +Connal never joined in conversation with her--with the most scrupulous +deference he stopped short in the middle of his sentence, if she began +to speak. He stood aside, shrinking into himself with the utmost care, +if she was to pass; he held the boughs of the shrubs out of her way, +but continued his conversation with Mademoiselle all the time. When they +came in from their walk, the same sort of thing went on. “It really +is very extraordinary,” thought she: “he seems as if he was +spell-bound--obliged by his notions of politeness to let me pass +incognita.” + +Mademoiselle was so fully engaged, chattering away, that she did not +perceive Dora’s mortification. The less notice Connal took of her, +the more Dora wished to attract his attention: not that she desired to +please him--no, she only longed to have the pleasure of refusing him. +For this purpose the offer must be made--and it was not at all clear +that any offer would be made. + +When the ladies went to dress before dinner, Mademoiselle, while she was +presiding at Dora’s toilette, expressed how much she was delighted with +M. de Connal, and asked what her niece thought of him? Dora replied +that indeed she did not trouble herself to think of him at all--that she +thought him a monstrous coxcomb--and that she wondered what could bring +so prodigiously fine a gentleman to the Black Islands. + +“Ask your own sense what brought him here! or ask your own looking-glass +what shall keep him here!” said Miss O’Faley. “I can tell you he thinks +you very handsome already; and when he sees you dress!” + +“Really! he does me honour; he did not seem as if he had even seen me, +more than any of the trees in the wood, or the chairs in the room.” + +“Chairs!--Oh, now you fish for _complimens!_ But I shall not tell you +how like he thinks you, if you were mise à la Françoise, to la belle +Comtesse de Barnac.” + +“But is not it very extraordinary, he absolutely never spoke to me,” + said Dora: “a very strange manner of paying his court!” + +Mademoiselle assured Dora “that this was owing to M. de Connal’s French +habits. The young ladies in Paris passing for nothing, scarcely ever +appearing in society till they are married, the gentlemen have no +intercourse with them, and it would be considered as a breach of respect +due to a young lady or her mother, to address much conversation to +her. And you know, my dear Dore, their marriages are all make up by +the father, the mother, the friends--the young people themselves never +speak, never know nothing at all about each one another, till the +contract is sign: in fact, the young lady is the little round what you +call cipher, but has no value in société at all, till the figure of de +husband come to give it the value.” + +“I have no notion of being a cipher,” said Dora: “I am not a French +young lady, Monsieur de Connal.” + +“Ah, but my dear Dore, consider what is de French wife! Ah! then come +her great glory; then she reign over all hearts, and is in full liberté +to dress, to go, to come, to do what she like, with her own carriage, +her own box at de opera, and--You listen well, and I shall draw all that +out for you, from M. de Connal.” + +Dora languidly, sullenly begged her aunt would not give herself the +trouble--she had no curiosity. But nevertheless she asked several +questions about la Comtesse de Barnac; and all the time saying she did +not in the least care what he thought or said of her, she drew from +her aunt every syllable that M. de Connal had uttered, and was secretly +mortified and surprised to find he had said so little. She could not +dress herself to her mind to-day, and protesting she did not care how +she looked, she resigned herself into her aunt’s hands. Whatever he +might think, she should take care to show him at dinner that young +ladies in this country were not ciphers. + +At dinner, however, as before, all Dora’s preconcerted airs of disdain +and determination to show that she was somebody, gave way, she did not +know how, before M. de Connal’s easy assurance and polite indifference. +His knowledge of the world, and his talents for conversation, with the +variety of subjects he had flowing in from all parts of the world, gave +him advantages with which there was no possibility of contending. + +He talked, and carved--all life, and gaiety, and fashion: he spoke of +battles, of princes, plays, operas, wine, women, cardinals, religion, +politics, poetry, and turkeys stuffed with truffles--and Paris for +ever!--Dash on! at every thing!--hit or miss--sure of the applause of +Mademoiselle--and, as he thought, secure of the admiration of the whole +company of natives, from _le beau-père_, at the foot of the table, to +the boy who waited, or who did not wait, opposite to him, but who stood +entranced with wonder at all that M. de Connal said, and all that he +did--even to the fashion in which he stowed trusses of salad into his +mouth with a fork, and talked--through it all. + +And Dora, what did she think?--she thought she was very much mortified +that there was room for her to say so little. The question now was not +what she thought of M. de Connal, but what he thought of her. After +beginning with various little mock defences, avertings of the head, +and twists of the neck, of the shoulders and hips, compound motions +resolvable into _mauvaise honte_ and pride, as dinner proceeded, and +Monsieur de Connal’s _success_ was undoubted, she silently gave up her +resolution “not to admire.” + +Before the first course was over, Connal perceived that he had her eye: +“Before the second is over,” thought he, “I shall have her ear; and +by the time we come to the dessert, I shall be in a fair way for the +heart.” + +Though he seemed to have talked without any design, except to amuse +himself and the company in general, yet in all he had said there had +been a prospective view to his object. He chose his means well, and in +Mademoiselle he found, at once, a happy dupe and a confederate. Without +previous concert, they raised visions of Parisian glory which were to +prepare the young lady’s imagination for a French lover or a French +husband. M. de Connal was well aware that no matter who touched her +heart, if he could pique her vanity. + +After dinner, when the ladies retired, old Mr. Connal began to enter +upon the question of the intended union between the families--Ormond +left the room, and Corny suppressed a deep sigh. M. de Connal took an +early opportunity of declaring that there was no truth in the report of +his going to be married in England: he confessed that such a thing +had been in question--he must speak with delicacy--but the family and +connexions did not suit him; he had a strong prejudice, he owned, in +favour of ancient family--Irish family; he had always wished to marry +an Irish woman--for that reason he had avoided opportunities that might +have occurred of connecting himself, perhaps advantageously, in France; +he was really ambitious of the honour of an alliance with the O’Shanes. +Nothing could be more fortunate for him than the friendship which +had subsisted between his father and Mr. O’Shane.--And the +promise?--Relinquish it!--Oh! that, he assured Mr. O’Shane, was quite +impossible, provided the young lady herself should not make a decided +objection--he should abide by her decision--he could not possibly think +of pressing his suit, if there should appear any repugnance: in that +case, he should be infinitely mortified--he should be absolutely in +despair; but he should know how to submit--cost him what it would: +he should think, as a man of honour, it was his part to sacrifice his +wishes, to what the young lady might conceive to be for her happiness. + +He added a profusion of compliments on the young lady’s charms, with a +declaration of the effect they had already produced on his heart. + +This was all said with a sort of nonchalance, which Corny did not at +all like. But Mademoiselle, who was summoned to Corny’s private +council, gave it as her opinion, that M. de Connal was already quite in +love--quite as much as a French husband ever was. She was glad that her +brother-in-law was bound by his promise to a gentleman who would really +be a proper husband for her niece. Mademoiselle, in short, saw every +thing _couleur de rose_; and she urged, that, since M. de Connal had +come to Ireland for the express purpose of forwarding his present suit, +he ought to be invited to stay at Corny Castle, that he might endeavour +to make himself acceptable to Dora. + +To this Corny acceded. He left Mademoiselle to make the invitation; for, +he said, she understood French politeness, and _all that_, better than +he did. The invitation was made and accepted, with all due expressions +of infinite delight. + +“Well, my dear Harry Ormond,” said Corny, the first moment he had an +opportunity of speaking to Harry in private, “what do you think of this +man?” + +“What Miss O’Shane thinks of him is the question,” said Harry, with some +embarrassment. + +“That’s true--it was too hard to ask you. But I’ll tell you what I +think: between ourselves, Black Connal is better than White, inasmuch as +a puppy is better than a brute. We shall see what Dora will say or think +soon--the aunt is over head and ears already: women are mighty apt to +be taken, one way or other, with a bit of a coxcomb. Vanity--vanity! but +still I know--I suspect, Dora has a heart: from me, I hope, she has a +right to a heart. But I will say no more till I see which way the heart +turns and _settles_, after all the little tremblings and variations: +when it points steady, I shall know how to steer my course. I have a +scheme in my head, but I won’t mention it to you, Harry, because it +might end in disappointment: so go off to bed and to sleep, if you can; +you have had a hard day to go through, my poor honourable Harry.” + +And poor honourable Harry had many hard days to go through. He had now +to see how Dora’s mind was gradually worked upon, not by a new passion, +for Mr. Connal never inspired or endeavoured to inspire passion, but by +her own and her aunt’s vanity. Mademoiselle with constant importunity +assailed her: and though Dora saw that her aunt’s only wish was to +settle in Paris, and to live in a fine hotel; and though Dora was +persuaded, that for this, her aunt would without scruple sacrifice +her happiness and that of Harry Ormond; yet she was so dazzled by +the splendid representation of a Parisian life, as not to see very +distinctly what object she had herself in view. Connal’s flattery, too, +though it had scarcely any pretence to the tone of truth or passion, +yet contrasting with his previous indifference, gratified her. She was +sensible that he was not attached to her as Harry Ormond was, but she +flattered herself that she should quite turn his head in time. She tried +all her power of charming for this purpose, at first chiefly with the +intention of exciting Harry’s jealousy, and forcing him to break his +honourable resolution. Harry continued her first object for some +little time, but soon the idea of piquing him was merely an excuse for +coquetry. She imagined that she could recede or advance with her new +admirer, just as she thought proper; but she was mistaken: she had now +to deal with a man practised in the game: he might let her appear to +win, but not for nothing would he let her win a single move; yet he +seemed to play so carelessly, as not in the least to alarm, or put +her on her guard. The bystanders began to guess how the game would +terminate: it was a game in which the whole happiness of Dora’s life +was at stake, to say nothing of his own, and Ormond could not look on +without anxiety--and, notwithstanding his outwardly calm appearance, +without strong conflicting emotions. “If,” said he to himself, “I were +convinced that this man would make her happy, I think I could be happy +myself.” But the more he saw of Connal, the less he thought him likely +to make Dora happy; unless, indeed, her vanity could quite extinguish +her sensibility: then, Monsieur de Connal would be just the husband to +suit her. + +Connal was exactly what he appeared to be--a gay young officer, who had +made his own way up in the world--a petit-maître, who had really lived +in good company at Paris, and had made himself agreeable to women of +rank and fortune. He might, perhaps, as he said, with his figure, and +fashion, and connexions, have made his fortune in Paris by marriage, had +he had time to look about him--but a sudden run of ill-fortune at play +had obliged him to quit Paris for a season. It was necessary to make +his fortune by marriage in England or Ireland, and as expeditiously as +possible. In this situation, Dora, with her own and her aunt’s property, +was, as he considered it, an offer not to be rashly slighted; nor yet +was he very eager about the matter--if he failed here, he should succeed +elsewhere. This real indifference gave him advantages with Dora, which +a man of feeling would perhaps never have obtained, or never have kept. +Her father, though he believed in the mutable nature of woman, yet +could scarcely think that his daughter Dora was of this nature. He could +scarcely conceive that her passion for Harry Ormond--that passion which +had, but a short time before, certainly affected her spirits, and put +him in fear for her health--could have been conquered by a coxcomb, who +cared very little whether he conquered or not. + +How was this possible? Good Corny invented many solutions of the +problem: he fancied one hour that his daughter was sacrificing herself +from duty to him, or complaisance to her aunt; the next hour, he +settled, and with more probability, that she was piqued by Harry +Ormond’s not showing more passion. King Corny was resolved to know +distinctly how the matter really was: he therefore summoned his daughter +and aunt into his presence, and the person he sent to summon them was +Harry Ormond. + +“Come back with them, yourself, Harry--I shall want you also.” + +Harry returned with both the ladies. By the countenance of Cornelius +O’Shane, they all three augured that he had something of importance +to say, and they stood in anxious expectation. He went to the point +immediately. + +“Dora, I know it is the custom on some occasions for ladies never to +tell the truth--therefore I shall not ask any question that I think will +put your truth to the test. I shall tell you my mind, and leave you to +judge for yourself. Take as long or as short a time to know your own +mind as you please--only know it clearly, and send me your answer by +your aunt. All I beg is, that when the answer shall be delivered to +me, this young man may be by. Don’t interrupt me, Dora--I have a high +opinion of him,” said he, keeping his eye upon Dora’s face. + +“I have a great esteem, affection, love for him:” he pronounced the +words deliberately, that he might see the effect on Dora; but her +countenance was as undecided as her mind--no judgment could be formed +from its changes. “I wish Harry Ormond,” continued he, “to know all my +conduct: he knows that, long ago, I made a foolish promise to give my +daughter to a man I knew nothing about.” + +Mademoiselle was going to interrupt, but Cornelius O’Shane silenced her. +“Mademoiselle--sister O’Faley, I will do the best I can to repair that +folly--and to leave you at liberty, Dora, to follow the choice of your +heart.” + +He paused, and again studied her countenance, which was agitated. + +“Her choice is your choice--her father’s choice is always the choice of +the good daughter,” said Mademoiselle. + +“I believe she is a good daughter, and that is the particular reason I +am determined to be as good a father as I can to her.” + +Dora wept in silence--and Mademoiselle, a good deal alarmed, wanted to +remove Harry Ormond out of the young lady’s sight: she requested him to +go to her apartment for a smelling-bottle for her niece. + +“No, no,” said King Corny, “go yourself, sister O’Faley, if you like it, +but I’ll not let Harry Ormond stir--he is my witness present. Dora is +not fainting--if you would only let her alone, she would do well. Dora, +listen to me: if you don’t really prefer this Black Connal for a husband +to all other men, as you are to swear at the altar you do, if you marry +him--” + +Dora was strongly affected by the solemn manner of her father’s appeal +to her. + +“If,” continued her father, “you are not quite clear, my dear child, +that you prefer him to other men, do not marry him. I have a notion I +can bring you off without breaking my word: listen. I would willingly +give half my fortune to secure your happiness, my darling. If I do not +mistake him, Mr. Connal would, for a less sum, give me back my promise, +and give you up altogether, my dear Dora.” + +Dora’s tears stopped, Mademoiselle’s exclamations poured forth, and they +both declared they were certain that Mr. Connal would not, for any thing +upon earth that could be offered to him, give up the match. + +Corny said he was willing to make the trial, if they pleased. +Mademoiselle seemed to hesitate; but Dora eagerly accepted the proposal, +thanked her father for his kindness, and declared that she should be +happy to have, and to abide by, this test of Mr. Connal’s love. If he +were so base as to prefer half her fortune to herself, she should, she +said, think herself happy in having escaped from such a traitor. + +Dora’s pride was wakened, and she now spoke in a high tone: she always, +even in the midst of her weaknesses, had an ambition to show spirit. + +“I will put the test to him myself, within this hour,” said Corny; “and +before you go to bed this night, when the clock strikes twelve, all +three of you be on this spot, and I will give you his answer. But stay, +Harry Ormond, we have not had your opinion--would you advise me to make +this trial?” + +“Certainly, sir.” + +“But if I should lose half of Dora’s fortune?” + +“You would think it well bestowed, I am sure, sir, in securing her from +an unhappy marriage.” + +“But then she might not, perhaps, so easily find another lover with half +a fortune--that might make a difference, hey, Harry?” + +“Impossible, I should think, sir, that it could make the least +difference in the affection of any one who really--who was really worthy +of Miss O’Shane.” + +The agitation into which Harry Ormond was thrown, flattered and touched +Dora for the moment; her aunt hurried her out of the room. + +Cornelius O’Shane rang, and inquired where Mr. Connal was? In his own +apartment, writing letters, his servant believed. O’Shane sent to beg to +see him, as soon as he was at leisure. + +At twelve o’clock Dora, Mademoiselle, and Ormond, were all in the study, +punctually as the clock was striking. + +“Well, what is M. de Connal’s answer?” cried Mademoiselle. + +“If he hesitate, my dear Dore, give him up dat minute.” + +“Undoubtedly,” said Dora: “I have too much spirit to do otherwise. +What’s his answer, father?” + +“His answer, my dear child, has proved that you knew him better than I +did--he scorns the offer of half your fortune--for your whole fortune he +would not give you up.” + +“I thought so,” cried Dora, triumphantly. + +“I thought so,” echoed Mademoiselle. + +“I did him injustice,” cried Ormond. “I am glad that M. de Connal has +proved himself worthy of you, Dora, since you really approve of him--you +have not a friend in the world, next to your father, who wishes your +happiness more sincerely than I do.” + +He hurried out of the room. + +“There’s a heart for you!” said Corny. + +“Not for me,” said Mademoiselle: “he has no passion in him.” + +“I give you joy, Dora,” said her father. “I own I misjudged the man--on +account of his being a bit of a coxcomb. But if you can put up with +that, so will I--when I have done a man injustice, I will make it up +to him every way I can. Now let him, he has my consent, be as great a +coxcomb as ever wore red heels. I’ll put up with it all, since he really +loves my child. I did not think he would have stood the test.” + +Nor would he, had not he been properly prepared by Mademoiselle--she +had, before M. de Connal went to Corny, sent him a little billet, +which told him the test that would be proposed, and thus prevented all +possibility of her dear niece’s being disappointed in her lover or her +husband. + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +Vain of showing that he was not in the slightest degree jealous, +Connal talked to Ormond in the freest manner imaginable, touching with +indifference even on the very subject which Ormond, from feelings +of delicacy and honour, had anxiously avoided. Connal seemed to be +perfectly aware how matters had stood before his arrival between Dora +and our young hero. “It was all very well,” he said, “quite natural--in +the common course of things--impossible it should have been otherwise. A +young woman, who saw no one else, must inevitably fall in love with the +first agreeable young man who made love to her, or who did not make love +to her--it was quite equal to him which. He had heard wonders from his +father-in-law elect on that last topic, and he was willing to oblige +him, or any other gentleman or lady, by believing miracles.” + +Ormond, extremely embarrassed by the want of delicacy and feeling with +which this polished coxcomb spoke, had, however, sufficient presence of +mind to avoid, either by word or look, making any particular application +of what was said. + +“You have really prodigious presence of mind, and _discretion_, and +_tact_, for a young man who has, I presume, had so little practice in +these affairs,” said Connal; “but don’t constrain yourself longer. I +speak frankly to take off all embarrassment on your part--you see +there exists none on mine--never, for a moment: no, how can it possibly +signify,” continued he, “to any man of common sense, who, or what a +woman liked before she saw him? You don’t think a man, who has seen any +thing of the world, would trouble himself to inquire whether he was, +or was not, the first love of the woman he is going to marry. To +_marry_--observe the emphasis--distinguish--distinguish, and seriously +let us calculate.” + +Ormond gave no interruption to his calculations, and the petit-maître, +in a tone of philosophic fatuity, asked, “Of the numbers of your English +or Irish wives--all excellent--how many, I pray you, do you calculate +are now married to the man they first, _fell in love with_, as they call +it? My good sir, not five per cent., depend on it. The thing is morally +impossible, unless girls are married out of a convent, as with us in +France, and very difficult even then; and after all, what are the +French husbands the better for it? I understand English husbands think +themselves best off. I don’t pretend to judge; but they seem to prefer +what they call domestic happiness to the French _esprit de société_. +Still, this may be prejudice of education--of country: each nation has +its taste. Every thing is for the best in this world, for people who +know how to make the best of it. You would not think, to look at me, I +was so philosophic: but even in the midst of my military career I have +thought--thought profoundly. Every body in France _thinks_ now,” said M. +de Connal, taking a pinch of snuff with a very pensive air. + +“_Every body_ in France _thinks_ now!” repeated Ormond. + +“Every man of a certain rank, that is to say.” + +“That is to say, of your rank,” said Ormond. + +“Nay, I don’t give myself as an example; but--you may judge--I own I am +surprised to find myself philosophizing here in the Black Islands--but +one philosophizes every where.” “And you would have more time for it +here, I should suppose, than in Paris?” + +“Time, my dear sir--no such thing! Time is merely in idea; but +_Tais-toi Jean Jacques! Tais-toi Condillac!_ To resume the chain of our +reasoning--love and marriage--I say it all comes to much the same thing +in France and in these countries--after all. There is more gallantry, +perhaps, before marriage in England, more after marriage in +France--which has the better bargain? I don’t pretend to decide. +Philosophic doubt for me, especially in cases where ‘tis not worth while +to determine; but I see I astonish you, Mr. Ormond.” + +“You do, indeed,” said Ormond, ingenuously. + +“I give you joy--I envy you,” said M. de Connal, sighing. + +“After a certain age, if one lives in the world, one can’t be +astonished--that’s a lost pleasure.” + +“To me who have lived out of the world it is a pleasure, or rather a +sensation--I am not sure whether I should call it a pleasure--that is +not likely to be soon exhausted,” said Ormond. “A sensation! and you +are not sure whether you should call it a pleasure. Do you know you’ve a +genius for metaphysics?” + +“I!” exclaimed Ormond. + +“Ah! now I have astonished you again. Good! whether pleasurable or +not, trust me, nothing is so improving to a young man as to be well +astonished. Astonishment I conceive to be a sort of mental electric +shock--electric fire; it opens at once and enlightens the understanding: +and really you have an understanding so well worth enlightening--I do +assure you, that your natural acuteness will, whenever and wherever you +appear, make you _un homme marquant.”_ + +“Oh! spare me, Mr. Connal,” said Ormond. “I am not used to French +compliment.” + +“No, upon my honour, without compliment, in all English _bonhommie_,” + (laying his hand upon his heart)--“upon the honour of a gentleman, your +remarks have sometimes perfectly astonished me.” + +“Really!” said Ormond; “but I thought you had lived so much in the +world, you could not be astonished.” + +“I thought so, I own,” said Connal; “but it was reserved for M. Ormond +to convince me of my mistake, to revive an old pleasure--more difficult +still than to invent a new one! In recompense I hope I give you some +new ideas--just throw out opinions for you. Accept--reject--reject +now--accept an hour, a year hence, perhaps--just as it strikes--merely +materials for thinking, I give you.” + +“Thank you,” said Ormond; “and be assured they are not lost upon me. You +have given me a great deal to think of seriously.” + +“_Seriously_!--no; that’s your fault, your national fault. Permit me: +what you want chiefly in conversation--in every thing, is a certain +degree of--of--you have no English word--_lightness_.” + +“_Légèreté_, perhaps you mean,” said Ormond. + +“Precisely. I forgot you understood French so well. +_Légèreté_--untranslatable!--You seize my idea.” + +He left Ormond, as he fancied, in admiration of the man who, in his own +opinion, possessed the whole theory and practice of the art of pleasing, +and the science of happiness. + +M. de Connal’s conversation and example might have produced a great +effect on the mind of a youth of Ormond’s strong passions, lively +imagination, and total ignorance of the world, if he had met this +brilliant officer in different society. Had he seen Connal only as a +man shining in company, or considered him merely as a companion, he must +have been dazzled by his fashion, charmed by his gaiety, and _imposed_ +upon by his decisive tone. + +Had such a vision lighted on the Black Islands, and appeared to our hero +suddenly, in any other circumstances but those in which it did appear, +it might have struck and overawed him; and without inquiring “whether +from heaven or hell,” he might have followed wherever it led or pointed +the way. But in the form of a triumphant rival--without delicacy, +without feeling, neither deserving nor loving the woman he had +won--not likely to make Dora happy--almost certain to make her father +miserable--there was no danger that Black Connal could ever obtain any +ascendancy over Ormond; on the contrary, Connal was useful in forming +our hero’s character. The electric shock of astonishment did operate in +a salutary manner in opening Harry’s understanding: the materials +for thinking were not thrown away: he _did_ think--even in the Black +Islands; and in judging of Connal’s character, he made continual +progress in forming his own: he had motive for exercising his +judgment--he was anxious to study the man’s character on Dora’s account. + +Seeing his unpolished friend, old Corny, and this finished young man of +the world, in daily contrast, Ormond had occasion to compare the real +and the factitious, both in matter and manner: he distinguished, and +felt often acutely, the difference between that politeness of the heart, +which respects and sympathizes with the feelings of others, and that +conventional politeness, which is shown merely to gratify the vanity of +him by whom it is displayed. In the same way he soon discriminated, +in conversation, between Corny’s power of original thinking, and M. +de Connal’s knack of throwing old thoughts into new words; between the +power of answering an argument, and the art of evading it by a repartee. +But it was chiefly in comparing different ideas of happiness and +modes of life, that our young hero’s mind was enlarged by Connal’s +conversation--whilst the comparison he secretly made between +this polished gentleman’s principles and his own, was always more +satisfactory to his pride of virtue, than Connal’s vanity could have +conceived to be possible. + +One day some conversation passed between Connal and _his father-in-law +elect_, as he now always called him, upon his future plans of life. + +Good Corny said he did not know how to hope that, during the few years +he had to live, Connal would not think of taking his daughter from him +to Paris, as, from some words that had dropped from Mademoiselle, he had +reason to fear. + +“No,” Connal said, “he had formed no such cruel intention: the Irish +half of Mademoiselle must have blundered on this occasion. He would do +his utmost, if he could with honour, to retire from the service; unless +the service imperiously called him away, he should settle in Ireland: +he should make it a point even, independently of his duty to his own +father, not to take Miss O’Shane from her country and her friends.” + +The father, open-hearted and generous himself, was fond to believe what +he wished: and confiding in these promises, the old man forgave all that +he did not otherwise approve of in his future son-in-law, and thanked +him almost with tears in his eyes; still repeating, as his natural +penetration remonstrated against his credulity, “But I could hardly have +believed this from such a young man as you, Captain Connal. Indeed, +how you could ever bring yourself to think of settling in retirement +is wonderful to me; but love does mighty things, brings about great +changes.” + +French commonplaces of sentiment upon love, and compliments on Dora’s +charms and his own sensibility, were poured out by Connal, and the +father left the room satisfied. + +Connal then, throwing himself back in his chair, burst out a laughing, +and turning to Ormond, the only person in the room, said, “Could you +have conceived this?” + +“Conceived what, sir?” said Ormond. + +“Conceived this King Corny’s capacity for belief? What!--believe that +I will settle in his Black Islands!--I!--As well believe me to be half +marble, half man, like _the unfortunate_ in the Black Islands of the +Arabian Tales. Settle in the Black Islands!--No: could you conceive a +man on earth could be found so simple as to credit such a thing?” + +“Here is another man on earth who was simple enough to believe it,” said +Ormond, “and to give you credit for it.” + +“You!” cried Connal--“That’s too much!--Impossible!” + +“But when you said it--when I heard you promise it to Mr. O’Shane--” + +“Oh, mercy!--Don’t kill me with laughing!” said he, laughing affectedly: +“Oh! that face of yours--there is no standing it. You heard me +_promise_--and the accent on _promise_. Why, even women, now-a-days, +don’t lay such an emphasis on _a promise_.” + +“That, I suppose, depends on who gives it.” said Ormond. + +“Rather on who receives it,” said Connal: “but look here, you who +understand the doctrine of promises, tell me what a poor conscientious +man must do who has two pulling him different ways?” + +“A conscientious man cannot have given two diametrically opposite +promises.” + +“_Diametrically_!--Thank you for that word--it just saves my lost +conscience. Commend me always to an epithet in the last resource for +giving one latitude of conscience in these nice cases--I have not given +two diametrically opposite--no, I have only given four that cross one +another. One to your King Corny; another to my angel, Dora; another to +the dear aunt; and a fourth to my dearer self. First promise to King +Corny, to settle in the Black Islands; a gratuitous promise, signifying +nothing--read Burlamaqui: second promise to Mademoiselle, to go and +live with her at Paris; with _her_--on the face of it absurd! a promise +extorted too under fear of my life, of immediate peril of being talked +to death--see Vatel on extorted promises--void: third promise to my +angel, Dora, to live wherever she pleases; but that’s a lover’s promise, +made to be broken--see Love’s Calendar, or, if you prefer the bookmen’s +authority, I don’t doubt that, under the head of promises made when a +man is not in his right senses, some of those learned fellows in wigs +would bring me off _sain et sauf_: but now for my fourth promise--I am +a man of honour--when I make a promise intending to keep it, no man so +scrupulous; all promises made to myself come under this head; and I have +promised myself to live, and make my wife live, wherever I please, or +not to live with her at all. This promise I shall bold sacred. Oblige me +with a smile, Mr. Ormond--a smile of approbation.” + +“Excuse me, Mr. Connal, that is impossible--I am sincere.” + +“So am I, and sincerely you are too romantic. See things as they are, as +a man of the world, I beseech you.” + +“I am not a man of the world, and I thank God for it,” cried Ormond. + +“Thank your God for what you please,” said Connal; “but in disdaining to +be a man of the world, you will not, I hope, refuse to let me think you +a man of common sense.” + +“Think what you please of me,” said Ormond, rather haughtily; “what I +think of myself is the chief point with me.” + +“You will lose this little brusquerie of manner,” said Connal, “when you +have mixed more with mankind. Providentially, we are all made dependent +on one another’s good opinion. Even I, you see, cannot live without +yours.” + +Whether from vanity, from the habit of wishing to charm every body +in every house he entered, especially any one who made resistance; +or whether he was piqued and amused with Ormond’s frank and natural +character, and determined to see how far he could urge him, Connal went +on, though our young hero gave him no encouragement to hope that he +should win his good opinion. + +“Candidly,” said he, “put yourself in my place for a moment: I was in +England, following my own projects; I was not in love with the girl as +you--well, pardon--as anybody might have been--but I was at a distance, +that makes all the difference: I am sent for over by two fathers, and I +am told that in consequence of my good or evil fortune in being born a +twin, and of some inconceivable promise between two Irish fathers over +a punch-bowl, I am to have the refusal, I should rather say the +acceptance, of a very pretty girl with a very pretty fortune. Now, +except just at the moment when the overture reached me, it could not +have been listened to for a moment by such a man as I am.” + +“Insufferable coxcomb,” said Ormond to himself. + +“But, to answer a question, which I omitted to answer just now to my +father-in-law,--what could induce me to come over and think of settling +in the Black Islands? I answer--for I am determined to win your +confidence by my candour--I answer in one word, _un billard_--a +billiard-table. To tell you all, I confess--” + +“Confess nothing, I beg, Mr. Connal, to me, that you do not wish to be +known to Mr. O’Shane: I am his friend--he is my benefactor.” + +“You would not repeat--you are a gentleman, and a man of honour.” + +“I am; and as such I desire, on this occasion, not to hear what I ought +neither to repeat nor to keep secret. It is my duty not to leave my +benefactor in the dark as to any point.” + +“Oh! come--come,” interrupted Connal, “we had better not take it on this +serious tone, lest, if we begin to talk of duty, we should presently +conceive it to be our duty to run one another through the body, which +would be no pleasure.” + +“No pleasure,” said Ormond; “but if it became a duty, I hope, on all +occasions, I should be able to do whatever I thought a duty. Therefore +to avoid any misunderstanding, Mr. Connal, let me beg that you will not +honour me farther with your confidence. I cannot undertake to be the +confidant of any one, of whom I have never professed myself to be the +friend.” + +“Ca suffit,” said Connal, lightly. “We understand one another now +perfectly’--you shall in future play the part of _prince_, and not of +confidant. Pardon me, I forgot your highness’s pretensions;” so saying, +he gaily turned on his heel, and left the room. + +From this time forward little conversation passed between Mr. Connal and +Ormond--little indeed between Ormond and Dora. With Mademoiselle, Ormond +had long ceased to be a favourite, and even her loquacity now seldom +addressed itself to him. He was in a painful situation;--he spent as +much of his time as he could at the farm his friend had given him. As +soon as O’Shane found that there was no truth in the report of Black +Connal’s intended marriage in England, that he claimed in earnest his +promise of his daughter, and that Dora herself inclined to the new love, +his kind heart felt for poor Harry. + +Though he did not know all that had passed, yet he saw the awkwardness +and difficulty of Ormond’s present situation, and, whatever it might +cost him to part with his young friend, with his adopted son, Corny +determined not to detain him longer. + +“Harry Ormond, my boy,” said he to him one day, “time for you to see +something of the world, also for the world to see something of you; I’ve +kept you here for my own pleasure too long: as long as I had any hope of +settling you as I wished ‘twas a sufficient excuse to myself; but now +I have none left--I must part with you: and so, by the blessing, God +helping me to conquer my selfishness, and the yearnings of my heart +towards you, I will. I mean,” continued he, “to send you far from me--to +banish you for your good from the Black Islands entirely. Nay, don’t you +interrupt me, nor say a word; for if you do, I shall be too soft to have +the heart to do you justice. You know you said yourself, and I felt +it for you, that it was best you should leave this. Well, I have been +thinking of you ever since, and licking different projects into shape +for you--listening too to every thing Connal threw out; but all he +says that way is in the air--no substance, when you try to have and to +hold--too full of himself, that youngster, to be a friend to another.” + +“There is no reason why he should be my friend, sir,” said Ormond--“I do +not pretend to be his; and I rejoice in not being under any obligations +to him.” + +“Right!--and high!--just as I feel for you. After all, I approve of your +own wish to go into the British service in preference to any foreign +service, and you could not be of the Irish brigade--Harry.” + +“Indeed, sir, I infinitely prefer,” said Ormond, “the service of my own +country--the service in which my father--I know nothing of my father, +but I have always heard him spoken of as a good officer; I hope I shall +not disgrace his name. The English service for me, sir, if you please.” + +“Why, then, I’m glad you see things as I do, and are not run away with +by uniform, and _all that_. I have lodged the needful in the bank, to +purchase a commission for you, my son. Now! no more go to thank me, if +you love me, Harry, than you would your own father. I’ve written to +a friend to choose a regiment in which there’d be as little danger as +possible for you.” + +“As little danger as possible!” repeated Harry, surprised. + +“Phoo! you don’t think I mean as little danger of fighting. I would +not wrong you so. No--but as little danger of gambling. Not that you’re +inclined to it, or any thing else that’s bad--but there is no knowing +what company might lead the best into; and it is my duty and inclination +to look as close to all these things as if for my own son.” + +“My kind father--no father could be kinder,” cried Harry, quite +overpowered. + +“So then you go as soon as the commission comes--that’s settled; and I +hope I shall be able to bear it, Harry, old as I am. There may perhaps +be a delay of a little time longer than you could wish.” + +“Oh! sir, as long as you wish me to stay with you--” + +“Not a minute beyond what’s necessary. I mention the cause of delay, +that you may not think I’m dallying for my own sake. You remember +General Albemarle, who came here one day last year--election time, +canvassing--the general that had lost the arm.” + +“Perfectly, sir, I remember your answer--‘I will give my interest to +this _empty sleeve_.’” + +“Thank you--never a word lost upon you. Well, now I have hopes that this +man--this general, will take you by the hand; for he has a hand left +yet, and a powerful one to serve a friend; and I’ve requested him to +keep his eye upon you, and I have asked his advice: so we can’t stir +till we get it, and that will be eight days, or ten, say. My boy, +you must bear on as you are--we have the comfort of the workshop to +ourselves, and some rational recreation; good shooting we will have soon +too, for the first time this season.” + +Among the various circumstances which endeared Harry to our singular +monarch, his skill and keenness as a sportsman were not inconsiderable: +he knew where all the game in the island was to be found; so that, when +his good old patron was permitted by the gout to take the field, Harry’s +assistance saved him a vast deal of unnecessary toil, and gratified him +in his favourite amusement, whilst he, at the same time, sympathized in +the sport. Corny, besides being a good shot, was an excellent mechanic: +he beguiled the hours, when there was neither hunting nor shooting, in +a workshop which was furnished with the best tools. Among the other +occupations at the work-bench, he was particularly skilful in making and +adjusting the locks of guns, and in boring and polishing the inside of +their barrels to the utmost perfection: he had contrived and executed a +tool for the enlarging the barrel of a gun in any particular part, so as +to increase its effect in adding to the force of the discharge, and in +preventing the shot from scattering too widely. + +The hope of the success of his contrivance, and the prospect of going +out with Harry on the approaching first of September, solaced King +Corny, and seemed to keep up his spirits, through all the vexation he +felt concerning Connal and this marriage, which evidently was not to +his taste. It was to Dora’s, however, and was becoming more evidently so +every hour--and soon M. Connal pressed, and Mademoiselle urged, and Dora +named--the happy day--and Mademoiselle, in transports, prepared to go +to Dublin, with her niece, to choose the wedding-clothes, and, Connal to +bespeak the equipages. + +Mademoiselle was quick in her operations when dress was in question: the +preparations for the delightful journey were soon made--the morning for +their departure came--the carriage and horses were sent over the water +early--and O’Shane and Harry afterwards accompanied the party in the +boat to the other side of the lake, where the carriage waited with the +door open. Connal, after handing in Mademoiselle, turned to look for +his destined bride--who was taking leave of her father--Harry Ormond +standing by. The moment she quitted her father’s embrace, Father Jos +poured with both his hands on her head the benedictions of all the +saints. Released from Father Jos, Captain Connal hurried her on: Harry +held out his hand to her as she passed. “Good bye, Dora--probably I +shall never see you again.” + +“Oh, Harry!” said she, one touch of natural feeling stopping her +short--“Oh, Harry!--Why?” Bursting into tears, she drew her hand +from Connal, and gave it to Harry: Harry received the hand openly and +cordially, shook it heartily, but took no advantage and no notice of the +feelings by which he saw her at that moment agitated. + +“_Forgive_!” she began. + +“Good bye, _dear_ Dora. God bless you--may you be as happy--half as +happy, as I wish you to be!” + +“To be sure she will--happy as the day is long,” said Mademoiselle, +leaning out of the carriage: “why will you make her cry, Mr. Ormond, +spoiling her eyes at parting? Come in to me--Dora, M. de Connal is +waiting to hand you, mon enfant.” + +“Is her dressing-box in, and all right?” asked Captain Connal, as he +handed Dora into the carriage, who was still weeping. + +“Bad compliment to M. de Connal, mon amie. Vrai scandale!” said +Mademoiselle, pulling up the glass, while Dora sunk back in the +carriage, sobbing without restraint. + +“Good morning,” said Connal, who had now mounted his Mr. Ormond, “Adieu, +Mr. Ormond--command me in any way you please. Drive on!” + + + +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. + + + +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:-- + + To serve in parliament the nation, + Sir Ulick read his recantation: + + At first he joined the patriot throng, + But soon perceiving he was wrong, + He ratted to the courtier tribe, + Bought by a title and a bribe; + But how that new found friend to bind, + With any oath--of any kind, + Disturb’d the premier’s wary mind. + “_Upon his faith.--Upon his word,_” + Oh! that, my friend, is too absurd. + “_Upon his honour_.”--Quite a jest. + “_Upon his conscience_.”--No such test. + “_By all he has on earth_.”--‘Tis gone. + “_By all his hopes of Heaven_.”--They’re none. + “How then secure him in our pay-- + He can’t be trusted for a day?” + How?--When you want the fellow’s throat-- + Pay by the job--you have his vote. + +Sir Ulick himself, had he been present, would have laughed off the +epigram with the best grace imaginable, and so, in good policy, ought +Ormond to have taken it. But he felt it too much, and was not in the +habit of laughing when he was vexed. Most of the company, who knew any +thing of his connexion with Sir Ulick, or who understood the agonizing +looks of the master and mistress of the house, politely refrained from +smiles or applause; but a cousin of the lady who repeated the lines, a +young man who was one of the hateful tribe of _quizzers_, on purpose to +_try_ Ormond, praised the verses to the skies, and appealed to him for +his opinion. + +“I can’t admire them, sir,” replied Ormond. + +“What fault can you find with them?” said the young man, winking at the +bystanders. + +“I think them _incorrect_, in the first place, sir,” said Ormond, “and +altogether indifferent.” + +“Well, at any rate, they can’t be called _moderate_,” said the +gentleman; “and as to incorrect, the substance, I fancy, is correctly +true.” + +“_Fancy_, sir!--It would be hard if character were to be at the mercy of +fancy,” cried Ormond, hastily; but checking himself, he, in a mild tone, +added, “before we go any farther, sir, I should inform you that I am a +ward of Sir Ulick O Shane’s.” + +“Oh! mercy,” exclaimed the lady, who had repeated the verses; “I am sure +I did not know that, or I would not have said a word--I declare I beg +your pardon, sir.” + +Ormond’s bow and smile spoke his perfect satisfaction with the lady’s +contrition, and his desire to relieve her from farther anxiety. So the +matter might have happily ended; but her cousin, though he had begun +merely with an intention to try Ormond’s temper, now felt piqued by +his spirit, and thought it incumbent upon him to persist. Having drunk +enough to be ill-humoured, he replied, in an aggravating and ill-bred +manner, “Your being Sir Ulick O’Shane’s ward may make a difference +in your feelings, sir, but I don’t see why it should make any in my +opinion.” + +“In the expression of that opinion at least, sir, I think it ought.” + +The master of the house now interfered, to explain and pacify, and +Ormond had presence of mind and command enough over himself, to say no +more while the ladies were present: he sat down, and began talking about +some trifle in a gay tone; but his flushed cheek, and altered manner, +showed that he was only repressing other feelings. The carriages of +the visitors were announced, and the strangers rose to depart. Ormond +accompanied the master of the house to hand the ladies to their +carriages. To mark his being in perfect charity with the fair penitent, +he showed her particular attention, which quite touched her; and as he +put her into her carriage, she, all the time, repeated her apologies, +declared it should be a lesson to her for life, and cordially shook +hands with him at parting. For her sake, he wished that nothing more +should be said on the subject. + +But, on his return to the hall, he found there the cousin, buttoning on +his great coat, and seeming loath to depart: still in ill-humour, the +gentleman said, “I hope you are satisfied with that lady’s apologies, +Mr. Ormond.” + +“I am, sir, perfectly.” + +“That’s lucky: for apologies are easier had from ladies than gentlemen, +and become them better.” + +“I think it becomes gentlemen as well as ladies to make candid +apologies, where they are conscious of being wrong--if there was no +intention to give offence.” + +“_If_ is a great peace-maker, sir; but I scorn to take advantage of an +_if_.” + +“Am I to suppose then, sir,” said Ormond, “that it was your intention to +offend me?” + +“Suppose what you please, sir--I am not in the habit of explanation or +apology.” + +“Then, sir, the sooner we meet the better,” said Ormond. In consequence +Ormond applied to an officer who had been present during the +altercation, to be his second. Ormond felt that he had restrained his +anger sufficiently--he was now as firm as he had been temperate. The +parties met and fought: the man who deserved to have suffered, by +the chance of this rational mode of deciding right and wrong, escaped +unhurt; Ormond received a wound in his arm. It was only a flesh wound. +He was at the house of a very hospitable gentleman, whose family were +kind to him; and the inconvenience and pain were easily borne. In the +opinion of all, in that part of the world, who knew the facts, he had +conducted himself as well as the circumstances would permit; and, as it +was essential, not only to the character of a hero, but of a gentleman +at that time in Ireland, to fight a duel, we may consider Ormond as +fortunate in not having been in the wrong. He rose in favour with the +ladies, and in credit with the gentlemen, and he heard no more of the +Ulysseana; but he was concerned to see paragraphs in all the Irish +papers, about the duel that had been fought between M. N. Esq. jun. of +----, and H. O. Esq., in consequence of a dispute that arose about some +satirical verses, repeated by a lady on a certain well-known character, +nearly related to one of the parties. A flaming account of the duel +followed, in which there was the usual newspaper proportion of truth and +falsehood: Ormond knew and regretted that this paragraph must meet +the eyes of his guardian; and still more he was sorry that Dr. Cambray +should see it. He knew the doctor’s Christian abhorrence of the whole +system of duelling; and, by the statement in the papers, it appeared +that that gallant youth, H. O. Esq., to whom the news-writer evidently +wished to do honour, had been far more forward to provoke the fight than +he had been, or than he ought to have been:--his own plain statement +of facts, which he wrote to Dr. Cambray, would have set every thing to +rights, but his letter crossed the doctor’s on the road. As he was now +in a remote place, which the delightful mail coach roads had not then +reached--where the post came in only three days in the week--and where +the mail cart either broke down, lost a wheel, had a tired horse, was +overturned, or robbed, at an average once a fortnight--our hero had no +alternative but patience, and the amusement of calculating dates and +chances upon his restless sofa. His taste for reading enabled him to +pass agreeably some of the hours of bodily confinement, which men, and +young men especially, accustomed to a great deal of exercise, liberty, +and locomotion, generally find so intolerably irksome. At length his +wound was well enough for him to travel--letters for him arrived: a +warm, affectionate one from his guardian; and one from Dr. Cambray, +which relieved his anxiety. + +“I must tell you, my dear young friend,” said Dr. Cambray, “that while +you have been defending Sir Ulick O’Shane’s public character (of +which, by-the-by, you know nothing), I have been defending your private +character, of which I hope and believe I know something. The truth is +always known in time, with regard to every character; and therefore, +independently of other motives, moral and religious, it is more prudent +to trust to time and truth for their defence, than to sword and +pistol. I know you are impatient to hear what were the reports to your +disadvantage, and from whom I had them. I had them from the Annalys; +and they heard them in England, through various circuitous channels of +female correspondents in Ireland. As far as we can trace them, we think +that they originated with your old friend Miss Black. The first account +Lady Annaly heard of you after she went to England, was, that you were +living a most dissolute life in the Black Islands, with King Corny, +who was described to be a profligate rebel, and his companion an +ex-communicated catholic priest; king, priest, and _Prince Harry_, +getting drunk together regularly every night of their lives. The next +account which Lady Annaly received some months afterwards, in reply to +inquiries she had made from her agent, was, that it was impossible to +know any thing for certain of Mr. Harry Ormond, as he always kept in the +Black Islands. The report was, that he had lately seduced a girl of the +name of Peggy Sheridan, a respectable gardener’s daughter, who was going +to be married to a man of the name of Moriarty Carroll, a person whom +Mr. Ormond had formerly shot in some unfortunate drunken quarrel. The +match between her and Moriarty had been broken off in consequence. The +following year accounts were worse and worse. This Harry Ormond had +gained the affections of his benefactor’s daughter, though, as he had +been warned by her father, she was betrothed to another man. The young +lady was afterwards, by her father’s anger, and by Ormond’s desertion +of her, thrown into the arms of a French adventurer, whom Ormond brought +into the house under pretence of learning French from him. Immediately +after the daughter’s elopement with the French master, the poor father +died suddenly, in some extraordinary manner, when out shooting with this +Mr. Ormond; to whom a considerable landed property, and a large legacy +in money, were, to every body’s surprise, found to be left in a will +which _he_ produced, and which the family did not think fit to dispute. +There were strange circumstances told concerning the wake and burial, +all tending to prove that this Harry Ormond had lost all feeling. Hints +were further given that he had renounced the Protestant religion, and +had turned Catholic for the sake of absolution.” + +Many times during the perusal of this extravagant tissue of falsehoods, +Ormond laid down and resumed the paper, unable to refrain from +exclamations of rage and contempt; sometimes almost laughing at the +absurdity of the slander. “After this,” thought he, “who can mind common +reports?--and yet Dr. Cambray says that these excited some prejudice +against me in the mind of Lady Annaly. With such a woman I should +have thought it impossible. Could she believe me capable of such +crimes?--_me_, of whom she had once a good opinion?--_me_, in whose fate +she said she was interested?” + +He took Dr. Cambray’s letter again, and read on: he found that Lady +Annaly had not credited these reports as to the atrocious accusations; +but they had so far operated as to excite doubts and suspicions. In +some of the circumstances, there was sufficient truth to colour the +falsehood. For example, with regard both to Peggy Sheridan, and Dora, +the truth had been plausibly mixed with falsehood. The story of Peggy +Sheridan, Lady Annaly had some suspicion might be true. Her ladyship, +who had seen Moriarty’s generous conduct to Ormond, was indignant at his +ingratitude. She was a woman prompt to feel strong indignation against +all that was base; and, when her indignation was excited, she was +sometimes incapable of hearing what was said on the other side of the +question. Her daughter Florence, of a calmer temper and cooler judgment, +usually acted as moderator on these occasions. She could not believe +that Harry Ormond had been guilty of faults that were so opposite to +those which they had seen in his disposition:--violence, not treachery, +was his fault. But why, if there were nothing wrong, Lady Annaly +urged--why did not he write to her, as she had requested he would, when +his plans for his future life were decided?--She had told him that her +son might probably be able to assist him. Why could not he write one +line? + +Ormond had heard that her son was ill, and that her mind was so absorbed +with anxiety, that he could not at first venture to intrude upon her +with his selfish concerns. This was his first and best reason; but +afterwards, to be sure, when he heard that the son was better, he might +have written. He wrote at that time such a sad scrawl of a hand--he was +so little used to letter-writing, that he was ashamed to write. Then +it was _too late_ after so long a silence, &c. Foolish as these reasons +were, they had, as we have said before, acted upon our young hero; and +have, perhaps, in as important circumstances, prevented many young men +from writing to friends, able and willing to serve them. It was rather +fortunate for Ormond that slander did not stop at the first plausible +falsehoods: when the more atrocious charges came against him, Miss +Annaly, who had never deserted his cause, declared her absolute +disbelief. The discussions that went on, between her and her mother, +kept alive their interest about this young man. He was likely to have +been forgotten during their anxiety in the son’s illness; but fresh +reports had brought him to their recollection frequently; and when their +friend, Dr. Cambray, was appointed to the living of Castle Hermitage, +his evidence perfectly reinstated Harry in Lady Annaly’s good opinion. +As if to make amends for the injustice she had done him by believing any +part of the evil reports, she was now anxious to see him again. A +few days after Dr. Cambray wrote, Ormond received a very polite and +gratifying letter from Lady Annaly, requesting that, as “Annaly” lay in +his route homewards, he would spend a few days there, and give her +an opportunity of making him acquainted with her son. It is scarcely +necessary to say that this invitation was eagerly accepted. + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +Upon his arrival at Annaly, Ormond found that Dr. Cambray and all his +family were there. + +“Yes, all your friends,” said Lady Annaly, as Ormond looked round with +pleasure, “all your friends, Mr. Ormond--you must allow me an old right +to be of that number--and here is my son, who is as well inclined, as +I hope you feel, to pass over the intermediate formality of new +acquaintanceship, and to become intimate with you as soon as possible.” + +Sir Herbert Annaly confirmed, by the polite cordiality of his manner, +all that his mother promised; adding that their mutual friend Dr. +Cambray had made him already so fully acquainted with Mr. Ormond, that +though he had never had the pleasure of seeing him before, he could not +consider him as a stranger. + +Florence Annaly was beautiful, but not one of those beauties who strike +at first sight. Hers was a face which neither challenged nor sued +for admiration. There was no expression thrown into the eyes or the +eyebrows, no habitual smile on the lips--the features were all in +natural repose; the face never expressed any thing but what the mind +really felt. But if any just observation was made in Miss Annaly’s +company, any stroke of genius, that countenance instantly kindled +into light and life: and if any noble sentiment was expressed, if +any generous action was related, then the soul within illumined the +countenance with a ray divine. When once Ormond had seen this, his eye +returned in hopes of seeing it again--he had an indescribable interest +and pleasure in studying a countenance, which seemed so true an index +to a noble and cultivated mind, to a heart of delicate, but not morbid +sensibility. His manners and understanding had been formed and improved, +beyond what could have been expected, from the few opportunities of +improvement he had till lately enjoyed. He was timid, however, in +conversation with those of whose information and abilities he had a +high opinion, so that at first he did not do himself justice; but in his +timidity there was no awkwardness; it was joined with such firmness of +principle, and such a resolute, manly character, that he was peculiarly +engaging to women. + +During his first visit at Annaly he pleased much, and was so much +pleased with every individual of the family, with their manners, their +conversation, their affection for each other, and altogether with their +mode of living, that he declared to Dr. Cambray he never had been so +happy in his whole existence. It was a remarkable fact, however, that he +spoke much more of Lady Annaly and Sir Herbert than of Miss Annaly. + +He had never before felt so very unwilling to leave any place, or so +exceedingly anxious to be invited to repeat his visit. He did receive +the wished-for invitation; and it was given in such a manner as left him +no doubt that he might indulge his own ardent desire to return, and to +cultivate the friendship of this family. His ardour for foreign travel, +his desire to see more of the world, greatly abated; and before he +reached Castle Hermitage, and by the time he saw his guardian, he had +almost forgotten that Sir Ulick had traced for him a course of +travels through the British islands and the most polished parts of the +Continent. + +He now told Sir Ulick that it was so far advanced in the season, that he +thought it better to spend the winter in Ireland. + +“In Dublin instead of London?” said Sir Ulick, smiling; “very patriotic, +and very kind to me, for I am sure I am your first object; and depend +upon it few people, ladies always excepted, will ever like your company +better than I do.” + +Then Sir Ulick went rapidly over every subject, and every person, that +could lead his ward farther to explain his feelings; but now, as usual, +he wasted his address, for the ingenuous young man directly opened his +whole heart to him. + +“I am impatient to tell you, sir,” said he, “how very kindly I was +received by Lady Annaly.” + +“She is very kind,” said Sir Ulick: “I suppose, in general, you have +found yourself pretty well received wherever you have gone--not to +flatter you too much on your mental or personal qualifications, and, no +disparagement to Dr. Cambray’s letters of introduction or my own, five +or six thousand a-year are, I have generally observed, a tolerably good +passport into society, a sufficient passe-partout.” “Passe-partout!--not +_partout_--not quite sufficient at Annaly, you cannot mean, sir--” + +“Oh! I cannot mean any thing, but that Annaly is altogether the eighth +wonder of the world,” said Sir Ulick, “and all the men and women in it +absolutely angels--perfect angels.” + +“No, sir, if you please, not perfect; for I have heard--though I own I +never saw it--that perfection is always stupid: now certainly _that_ the +Annalys are not.” + +“Well, well, they shall be as imperfect as you like--any thing to please +you.” + +“But, sir, you used to be so fond of the Annalys. I remember.” + +“True, and did I tell you that I had changed my opinion?” + +“Your manner, though not your words, tells me so.” + +“You mistake: the fact is--for I always treat you, Harry, with perfect +candour--I was hurt and vexed by their refusal of my son. But, after +all,” added he, with a deep sigh, “it was Marcus’s own fault--he has +been very dissipated. Miss Annaly was right, and her mother quite right, +I own. Lady Annaly is one of the most respectable women in Ireland--and +Miss Annaly is a charming girl--I never saw any girl I should have liked +so much for my daughter-in-law. But Marcus and I don’t always agree +in our tastes--I don’t think the refusal there, was half as great a +mortification and disappointment to him, as it was to me.” + +“You delight me, dear sir,” cried Ormond; “for then I may feel secure +that if ever in future--I don’t mean in the least that I have any +present thought--it would be absurd--it would be ridiculous--it would +be quite improper--you know I was only there ten days; but I mean if, in +future, I should ever have any thoughts--any serious thoughts--” + +“Well, well,” said Sir Ulick, laughing at Ormond’s hesitation and +embarrassment, “I can suppose that you will have thoughts of some +kind or other, and serious thoughts in due course; but, as you justly +observe, it would be quite ridiculous at present.” + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” interrupted Harry, “but it would even at +present be an inexpressible satisfaction to me to know, that if in +future such a thing should occur, I should be secure, in the first +place, of your approbation.” + +“As to that, my dear boy,” said Sir Ulick, “you know in a few days you +will be at years of discretion--then my control ceases.” + +“Yes, sir; but not my anxiety for your approbation, and my deference for +your opinion.” + +“Then,” said Sir Ulick, “and without circumlocution or nonsense, I tell +you at once, Harry Ormond, that Florence Annaly is the woman in the +world I should like best to see your wife.” + +“Thank you, sir, for this explicit answer--I am sure towards me nothing +can have been more candid and kind than your whole conduct has ever +been.” + +“That’s true, Harry,” exclaimed Sir Ulick. “Tell me about this duel--you +have fought a duel in defence of my conduct and character, I understand, +since I saw you. But, my dear fellow, though I am excessively obliged +to you, I am exceedingly angry with you: how could you possibly be +so hot-heated and silly as to _take up_ any man for relishing the +Ulysseana? Bless ye! I relish it myself--I only laugh at such things: +believe me, ‘tis The best way.” + +“I am sure of it, sir, if one can; and, indeed, I have had pretty good +proof that one should despise reports and scandal of all kinds--easier +for oneself sometimes than for one’s friends.” + +“Yes, my dear Ormond, by the time you have been half as long living +in the great and the political world as I have been, you will be quite +case-hardened, and will hear your friends abused, without feeling it +in the least. Believe me, I once was troubled with a great deal of +susceptibility like yours--but after all, ‘tis no bad thing for you to +have fought a duel--a feather in your cap with the ladies, and a warning +to all impertinent fellows to let you alone--but you were wounded, the +newspaper said--I asked you where, three times in my letters--you never +condescended to answer me--answer me now, I insist upon it.” + +“In my arm, sir--a slight scratch.” + +“Slight scratch or not, I must hear all about it--come, tell me exactly +how the thing began and ended--tell me all the rascals said of me.--You +won’t?--then I’ll tell you: they said, ‘I am the greatest jobber in +Ireland--that I do not mind how I throw away the public money--in short, +that I am a sad political profligate.’--Well! well! I am sure, after +all, they did me the justice to acknowledge, that in private life no +man’s honour is more to be depended on.” + +“They did do you that justice, sir,” said Ormond; “but pray ask me no +farther questions--for, frankly, it is disagreeable to me--and I will +tell you no more.” + +“That’s frank,” said Sir Ulick, “and I as frankly assure you I am +perfectly satisfied.” + +“Then, to return to the Annalys,” said Ormond, “I never saw Sir +Herbert till now--I like him--I like his principles--his love of his +country--and his attachment to his family.” + +“He’s a very fine fellow--no better fellow than Herbert Annaly. But as +for his attachment to his family, who thanks him for that? Who could +help it, with such a family? And his love for his country--every body +loves his country.” + +“More or less, I suppose,” said Ormond. + +“But, upon my word, I entirely agree with you about Sir Herbert, though +I know he is prejudiced against me to the last degree.” + +“If he be, I don’t know it, sir--I never found it out.” + +“He will let it out by and by--I only hope he will not prejudice you +against me.” + +“That is not very easily done, sir.” + +“As you have given some proof, my dear boy, and I thank you for it. But +the Annalys would go more cautiously to work--I only put you on your +guard--Marcus and Sir Herbert never could hit it off together; and I am +afraid the breach between us and the Annalys must be widened, for Marcus +must stand against Sir Herbert at the next election, if he live--Pray +how is he?” + +“Not strong, sir--he has a hectic colour--as I was very sorry to see.” + +“Ay, poor fellow--he broke some blood-vessel, I think Marcus told me, +when they were in England.” + +“Yes, sir--so Lady Annaly told me--it was in over-exerting himself to +extinguish a fire.” + +“A very fine spirited fellow he is, no doubt,” said Sir Ulick; “but, +after all, that was rather a foolish thing, in his state of health. +By-the-by, as your guardian, it is my duty to explain the circumstances +of this family--in case you should hereafter _have any serious +thoughts_; as you say, you should know what comforted Marcus in his +disappointment there. There is, then, some confounded flaw in that +old father’s will, through which the great Herbert estate slips to an +heir-at-law, who has started up within this twelvemonth. Miss Annaly, +who was to have been a nonpareil of an heiress in case of the brother’s +death, will have but a moderate fortune; and the poor dowager will be +but scantily provided for, after all the magnificence which she has been +used to, unless he lives to make up something handsome for them. I don’t +know the particulars, but I know that a vast deal depends on his living +till he has levied certain fines, which he ought to have levied, +instead of amusing himself putting out other people’s fires. But I am +excessively anxious about it, and now on your account as well as theirs; +for it would make a great difference to you, if you seriously have any +_thoughts_ of Miss Annaly.” + +Ormond declared this could make no difference to him, since his own +fortune would be sufficient for all the wishes of such a woman as he +supposed Miss Annaly to be. The next day Marcus O’Shane arrived from +England. This was the first time that Ormond and he had met since +the affair of Moriarty, and the banishment from Castle Hermitage. The +meeting was awkward enough, notwithstanding Sir Ulick’s attempts to make +it otherwise: Marcus laboured under the double consciousness of having +deserted Harry in past adversity, and of being jealous of his present +prosperity. Ormond at first went forward to meet him more than half way +with great cordiality, but the cold politeness of Marcus chilled him; +and the heartless congratulations, and frequent allusions in the course +of the first hour, to Ormond’s new fortune and consequence, offended our +young hero’s pride. He grew more reserved, the more complimentary Marcus +became, especially as in all his compliments there was a mixture +of _persiflage_, which Marcus supposed, erroneously, that Ormond’s +untutored, unpractised ear would not perceive. + +Harry sat silent, proudly indignant. He valued himself on being +something, and somebody, independently of his fortune--he had worked +hard to become so--he had the consciousness about him of tried +integrity, resolution, and virtue; and was it to be implied that he was +_somebody_, only in consequence of his having chanced to become heir +to so many thousands a year? Sir Ulick, whose address was equal to most +occasions, was not able to manage so as to make these young men like one +another. Marcus had an old jealousy of Harry’s favour with his father, +of his father’s affection for Harry: and at the present moment, he was +conscious that his father was with just cause much displeased with him. +Of this Harry knew nothing, but Marcus suspected that his father +had told Ormond every thing, and this increased the awkwardness and +ill-humour that Marcus felt; and notwithstanding all his knowledge of +the world, and conventional politeness, he showed his vexation in +no very well-bred manner. He was now in particularly bad humour, in +consequence of a _scrape_, as he called it, which he had got into, +during his last winter in London, respecting an intrigue with a married +lady of rank. Marcus, by some intemperate expressions, had brought on +the discovery, of which, when it was too late, he repented. A public +trial was likely to be the consequence--the damages would doubtless be +laid at the least at ten thousand pounds. Marcus, however, counting, as +sons sometimes do in calculating their father’s fortune, all the credit, +and knowing nothing of the debtor side of the account, conceived his +father’s wealth to be inexhaustible. Lady O’Shane’s large fortune had +cleared off all debts, and had set Sir Ulick up in a bank, which was in +high credit; then he had shares in a canal and in a silver mine--he held +two lucrative sinecure places--and had bought estates in three counties: +but the son did not know, that for the borrowed purchase-money of two of +the estates Sir Ulick was now paying high and accumulating interest; so +that the prospect of being called upon for ten thousand pounds was most +alarming. In this exigency Sir Ulick, who had long foreseen how the +affair was likely to terminate, had his eye upon his ward’s ready money. +It was for this he had been at such peculiar pains to ingratiate +himself with Ormond. Affection, nevertheless, made him hesitate; he was +unwilling to injure or to hazard his property--very unwilling to prey +upon his generosity--still more so after the late handsome manner in +which Ormond had hazarded his life in defence of his guardian’s honour. + +Sir Ulick, who perceived the first evening that Marcus and Ormond met, +that the former was not going the way to assist these views, pointed +out to him how much it was for his interest to conciliate Ormond, and +to establish himself in his good opinion; but Marcus, though he saw +and acknowledged this, could not submit his pride and temper to the +necessary restraint. For a few hours he would display his hereditary +talents, and all his acquired graces; but the next hour his ill-humour +would break out towards his inferiors, his father’s tenants and +dependents, in a way which Ormond’s generous spirit could not bear. +Before he went to England, even from his boyish days, his manners had +been habitually haughty and tyrannical to the lower class of people. +Ormond and he had always differed and often quarrelled on this subject. +Ormond hoped to find his manners altered in this respect by his +residence in a more polished country. But the external polish he had +acquired had not reached the mind: high-bred society had taught him +only to be polite to his equals; he was now still more disposed to +be insolent to his inferiors, especially to his Irish inferiors. He +affected to consider himself as more than half an Englishman; and +returning from London in all the distress and disgrace to which he had +reduced himself by criminal indulgence in the vices of fashionable, and +what he called _refined_, society, he vented his ill-humour on the poor +Irish peasants--the _natives_, as he termed them in derision. He spoke +to them as if they were slaves--he considered them as savages. Marcus +had, early in life, almost before he knew the real distinctions, or more +than the names of the different parties in Ireland, been a strong +party man. He called himself a government man; but he was one of those +partisans, whom every wise and good administration in Ireland has +discountenanced and disclaimed. He was, in short, one of those who make +their politics an excuse to their conscience for the indulgence of a +violent temper. + +Ormond was indignant at the inveterate prejudice that Marcus showed +against a poor man, whom he had injured, but who had never injured +him. The moment Marcus saw Moriarty Carroll again, and heard his name +mentioned, he exclaimed and reiterated, “That’s a bad fellow--I know him +of old--all those Carrolls are rascals and rebels.” + +Marcus looked with a sort of disdainful spleen at the house which Ormond +had fitted up for Moriarty. + +“So, you stick to this fellow still!--What a dupe, Ormond, this Moriarty +has made of you!” said Marcus; “but that’s not my affair. I only wonder +how you wheedled my father out of the ground for the garden here.” + +“There was no wheedling in the case,” said Ormond: “your father gave it +freely, or I should not have accepted it.” + +“You were very good to accept it, no doubt,” said Marcus, in an ironical +tone: “I know I have asked my father for a garden to a cottage before +now, and have been refused.” + +Sir Ulick came up just as this was said, and, alarmed at the tone of +voice, used all his address to bring his son back to good temper; and he +might have succeeded, but that Peggy Carroll chanced to appear at that +instant. + +“Who is that?” cried Marcus--“Peggy Sheridan, as I live! is it not?” + +“No, please your honour, but Peggy Sheridan that was--Peggy Carroll +_that is_,” said Peggy, curtsying, with a slight blush, and an arch +smile. + +“So, you have married that Moriarty at last.” + +“I have, please your honour--he is a very honest boy--and I’m very +happy--if your honour’s pleased.” + +“Who persuaded your father to this, pray, contrary to my advice?” + +“Nobody at all, plase your honour,” said Peggy, looking frightened. + +“Why do you say that, Peggy,” said Ormond, “when you know it was I +who persuaded your father to give his consent to your marriage with +Moriarty?” + +“You! Mr. Ormond!--Oh, I comprehend it all now,” said Marcus, with his +sneering look and tone: “no doubt you had good reasons.” + +Poor Peggy blushed the deepest crimson. + +“I understand it all now,” said Marcus--“I understand you now, Harry.” + +Ormond’s anger rose, and with a look of high disdain, he replied, “You +understand me, now! No, nor ever will, nor ever can. Our minds are +unintelligible to each other.” + +Then turning from him, Ormond walked away with indignant speed. + +“Peggy, don’t I see something like a cow yonder, _getting her bread_ at +my expense?” said Sir Ulick, directing Peggy’s eye to a gap in the +hedge by the road-side. “Whose cow is that at the top of the ditch, half +through my hedge?” + +“I can’t say, please your honour,” said Peggy, “if it wouldn’t be Paddy +M’Grath’s--Betty M’Gregor!” cried she, calling to a bare-footed girl, +“whose cow is yonder?” + +“Oh, marcy! but if it isn’t our own red rogue--and when I tied her legs +three times myself, the day!” said the girl, running to drive away the +cow. + +“Oh! she strays and trespasses strangely, the red cow, for want of the +little spot your honour promised her,” said Peggy. + +“Well, run and save my hedge from her now, my pretty Peggy, and I will +find the little spot for her to-morrow,” said Sir Ulick. + +Away ran Peggy after the cow--while lowering Marcus cursed them all +three. Pretty Peg he swore ought to be banished the estate--the cow +ought to be hamstrung instead of having _a spot_ promised her; “but this +is the way, sir, you ruin the country and the people,” said he to his +father. + +“Be that as it may, I do not ruin myself as you do, Marcus,” replied the +cool Sir Ulick. “Never mind the cow--nonsense! I am not thinking of a +cow.” + +“Nor I neither, sir.” + +“Then follow Harry Ormond directly, and make him understand that he +misunderstood you,” said Sir Ulick. + +“Excuse me, sir--I cannot bend to him,” said Marcus. + +“And you expect that he will lend you ten thousand pounds at your utmost +need?” + +“The money, with your estate, can be easily raised elsewhere, sir,” said +Marcus. + +“I tell you it cannot, sir,” said the father. + +“I cannot bend to Ormond, sir: to any body but him--any thing but +that--my pride cannot stoop to that.” + +“Your pride!--‘pride that licks the dust,’” thought Sir Ulick. It was in +vain for the politic father to remonstrate with the headstrong son. The +whole train which Sir Ulick had laid with so much skill, was, he feared, +at the moment when his own delicate hand was just preparing to give the +effective touch, blown up by the rude impatience of his son. Sir Ulick, +however, never lost time or opportunity in vain regret for the past. +Even in the moment of disappointment, he looked to the future. He saw +the danger of keeping two young men together, who had such incompatible +tempers and characters. He was, therefore, glad when he met Ormond +again, to hear him propose his returning to Annaly, and he instantly +acceded to the proposal. + +“Castle Hermitage, I know, my dear boy, cannot be as pleasant to you +just now, as I could wish to make it: we have nobody here now, and +Marcus is not all I could wish him,” said Sir Ulick, with a sigh. “He +had always a jealousy of my affection for you, Harry--it cannot +be helped--we do not choose our own children--but we must abide by +them--you must perceive that things are not going on quite rightly +between my son and me.” + +“I am sorry for it, sir; especially as I am convinced I can do no good, +and therefore wish not to interfere.” + +“I believe you are right--though I part from you with regret.” + +“I shall be within your reach, sir, you know: whenever you wish for me, +if ever I can be of the least use to _you_, summon me, and I am at your +orders.” + +“Thank you! but stay one moment,” said Sir Ulick, with a sudden look +of recollection: “you will be of age in a few days, Harry--we ought to +settle accounts, should not we?” + +“Whenever you please, sir--no hurry on my part--but you have advanced me +a great deal of money lately--I ought to settle that.” + +“Oh, as to that--a mere trifle. If you are in no hurry, I am in none; +for I shall have business enough on my hands during these few days, +before Lady Norton fills the house again with company--I am certainly a +little hurried now.” + +“Then, sir, do not think of my business--I cannot be better off, you +know, than I am--I assure you I am sensible of that. Never mind the +accounts--only send for me whenever I can be of any use or pleasure to +you. I need not make speeches: I trust, my dear guardian--my father, +when I was left fatherless--I trust you believe I have some gratitude in +me.” + +“I do,” cried Sir Ulick, much moved; “and, by Heaven, it is impossible +to--I mean--in short, it is impossible not to love you, Harry Ormond.” + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +There are people who can go on very smoothly with those whose principles +and characters they despise and dislike. There are people who, provided +they live in _company_, are happy, and care but little of what the +company is composed. But our young hero certainly was not one of these +contented people. He was perhaps too much in the other extreme. He could +not, without overt words or looks of indignation, endure the presence +of those whose characters or principles he despised--he could not, even +without manifest symptoms of restlessness or ennui, submit long to live +with mere companions; he required to have friends; nor could he make +a friend from ordinary materials, however smooth the grain, or however +fine the polish they might take. Even when the gay world at Castle +Hermitage was new to him--amused and enchanted as he was at first with +that brilliant society, he could not have been content or happy +without his friends at Vicar’s Dale, to whom, once at least in the +four-and-twenty hours, he found it necessary to open his heart. We may +then judge how happy he now felt in returning to Annaly: after the +sort of moral constraint which he had endured in the company of Marcus +O’Shane, we may guess what an expansion of heart took place. + +The family union and domestic happiness which he saw at Annaly, +certainly struck him at this time more forcibly, from the contrast +with what he had just seen at Castle Hermitage. The effect of contrast, +however, is but transient. It is powerful as a dramatic resource, but +in real life it is of no permanent consequence. There was here a charm +which operates with as great certainty, and with a power secure of +increasing instead of diminishing from habit--the charm of _domestic +politeness_, in the every day manners of this mother, son, and daughter, +towards each other, as well as towards their guests. Ormond saw and +felt it irresistibly. He saw the most delicate attentions combined with +entire sincerity, perfect ease, and constant respect; the result of +the early habits of good-breeding acting upon the feelings of genuine +affection. The external polish, which Ormond now admired, was very +different from that varnish which often is hastily applied to hide +imperfections. This polish was of the substance itself, to be obtained +only by long use; but, once acquired, lasting for ever: not only +beautiful, but serviceable, preserving from the injuries of time and +from the dangers of familiarity. + +What influence the sister’s charms might have to increase Ormond’s +admiration of the brother, we shall not presume to determine; but +certainly he liked Sir Herbert Annaly better than any young man he had +ever seen. Sir Herbert was some years older than Ormond; he was in his +twenty-seventh year: but at this age he had done more good in life +than many men accomplish during their whole existence. Sir Herbert’s +principal estates were in another part of Ireland. Dr. Cambray had +visited them. The account he gave Ormond of what had been done there, +to improve the people and to make them happy; of the prosperous state +of the peasantry; their industry and independence; their grateful, not +servile, attachment to Sir Herbert Annaly and his mother; the veneration +in which the name of Annaly was held; all delighted the enthusiastic +Ormond. + +The name of Annaly was growing wonderfully dear to him; and, all of a +sudden, the interest he felt in the details of a country gentleman’s +life was amazingly increased. At times, when the ladies were engaged, +he accompanied Sir Herbert in visiting his estate. Sir Herbert had +never till lately resided at Annaly, which had, within but a short time, +reverted to his possession, in consequence of the death of the person to +whom it had been let. He found much that wanted improvement in the land, +and more in the people. + +This estate stretched along the sea-shore: the tenants whom he found +living near the coast were an idle, profligate, desperate set of people; +who, during the time of the late middle landlord, had been in the habit +of _making their rents_ by nefarious practices. The best of the set +were merely idle fishermen, whose habits of trusting to their +_luck_ incapacitated them from industry: the others were illicit +distillers--smugglers--and miscreants who lived by _waifs_ and +_strays_; in fact, by the pillage of vessels on the coast. The coast +was dangerous--there happened frequent shipwrecks; owing partly, as was +supposed, to the false lights hung out by these people, whose interest +it was that vessels should be wrecked. Shocked at these practices, +Sir Herbert Annaly had, from the moment he came into possession of the +estate, exerted himself to put a stop to them, and to punish, where he +could not reform the offenders. The people at first pleaded a sort of +_tenant’s right_, which they thought a landlord could scarcely resist. +They protested that they could not make _the rent_, if they were not +allowed to make it in their own way; and showed, beyond a doubt, that +Sir Herbert could not get half as much rent for his land in those parts, +if he looked too scrupulously into the means by which it was made. They +brought, in corroboration of their arguments or assertions, the example +and constant practice of “many as good a jantleman as any in Ireland, +who had his rent made up for him that ways, very ready and punctual. +There was his honour, Mr. Such-a-one, and so on; and there was Sir Ulick +O’Shane, sure! Oh! he was the man to live under--he was the man that +knew when to wink and when to blink; and if he shut his eyes _properly_, +sure his tenants filled his fist. Oh! Sir Ulick was the great man for +_favour and purtection_, none like him at all!--He is the good landlord, +that will fight the way clear for his own tenants through thick and +thin--none dare touch them. Oh! Sir Ulick’s the kind jantleman that +understands the law for the poor, and could bring them off at every +turn, and show them the way through the holes in an act of parliament, +asy as through a _riddle_! + +“Oh, and if he could but afford to be half as good as his promises, Sir +Ulick O’Shane would be too good entirely!” + +Now Sir Ulick O’Shane had purchased a tract of ground adjoining to Sir +Herbert’s, on this coast; and he had bought it on the speculation that +he could let it at a very high rent to these people, of whose _ways and +means_ of paying it he chose to remain in ignorance. All the tenants +whom Sir Herbert _banished_ from his estate flocked to Sir Ulick’s. + +By the sacrifice of his own immediate interest, and by great personal +exertion, strict justice, and a generous and well secured system of +reward, Sir Herbert already had produced a considerable change for the +better in the morals and habits of the people. He was employing some of +his tenants on the coast, in building a lighthouse, for which he had +a grant from parliament; and he was endeavouring to establish a +manufacture of sail-cloth, for which there was sufficient demand. But +almost at every step of his progress, he was impeded by the effects +of the bad example of his neighbours on Sir Ulick’s estate; and by +the continual quarrels between the idle, discarded tenants, and their +industrious and now prosperous successors. + +Whenever a vessel in distress was seen off the coast, there was a +constant struggle between the two parties who had opposite interests; +the one to save, the other to destroy. In this state of things, causes +of complaint perpetually occurred; and Ormond who was present, when the +accusers and the accused appealed to their landlord, sometimes as lord +of the manor, sometimes as magistrate, had frequent opportunities of +seeing both Sir Herbert’s principles and temper put to the test. He +liked to compare the different modes in which King Corny, his guardian, +and Sir Herbert Annaly managed these things. Sir Herbert governed +neither by threats, punishments, abuse, nor tyranny; nor yet did he +govern by promises nor bribery, _favour_ and _protection_, like Sir +Ulick. He neither cajoled nor bullied--neither held it as a principle, +as Marcus did, that the people must be kept down, or that the people +must be deceived. He treated them neither as slaves, subject to his +will; nor as dupes, or objects on which to exercise his wit or +his cunning. He treated them as reasonable beings, and as his +fellow-creatures, whom he wished to improve, that he might make them and +himself happy. He spoke sense to them; and he mixed that sense with +wit and humour, in the proportion necessary to make it palatable to an +Irishman. + +In generosity there was a resemblance between the temper of Sir +Herbert and of Corny; but to Ormond’s surprise, and at first to his +disappointment, Sir Herbert valued justice more than generosity. +Ormond’s heart on this point was often with King Corny, when his head +was forced to be with Sir Herbert; but, by degrees, head and heart came +together. He became practically convinced that justice is the virtue +that works best for a constancy, and best serves every body’s interest +in time and in turn. Ormond now often said to himself, “Sir Herbert +Annaly is but a few years older than I am; by the time I am of his age, +why should not I become as useful, and make as many human beings happy +as he does?” In the meantime, the idea of marrying and settling in +Ireland became every day more agreeable to Ormond; and France and Italy, +which he had been so eager to visit, faded from his imagination. Sir +Herbert and Lady Annaly, who had understood from Dr. Cambray that Ormond +was going to commence his grand tour immediately, and who heard him +make a number of preparatory inquiries when he had been first at Annaly, +naturally turned the conversation often to the subject. They had looked +out maps and prints, and they had taken down from their shelves the +different books of travels, which might be most useful to him, with +guides, and post-road books, and all that could speed the parting guest. +But the guest had no mind to part--every thing, every body at Annaly, he +found so agreeable and so excellent. + +It must be a great satisfaction to a young man who has a grain of sense, +and who feels that he is falling inevitably and desperately in love, to +see that all the lady’s family, as well as the object of his passion, +are exactly the people whom he should wish of all others to make +his friends for life. Here was every thing that could be desired, +suitability of age, of fortune, of character, of temper, of +tastes--every thing that could make a marriage happy, could Ormond +but win the heart of Florence Annaly. Was that heart disengaged?--He +resolved to inquire first from his dear friend, Dr. Cambray, who was +much in the confidence of this family, a great favourite with Florence, +and consequently dearer than ever to Ormond. He went directly to Vicar’s +Dale to see and consult him, and Ormond thought he was confiding a +profound secret to the doctor, when first he spoke to him of his passion +for Miss Annaly; but to his surprise, the doctor told him he had seen +it long ago, and his wife and daughters had all discovered it, even when +they were first with him at Annaly. + +“Is it possible?--and what do you all think?” + +“We think that you would be a perfectly happy man, if you could win Miss +Annaly; and we wish you success most sincerely. But--” + +“_But_--Oh, my dear doctor, you alarm me beyond measure.” + +“What! by wishing you success?” + +“No, but by something in your look and manner, and by that terrible +_but_: you think that I shall never succeed--you think that her heart is +engaged. If that be the case, tell me so at once, and I will set off for +France to-morrow.” + +“My good sir, you are always for desperate measures--you are in too +great a hurry to come to a conclusion, before you have the means of +forming a just conclusion. Remember, I tell you, this precipitate temper +will some time or other bring some great evil upon you.” + +“I will be patient all my life afterwards, if you will only this instant +tell me whether she is engaged.” + +“I do not know whether Miss Annaly’s heart be disengaged or not--I can +tell you only that she has had a number of brilliant offers, and that +she has refused them all.” + +“That proves that she had not found one amongst them that she liked,” + said Ormond. + +“Or that she liked some one better than all those whom she refused,” + said Dr. Cambray. + +“That is true--that is possible--that is a dreadful possibility,” said +Ormond. “But do you think there is any probability of that?” + +“There is, I am sorry to tell you, my dear Ormond, a probability against +you--but I can only state the facts in general. I can form no opinion, +for I have had no opportunity of judging--I have never seen the two +young people together. But there is a gentleman of great merit, of +suitable family and fortune, who is deeply in love with Miss Annaly, and +who I presume has not been refused, for I understand he is soon to be +here.” + +“To be here!” cried Ormond: “a man of great merit!--I hope he is not an +agreeable man.” + +“That’s a vain hope,” said Dr. Cambray; “he is a very agreeable man.” + +“_Very_ agreeable!--What sort of person--grave or gay?--Like any body +that I ever saw?” + +“Yes, like a person that you have seen, and a person for whom I believe +you have a regard--like his own father, your dear King Corny’s friend, +General Albemarle.” + +“How extraordinary!--how unlucky!” said Ormond. “I would rather my rival +were any one else than the son of a man I am obliged to; and a most +dangerous rival he must be, if he have his father’s merit, and his +father’s manners. Oh! my dear Dr. Cambray, I am sure she likes him--and +yet she could not be so cheerful in his absence, if she were much in +love--I defy her; and it is impossible that he can be as much in love +with her as I am, else nothing could keep him from her.” + +“Nothing but his duty, I suppose you mean?” + +“Duty!--What duty?” + +“Why, there really are duties in this world to be performed, though a +man in love is apt to forget it. Colonel Albemarle, being an officer, +cannot quit his regiment till he has obtained leave of absence.” + +“I am heartily glad of it,” cried Ormond--“I will make the best use +of my time before he comes. But, my dear doctor, do you think Lady +Annaly--do you think Sir Herbert wish it to be?” + +“I really cannot tell:--I know only that he is a particular friend of +Sir Herbert, and that I have heard Lady Annaly speak of him as being +a young man of excellent character and high honour, for whom she has a +great regard.” + +Ormond sighed. + +“Heaven forgive me that sigh!” said he: “I thought I never should be +brought so low as to sigh at bearing of any man’s excellent character +and high honour: but I certainly wish Colonel Albemarle had never been +born. Heaven preserve me from envy and jealousy!” + +Our young hero had need to repeat this prayer the next morning at +breakfast, when Sir Herbert, on opening his letters, exclaimed, “My +friend, Colonel Albemarle--” + +And Lady Annaly, in a tone of joy, “Colonel Albemarle!--I hope he will +soon be here.” + +Sir Herbert proceeded: “Cannot obtain leave of absence yet--but lives +_in hopes_,” said Sir Herbert, reading the letter, and handing it to his +mother. + +Ormond did not dare, did not think it honourable, to make use of +his eyes, though there now might have been a decisive moment for +observation. No sound reached his ear from Miss Annaly’s voice; but Lady +Annaly spoke freely and decidedly in praise of Colonel Albemarle. As she +read the letter, Sir Herbert, after asking Ormond three times whether he +was not acquainted with General Albemarle, obtained for answer, that he +“really did not know.” In truth, Ormond did not know any thing at that +moment. Sir Herbert, surprised, and imagining that Ormond had not yet +heard him, was going to repeat his question--but a look from his mother +stopped him. A sudden light struck Lady Annaly. Mothers are remarkably +quick-sighted upon these occasions. There was a silence of a few +minutes, which appeared to poor Ormond to be a silence that would never +be broken; it was broken by some slight observation which the brother +and sister made to each other upon a paragraph in the newspaper, which +they were reading together. Ormond took breath. + +“She cannot love him, or she could not be thinking of a paragraph in the +newspaper at this moment.” + +From this time forward Ormond was in a continual state of agitation, +reasoning, as the passions reason, as ill as possible, upon even +the slightest circumstances that occurred, from whence he might +draw favourable or unfavourable omens. He was resolved--and that was +prudent--not to speak of his own sentiments, till he was clear how +matters stood about Colonel Albemarle: he was determined not to expose +himself to the useless mortification of a refusal. While in this agony +of uncertainty, he went out one morning to take a solitary walk, that he +might reflect at leisure. Just as he was turning from the avenue to +the path that led to the wood, a car full of morning visitors appeared. +Ormond endeavoured to avoid them, but not before he had been seen. A +servant rode after him to beg to know “if he were Mr. Harry Ormond--if +he were, one of the ladies on the car, Mrs. M’Crule, sent her +compliments to him, and requested he would be so good as to let her +speak with him at the house, as she had a few words of consequence to +say.” + +“Mrs. M’Crule!” Ormond did not immediately recollect that he had the +honour of knowing any such person, till the servant said, “Miss Black, +sir, that was--formerly at Castle Hermitage.” + +His old enemy, Miss Black, he recollected well. He obeyed the lady’s +summons, and returned to the house. + +Mrs. M’Crule had not altered in disposition, though her objects had been +changed by marriage. Having no longer Lady O’Shane’s quarrels with her +husband to talk about, she had become the pest of the village of Castle +Hermitage and of the neighbourhood--the Lady Bluemantle of the parish. +Had Miss Black remained in England, married or single, she would +only have been one of a numerous species too well known to need any +description; but transplanted to a new soil and a new situation, she +proved to be a variety of the old species, with peculiarly noxious +qualities, which it may be useful to describe, as a warning to the +unwary. It is unknown how much mischief the Lady Bluemantle class may do +in Ireland, where parties in religion and politics run high; and where +it often happens, that individuals of the different sects and parties +actually hate without knowing each other, watch without mixing with one +another, and consequently are prone reciprocally to believe any stories +or reports, however false or absurd, which tend to gratify their +antipathies. In this situation it is scarcely possible to get the +exact truth as to the words, actions, and intentions, of the nearest +neighbours, who happen to be of opposite parties or persuasions. What a +fine field is here for a mischief-maker! Mrs. M’Crule had in her parish +done her part; she had gone from rich to poor, from poor to rich, from +catholic to protestant, from churchman to dissenter, and from +dissenter to methodist, reporting every idle story, and repeating +every ill-natured thing that she heard said--things often more bitterly +expressed than thought, and always exaggerated or distorted in the +repetition. No two people in the parish could have continued on speaking +terms at the end of the year, but that, happily, there were in this +parish both a good clergyman and a good priest; and still more happily, +they both agreed in labouring for the good of their parishioners. Dr. +Cambray and Mr. M’Cormuck made it their business continually to follow +after Mrs. M’Crule, healing the wounds which she inflicted, and pouring +into the festering heart the balm of Christian charity: they were +beloved and revered by their parishioners; Mrs. M’Crule was soon +detected, and universally avoided. Enraged, she attacked, by turns, both +the clergyman and the priest; and when she could not separate them, she +found out that it was very wrong that they should agree. She discovered +that she was a much better protestant, and a much better Christian, than +Dr. Cambray, because she hated her catholic neighbours. + +Dr. Cambray had taken pains to secure the co-operation of the catholic +clergyman, in all his attempts to improve the lower classes of the +people. His village school was open to catholics as well as protestants; +and Father M’Cormuck, having been assured that their religion would +not be tampered with, allowed and encouraged his flock to send their +children to the same seminary. + +Mrs. M’Crule was, or affected to be, much alarmed and scandalized at +seeing catholic and protestant children mixing so much together; she +knew that opinions were divided among some families in the neighbourhood +upon the propriety of this _mixture_, and Mrs. M’Crule thought it a fine +opportunity of making herself of consequence, by stirring up the matter +into a party question. This bright idea had occurred to her just about +the time that Ormond brought over little Tommy from the Black Islands. +During Ormond’s absence upon his tour, Sheelah and Moriarty had +regularly sent the boy to the village school; exhorting him to mind his +_book_ and his _figures_, that he might surprise Mr. Ormond with his +_larning_ when he should come back. Tommy, with this excitation, and +being a quick, clever little fellow, soon got to the head of his class, +and kept there; and won all the school-prizes, and carried them home in +triumph to his grandame, and to his dear Moriarty, to be treasured up, +that he might show them to Mr. Ormond at his return home. Dr. Cambray +was pleased with the boy, and so was every body, except Mrs. M’Crule. +She often visited the school for the pleasure of finding fault; and she +_wondered_ to see this little Tommy, who was a catholic, carrying away +the prizes from all the others. She thought it her duty to inquire +farther about him; and as soon as she discovered that he came from the +Black Islands, that he lived with Moriarty, and that Mr. Ormond +was interested about him, she said she knew there was something +wrong--therefore, she set her face against the child, and against the +shameful partiality that _some people_ showed. + +Dr. Cambray pursued his course without attending to her; and little +Tommy pursued his course, improving rapidly in his _larning_. + +Now there was in that county an excellent charitable institution for the +education of children from seven to twelve years old; an apprentice +fee was given with the children when they left the school, and they +had several other advantages, which made parents of the lower classes +extremely desirous to get their sons into this establishment. + +Before they could be admitted, it was necessary that they should have a +certificate from their parish minister and catholic clergyman, stating +that they could read and write, and that they were well-behaved +children. On a certain day, every year, a number of candidates were +presented. The certificates from the clergyman and priest of their +respective parishes were much attended to by the lady patronesses, and +by these the choice of the candidate to be admitted was usually decided. +Little Tommy had an excellent certificate both from Father M’Cormuck and +from Dr. Cambray. Sheelah and Moriarty were in great joy, and had +“all the hopes in life” for him; and Sheelah, who was very fond of +_surprises_, had cautioned Moriarty, and begged the doctor not to tell +Mr. Harry a word about it, _till all was fixed_, “for if the boy should +not have the luck to be chose at last, it would only be breaking his +little heart the worse, that Mr. Harry should know any thing at all +about it, sure.” + +Meantime, Mrs. M’Crule was working against little Tommy with all her +might. + +Some of the lady patronesses were of opinion, that it would be expedient +in future, to confine their bounty to the children of protestants only. + +Mrs. M’Crule, who had been deputed by one of the absent ladies to act +for her, was amazingly busy, visiting all the patronesses, and talking, +and fearing, and “hoping to heaven!” and prophesying, canvassing, and +collecting opinions and votes, as for a matter of life and death. She +hinted that she knew that the greatest interest was making to get in +this year a catholic child, and there was no knowing, if this went on, +what the consequence might be. In short Ireland would be ruined, if +little Tommy should prove the successful candidate. Mrs. M’Crule did +not find it difficult to stir up the prejudices and passions of several +ladies, whose education and whose means of information might have +secured them from such contemptible influence. + +Her present business at Annaly was to try what impression she could make +on Lady and Miss Annaly, who were both patronesses of the school. As to +Ormond, whom she never had liked, she was glad of this opportunity of +revenging herself upon his little protégé; and of making Mr. Ormond +sensible, that she was now a person of rather more consequence than she +had been, when he used formerly to defy her at Castle Hermitage. She +little thought that, while she was thus pursuing the dictates of her own +hate, she might serve the interests of Ormond’s love. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +When Ormond returned, in obedience to Mrs. M’Crule’s summons, he +found in the room an unusual assemblage of persons--a party of morning +visitors, the unmuffled contents of the car. As he entered, he bowed as +courteously as possible to the whole circle, and advanced towards Mrs. +M’Crule, whose portentous visage he could not fail to recognize. That +visage was nearly half a yard long, thin out of all proportion, and +dismal beyond all imagination; the corners of the mouth drawn down, the +whites or yellows of the eyes upturned, while with hands outspread she +was declaiming, and in a lamentable tone deploring, as Ormond thought, +some great public calamity; for the concluding words were “The danger, +my dear Lady Annaly--the danger, my dear Miss Annaly--oh! the danger is +imminent. We shall all be positively undone, ma’am; and Ireland--oh! +I wish I was once safe in England again--Ireland positively will be +ruined!” + +Ormond, looking to Lady Annaly and Miss Annaly for explanation, was +somewhat re-assured in this imminent danger, by seeing that Lady +Annaly’s countenance was perfectly tranquil, and that a slight smile +played on the lips of Florence. + +“Mr. Ormond,” said Lady Annaly, “I am sorry to hear that Ireland is in +danger of being ruined by your means.” + +“By my means!” said Ormond, in great surprise; “I beg your ladyship’s +pardon for repeating your words, but I really cannot understand them.” + +“Nor I neither; but by the time you have lived as long as I have in the +world,” said Lady Annaly, “you will not be so much surprised as you now +seem, my good sir, at hearing people say what you do not understand. I +am told that Ireland will be undone by means of a _protégé_ of yours, of +the name of Tommy Dun--not Dun Scotus.” + +“Dunshaughlin, perhaps,” said Ormond, laughing, “Tommy Dunshaughlin! +_that_ little urchin! What harm can little Tommy do to Ireland, or to +any mortal?” + +Without condescending to turn her eyes upon Ormond, whose propensity to +laughter had of old been offensive to her nature, Mrs. M’Crule continued +to Lady Annaly, “It is not of this insignificant child as an individual +that I am speaking, Lady Annaly; but your ladyship, who has lived so +long in the world, must know that there is no person or thing, however +insignificant, that cannot, in the hands of a certain description of +people, be made an engine of mischief.” + +“Very true, indeed,” said Lady Annaly. + +“And there is no telling or conceiving,” pursued Mrs. M’Crule, “how in +the hands of a certain party, you know, ma’am, any thing now, even the +least and the most innocent child (not that I take upon me to say +that this child is so very innocent, though, to be sure, he is very +little)--but innocent or not, there is positively nothing, Lady Annaly, +ma’am, which a certain party, certain evil-disposed persons, cannot turn +to their purposes.” + +“I cannot contradict that--I wish I could,” said Lady Annaly. + +“But I see your ladyship and Miss Annaly do not consider this matter +as seriously as I could wish. ‘Tis an infatuation,” said Mrs. M’Crule, +uttering a sigh, almost a groan, for her ladyship’s and her daughter’s +infatuation. “But if people, ladies especially, knew but half as much +as I have learnt, since I married Mr. M’Crule, of the real state of +Ireland; or if they had but half a quarter as many means as I have +of obtaining information, Mr. M’Crule being one of his majesty’s very +active justices of the peace, riding about, and up and down, ma’am, +scouring the country, sir, you know, and having informers, high and +low, bringing us every sort of intelligence; I say, my dear Lady Annaly, +ma’am, you would, if you only heard a hundredth part of what I hear +daily, tremble--your ladyship would tremble from morning till night.” + +“Then I am heartily glad I do not hear it; for I should dislike very +much to tremble from morning till night, especially as my trembling +could do nobody any good.” + +“But, Lady Annaly, ma’am, you _can_ do good by exerting yourself to +prevent the danger in this emergency; you _can_ do good, and it becomes +your station and your character; you _can_ do good, my dear Lady Annaly, +ma’am, to thousands in existence, and thousands yet unborn.” + +“My benevolence having but a limited appetite for thousands,” said Lady +Annaly, “I should rather, if it be equal to you, Mrs. M’Crule, begin +with the thousands already in existence; and of those thousands, why not +begin with little Tommy?” + +“It is no use!” cried Mrs. M’Crule, rising from her seat in the +indignation of disappointed zeal: “Jenny, pull the bell for the +car--Mrs. M’Greggor, if you’ve no objection, I’m at your service, for +‘tis no use I see for me to speak here--nor should I have done so, but +that I positively thought it my duty; and also a becoming attention +to your ladyship and Miss Annaly, as lady patronesses, to let you know +beforehand _our_ sentiments, as I have collected the opinions of so many +of the leading ladies, and apprehended your ladyship might, before it +came to a public push, like to have an inkling or inuendo of how matters +are likely to be carried at the general meeting of the patronesses on +Saturday next, when we are determined to put it to the vote and poll. +Jenny, do you see Jack, and the car? Good morning to your ladyship; good +day, Miss Annaly.” + +Ormond put in a detainer: “I am here in obedience to your summons, Mrs. +M’Crule--you sent to inform me that you had a few words of consequence +to say to me.” + +“True, sir, I did wrap myself up this winter morning, and came out, as +Mrs. M’Greggor can testify, in spite of my poor face, in hopes of doing +some little good, and giving a friendly hint, before an explosion should +publicly take place. But you will excuse me, since I find I gain so +little credit, and so waste my breath; I can only leave gentlemen and +ladies in this emergency, if they will be blind to the danger at this +crisis, to follow their own opinions.” + +Ormond still remonstrating on the cruelty of leaving him in utter +darkness, and calling it blindness, and assuring Mrs. M’Crule that he +had not the slightest conception of what the danger or the emergency to +which she alluded might be, or what little Tommy could have to do with +it, the lady condescended, in compliance with Mrs. M’Greggor’s twitch +behind, to stay and recommence her statement. He could not forbear +smiling, even more than Lady Annaly had done, when he was made to +understand that the _emergency_ and _crisis_ meant nothing but this +child’s being admitted or not admitted into a charity school. While +Ormond was incapable of speaking in reply with becoming seriousness, +Florence, who saw his condition, had the kindness to draw off Mrs. +M’Crule’s attention, by asking her to partake of some excellent +goose-pie, which just then made its entrance. This promised, for a +time, to suspend the discussion, and to unite all parties in one common +sympathy. When Florence saw that the _consommé_, to which she delicately +helped her, was not thrown away upon Mrs. M’Crule, and that the union of +goose and turkey in this Christmas dainty was much admired by this +good lady, she attempted playfully to pass to a reflection on the happy +effect that might to some tastes result from unions in party matters. + +But no--“too serious matters these to be jested with,” even with a glass +of Barsac at the lips. Mrs. M’Crule stopped to say so, and to sigh. Per +favour of the Barsac, however, Florence ventured to try what a little +raillery might do. It was possible, that, if Mrs. M’Greggor and the +chorus of young ladies could be made to laugh, Mrs. M’Crule might be +brought to see the whole thing in a less gloomy point of view; and might +perhaps be, just in time, made sensible of the ridicule to which she +would expose herself, by persisting in sounding so pompously a false +alarm. + +“But can there really be so much danger,” said Florence, “in letting +little children, protestant and catholic, come together to the same +school--sit on the same bench--learn the same alphabet from the same +hornbook?” + +“Oh, my dear Miss Annaly,” cried Mrs. M’Crule, “I do wonder to hear +you treat this matter so lightly--you, from whom I confess I did expect +better principles: ‘sit on the same bench!’ easily said; but, my dear +young lady, you do not consider that some errors of popery,--since +there is no catholic in the room, I suppose I may say it,--the errors of +popery are wonderfully infectious.” + +“I remember,” said Lady Annaly, “when I was a child, being present once, +when an _honest man_, that is, a protestant (for in those days no man +but a protestant could be called an _honest man_), came to my uncle in +a great passion to complain of the priest: ‘My lord,’ said he, ‘what +do you think the priest is going to do? he is going to bury a catholic +corpse, not only in the churchyard, but, my lord, near to the grave of +my father, who died a stanch dissenter.’ ‘My dear sir,’ said my uncle, +to the angry _honest man_, ‘the clergyman of the parish is using me +worse still, for he is going to bury a man, who died last Wednesday of +the small-pox, near to my grandmother, who never had the small-pox in +her life.’” + +Mrs. M’Crule pursed up her mouth very close at this story. She thought +Lady Annaly and her uncle were equally wicked, but she did not choose +exactly to say so, as her ladyship’s uncle was a person of rank, and +of character too solidly established for Mrs. M’Crule to shake. +She therefore only gave one of her sighs for the sins of the whole +generation, and after a recording look at Mrs. M’Greggor, she returned +to the charge about the schools and the children. + +“It can do no possible good,” she said, “to admit catholic children to +_our_ schools, because, do what you will, you can never make them good +protestants.” + +“Well,” said Lady Annaly, “as my friend, the excellent Bishop of ---- +said in parliament, ‘if you cannot make them good protestants, make them +good catholics, make them good any-things.’” + +Giving up Lady Annaly all together, Mrs. M’Crule now desired to have Mr. +Ormond’s ultimatum--she wished to know whether he had made up his mind +as to the affair in question; but she begged leave to observe, “that +since the child had, to use the gentlest expression, the _misfortune_ to +be born and bred a catholic, it would be most prudent and gentlemanlike +in Mr. Ormond not to make him a bone of contention, but to withdraw the +poor child from the contest altogether, and strike his name out of the +list of candidates, till the general question of admittance to those of +his persuasion should have been decided by the lady patronesses.” + +Ormond declared, with or without submission to Mrs. M’Crule, that he +could not think it becoming or gentlemanlike to desert a child whom he +had undertaken to befriend--that, whatever the child had the misfortune +to be born, he would abide by him; and would not add to his misfortunes +by depriving him of the reward of his own industry and application, +and of the only chance he had of continuing his good education, and of +getting forward in life. + +Mrs. M’Crule sighed and groaned. + +But Ormond persisted: “The child,” he said, “should have fair play--the +lady patronesses would decide as they thought proper.” + +It had been said that the boy had Dr. Cambray’s certificate, which +Ormond was certain would not have been given undeservedly; he had also +the certificate of his own priest. + +“Oh! what signifies the certificate of his priest,” interrupted Mrs. +M’Crule; “and as for Dr. Cambray’s, though he is a most respectable +man (too liberal, perhaps), yet without meaning to insinuate any thing +derogatory--but we all know how things are managed, and Dr. Cambray’s +great regard for Mr. Ormond might naturally influence him a little in +favour of this little protégé.” + +Florence was very busy in replenishing Mrs. M’Greggor’s plate, and +Ormond haughtily told Mrs. M’Crule, “that as to Dr. Cambray’s character +for impartiality, he should leave that securely to speak for itself; +and that as to the rest, she was at liberty to say or hint whatever +she pleased, as far as he was concerned; but that, for her own sake, he +would recommend it to her to be sure of her facts--for that slander was +apt to hurt in the recoil.” + +Alarmed by the tone of confident innocence and determination with which +Ormond spoke, Mrs. M’Crule, who like all other bullies was a coward, +lowered her voice, and protested she meant nothing--“certainly no +offence to Mr. Ormond; and as to slander there was nothing she detested +so much--she was quite glad to be set right--for people did talk--and +she had endeavoured to silence them, and now could from the best +authority.” + +Ormond looked as if he wished that any authority could silence her--but +no hopes of that. “She was sorry to find, however, that Mr. Ormond was +positively determined to encourage the boy, whoever he was, to persist +as candidate on this occasion, because she should be concerned to do any +thing that looked like opposing him; yet she must, and she knew others +were determined, and in short, he would be mortified to no purpose.” + +“Well,” Ormond said, “he could only do his best, and bear to be +mortified, if necessary, or when necessary.” + +A smile of approbation from Florence made his heart beat, and for some +moments Mrs. M’Crule spoke without his knowing one syllable she said. + +Mrs. M’Crule saw the smile, and perceived the effect. As she rose to +depart, she turned to Miss Annaly, and whispered, but loud enough for +all to hear, “Miss Annaly must excuse me if I warn her, that if she +takes the part I am inclined to fear she will on Saturday, people I know +_will_ draw inferences.” + +Florence coloured, but with calm dignity and spirit, which Mrs. M’Crule +did not expect from her usual gentleness and softness of manners, she +replied, that “no inference which might be drawn from her conduct by any +persons should prevent her from acting as she thought right, and taking +that part which she believed to be just.” + +So ended the visit, or the visitation. The next day Lady Annaly, Miss +Annaly, Sir Herbert, and Ormond, went to Vicar’s Dale, and thence with +the good doctor to the village school, on purpose that they might see +and form an impartial judgment of the little boy. On one day in the +week, the parents and friends of the children were admitted if they +chose it, to the school-room, to hear the lessons, and to witness the +adjudging of the week’s premiums. This was _prize day_ as they called +it, and Sheelah and Moriarty were among the spectators. Their presence, +and the presence of Mr. Ormond, so excited--so over-excited Tommy, that +when he first stood up to read, his face flushed, his voice faltered, +his little hands trembled so much that he could hardly hold the book; +he could by no means turn over the leaf, and he was upon the point of +disgracing himself by bursting into tears. + +“Oh! ho!” cried an ill-natured voice of triumph from one of the +spectators. Ormond and the Annalys turned, and saw behind them Mrs. +M’Crule. + +“Murder!” whispered Sheelah to Moriarty, “if she fixes him with that +_evil eye_, and he gets the stroke of it, Moriarty, ‘tis all over with +him for life.” + +“Tut, woman, dear--what can hurt him? is not the good doctor in person +standing betwixt him and harm? and see! he is recovering upon it +fast--quite come to!--Hark!--he is himself again--Tommy, voice and +all!--success to him!” + +He had success, and he deserved it--the prizes were his; and when they +were given to him, the congratulating smiles of his companions showed +that Dr. Cambray’s justice was unimpeached by those whom it most +concerned; that notwithstanding all that had been said and done directly +and indirectly, to counteract his benevolent efforts, he had succeeded +in preventing envy and party-spirit from spreading discord among these +innocent children. + +Mrs. M’Crule withdrew, and nobody saw when or how. + +“It is clear,” said Lady Annaly, “that this boy is no favourite, for he +has friends.” + +“Or, if he be a favourite, and have friends, it is a proof that he has +extraordinary merit,” said Sir Herbert. + +“He is coming to us,” said Florence, who had been excessively interested +for the child, and whose eyes had followed him wherever he went: +“Brother,” whispered she, “will you let him pass you? he wants to say +something to Mr. Ormond.” + +The boy brought to Ormond all the prizes which he had won since the time +he first came to school: his grandame, Sheelah, had kept them safe in a +little basket, which he now put into Ormond’s hands, with honest pride +and pleasure. + +“I got ‘em, and Granny said you’d like to see them, so she did--and +here’s what will please you--see my certificates--see, signed by the +doctor himself’s own hand, and Father M’Cormuck, that’s his name, with +his blessing by the same token he gave me.” + +Ormond looked with great satisfaction on Tommy’s treasures, and Miss +Annaly looked at them too with no small delight. + +“Well, my boy, have you any thing more to say?” said Ormond to the +child, who looked as if he was anxious to say something more. + +“I have, sir; it’s what I’d be glad to speak a word with you, Mr. +Harry.” + +“Speak it then--you are not afraid of this lady?” “Oh, no--that I am +not,” said the boy, with a very expressive smile and emphasis. + +But as the child seemed to wish that no one else should hear, Ormond +retired a step or two with him behind the crowd. Tommy would not let go +Miss Annaly’s hand, so she heard all that passed. + +“I am afeard I am too troublesome to you, sir,” said the boy. + +“To me--not the least,” said Ormond: “speak on--say all you have in your +mind.” + +“Why, then,” said the child, “I _have_ something greatly on my mind, +because I heard Granny talking to Moriarty about it last night, over the +fire, and I in the bed. Then I know all about Mrs. M’Crule, and how, +if I don’t give out, and wouldn’t give up about the grand school, on +Saturday, I should, may be, be bringing you, Mr. Harry, into great +trouble: so that being the case, I’ll give up entirely--and I’ll go back +to the Black Islands to-morrow,” said Tommy, stoutly; yet swelling so in +the chest that he could not say another word. He turned away. + +As they were walking home together from the school, Moriarty said to +Sheelah, “I’ll engage, Sheelah, you did not see all that passed the +day.” + +“I’ll engage I did, though,” said Sheelah. + +“Why, then, Sheelah, you’ve quick eyes still.” + +“Oh! I’m not so blind but what I could see _that_ with half an eye--ay, +and saw how it was with them before you did, Moriarty. From the first +minute they comed into the room together, said I to myself, ‘there’s a +pair of angels well matched, if ever there was a pair on earth.’ These +things is all laid out above, unknownst to us, from the first minute we +are born, _who_ we are to have in marriage,” added Sheelah. + +“No; not _fixed_ from the first minute we are born, Sheelah: it is +_not_,” said Moriarty. + +“And how should you know, Moriarty,” said Sheelah, “whether or not?” + +“And why not as well as you, Sheelah, dear,” replied Moriarty, “if you +go to that?” + +“Well, in the name of fortune, have it your own way,” said Sheelah; “and +how do you think it is then?” + +“Why it is partly fixed for us,” said Moriarty; “but the choice is still +in us, always--” + +“Oh! burn me if I understand that,” said Sheelah. + +“Then you are mighty hard of understanding this morning, Sheelah. See, +now, with regard to Master Harry and Peggy Sheridan: it’s my opinion, +‘twas laid out from the first, that in case he did not do _that_ wrong +about Peggy--_then_ see, Heaven had this lady, this angel, from that +time forward in view for him, by way of _compensation_ for not doing the +wrong he might have chose to do. Now, don’t you think, Sheelah, that’s +the way it was?--be a rasonable woman.” + +The rasonable woman was puzzled and silent, Sheelah and Moriarty having +got, without knowing it, to the dark depths of metaphysics. There was +some danger of their knocking their heads against each other there, as +wiser heads have done on similar occasions. + +It was an auspicious circumstance for Ormond’s love that Florence had +now a daily object of thought and feeling in common with him. Mrs. +M’Crule’s having piqued Florence was in Ormond’s favour: it awakened +her pride, and conquered her timidity; she ventured to trust her own +motives. To be sure, the interest she felt for this child was uncommonly +vivid; but she might safely avow this interest--it was in the cause of +one who was innocent, and who had been oppressed. + +As Mrs. M’Crule was so vindictively busy, going about, daily, among the +lady patronesses, preparing for the great battle that was to be decided +on the famous Saturday, it was necessary that Lady and Miss Annaly +should exert themselves at least to make the truth known to their +friends, to take them to see Dr. Cambray’s school, and to judge of the +little candidate impartially. The day for decision came, and Florence +felt an anxiety, an eagerness, which made her infinitely more amiable, +and more interesting in Ormond’s eyes. The election was decided in +favour of humanity and justice. Florence was deputed to tell the +decision to the successful little candidate, who was waiting, with his +companions, to hear his fate. Radiant with benevolent pleasure, she went +to announce the glad tidings. + +“Oh! if she is not beautiful!” cried Sheelah, clasping her hands. + +Ormond felt it so warmly, and his looks expressed his feelings so +strongly, that Florence, suddenly abashed, could scarcely finish her +speech. + +If Mrs. M’Crule had been present, she might again have cried “Oh! ho!” + but she had retreated, too much discomfited, by the disappointments of +hatred, to stay even to embarrass the progress of love. Love had made +of late rapid progress. Joining in the cause of justice and humanity, +mixing with all the virtues, he had taken possession of the heart +happily, safely--unconsciously at first, yet triumphantly at last. Where +was Colonel Albemarle all this time? Ormond neither knew nor cared; he +thought but little of him at this moment. However, said he to himself, +Colonel Albemarle will be here in a few days--it is better for me to see +how things are there, before I speak--I am sure Florence could not give +me a decisive answer, till her brother has disentangled that business +for her. Lady Annaly said as much to me the other day, if I understood +her rightly--and I am sure this is the state of the case, from the pains +Florence takes now to avoid giving me an opportunity of speaking to her +alone, which I have been watching for so anxiously. So reasoned Ormond; +but his reasonings, whether wise or foolish, were set at nought by +unforeseen events. + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +One evening Ormond walked with Sir Herbert Annaly to the sea-shore, to +look at the lighthouse which was building. He was struck with all that +had been done here in the course of a few months, and especially with +the alteration in the appearance of the people. Their countenances had +changed from the look of desponding idleness and cunning, to the air +of busy, hopeful independence. He could not help congratulating Sir +Herbert, and warmly expressing a wish that he might himself, in the +whole course of his life, do half as much good as Sir Herbert had +already effected. “You will do a great deal more,” said Sir Herbert: +“you will have a great deal more time. I must make the best of the +little--probably the very little time I shall have: while I yet live, +let me not live in vain.” + +“_Yet_ live,” said Ormond; “I hope--I trust--you will live many years +to be happy, and to make others so: your strength seems quite +re-established--you have all the appearance of health.” + +Sir Herbert smiled, but shook his head. + +“My dear Ormond, do not trust to outward appearances too much. Do not +let my friends entirely deceive themselves. I _know_ that my life cannot +be long--I wish, before I die, to do as much good as I can.” + +The manner in which these words were said, and the look with which they +were accompanied, impressed Ormond at once with a conviction of the +danger, fortitude, and magnanimity of the person who spoke to him. +The hectic colour, the brilliant eye, the vividness of fancy, the +superiority of intellectual powers, the warmth of the affections, and +the amiable gentleness of the disposition of this young man, were, alas! +but so many fatal indications of his disease. The energy with which, +with decreasing bodily and increasing mental strength, he pursued his +daily occupations, and performed more than every duty of his station, +the never-failing temper and spirits with which he sustained the hopes +of many of his friends, were but so many additional causes of alarm to +the too experienced mother. Florence, with less experience, and with a +temper happily prone to hope, was more easily deceived. She could not +believe that a being, whom she saw so full of life, could be immediately +in danger of dying. Her brother had now but a very slight cough--he had, +to all appearance, recovered from the accident by which they had been so +much alarmed when they were in England. The physicians had pronounced, +that with care to avoid cold, and all violent exertion, he might do well +and last long. + +To fulfil the conditions was difficult; especially that which required +him to refrain from any great exertion. Whenever he could be of service +to his friends, or could do any good to his fellow-creatures, he spared +neither mental nor bodily exertion. Under the influence of benevolent +enthusiasm, he continually forgot the precarious tenure by which he held +his life. + +It was now the middle of winter, and one stormy night a vessel was +wrecked on the coast near Annaly. The house was at such a distance from +that part of the shore where the vessel struck, that Sir Herbert knew +nothing of it till the next morning, when it was all over. No lives +were lost. It was a small trading vessel, richly laden. Knowing the vile +habits of some of the people who lived on the coast, Sir Herbert, +the moment he heard that there was a wreck, went down to see that the +property of the sufferers was protected from those depredators, who on +such occasions were astonishingly alert. Ormond accompanied him, and by +their joint exertions much of the property was placed in safety under +a military guard. Some had been seized and carried off before their +arrival, but not by any of Sir Herbert’s tenants. It became pretty clear +that _the neighbours_ on Sir Ulick O’Shane’s estate were the offenders. +They had grown bold from impunity, and from the belief that no +_jantleman_ “would choose to interfere with them, on account of their +landlord.” + +Sir Herbert’s indignation rose. Ormond pledged himself that Sir Ulick +O’Shane would never protect such wretches; and eager to assist public +justice, to defend his guardian, and, above all, to calm Sir Herbert and +prevent him from over-exerting himself, he insisted upon being allowed +to go in his stead with the party of military who were to search the +suspected houses. It was with some difficulty that he prevailed. +He parted with Sir Herbert; and, struck at the moment with his +highly-raised colour, and the violent heat and state of excitation +he was in, Ormond again urged him to remember his own health, and his +mother and sister. + +“I will--I do,” said Sir Herbert; “but it is my duty to think of public +justice before I think of myself.” + +The apprehension Ormond felt in quitting Sir Herbert recurred frequently +as he rode on in silence; but he was called into action and it was +dissipated. Ormond spent nearly three hours searching a number of +wretched cabins from which the male inhabitants fled at the approach of +the military, leaving the women and children to make what excuses and +tell what lies they could. This the women and children executed +with great readiness and ability, and in the most pity-moving tones +imaginable. + +The inside of an Irish cabin appears very different to those who come to +claim hospitality and to those who come to detect offenders. + +Ormond having never before entered a cabin with a search-warrant, +constable, or with the military, he was “not _up_ to the thing”--as both +the serjeant and constable remarked to each other. While he listened to +the piteous story of a woman about a husband who had broken his leg +from a ladder, _sarving_ the masons at Sir Herbert’s lighthouse, and was +_lying at_ the hospital, _not expected_, [Footnote: _Not expected_ to +live.] the husband was lying all the time with both his legs safe and +sound in a potato furrow within a few yards of the house. And _the +child_ of another eloquent matron was running off with a pair of +silver-mounted pistols taken from the wreck, which he was instructed to +hide in a bog-hole, snug--the bog-water never rusting. In one hovel--for +the houses of these wretches who lived by pillage, after all their +ill-gotten gains, were no better than hovels--in one of them, in which, +as the information stated, some valuable plunder was concealed, they +found nothing but a poor woman groaning in bed, and two little children; +one crying as if its heart would break, and the other sitting up behind +the mother’s bolster supporting her. After the soldiers had searched +every place in vain, even the thatch of the house, the woman showing no +concern all the while, but groaning on, seeming scarce able to answer +Mr. Ormond’s questions--the constable, an old hand, roughly bid her get +up, that they might search the bed; this Ormond would not permit:--she +lay still, thanking his honour faintly, and they quitted the house. +The goods which had been carried off were valuable, and were hid in the +straw of the very bed on which the woman was lying. + +As they were returning homewards after their fruitless search, when they +had passed the boundary of Sir Ulick’s and had reached Sir Herbert’s +territory, they were overtaken by a man, who whispered something to the +serjeant which made him halt, and burst out a laughing; the laugh ran +through the whole serjeant’s guard, and reached Ormond’s ears; who, +asking the cause of it, was told how the woman had cheated them, and +how she was now risen from her bed, and was dividing the prize among the +_lawful owners_, “share and share alike.” These lawful owners, all +risen out of the potato furrows, and returning from the bogs, were now +assembled, holding their bed of justice. At the moment the serjeant’s +information came off, their captain, with a bottle of whiskey in his +hand, was drinking, “To the health of Sir Ulick O’Shane, our worthy +landlord--seldom comes a better. The same to his ward, Harry Ormond, +Esq., and may his eyesight never be better nor worse.” + +Harry Ormond instantly turned his horse’s head, much provoked at having +been duped, and resolved that the plunderers should not now escape. By +the advice of serjeants and constables, he dismounted, that no sound of +horses’ hoofs might give notice from a distance; though, indeed, on the +sands of the sea-shore, no horses’ tread, he thought, could be heard. He +looked round for some one with whom he could leave his horse, but not a +creature, except the men who were with him, was in sight. + +“What can have become of all the people?” said Ormond: “it is not +the workmen’s dinner-hour, and they are gone from the work at the +lighthouse; and the horses and cars are left without any one with them.” + He went on a few paces, and saw a boy who seemed to be left to watch the +horses, and who looked very melancholy. The boy did not speak as Ormond +came up. “What is the matter?” said Ormond: “something dreadful has +happened--speak!” + +“Did not you hear it, sir?” said the boy: “I’d be loth to tell it you.” + +“Has any thing happened to--” + +“Sir Herbert--ay--the worst that could. Running to stop one of them +villains that was making off with something from the wreck, he dropped +sudden as if he was shot, and--when they went to lift him up--But you’ll +drop yourself, sir,” said the boy. + +“Give him some of the water out of the bucket, can’t ye?” + +“Here’s my cap,” said the serjeant. Ormond was made to swallow the +water, and, recovering his senses, heard one of the soldiers near him +say, “‘Twas only a faint Sir Herbert took, I’ll engage.” + +The thought was new life to Ormond: he started up, mounted his horse, +and galloped off--saw no creature on the road--found a crowd at the gate +of the avenue--the crowd opened to let him pass, many voices calling +as he passed to beg him to _send out word_. This gave him fresh hopes, +since nothing certain was known: he spurred on his horse; but when he +reached the house, as he was going to Sir Herbert’s room he was met by +Sir Herbert’s own man, O’Reilly. The moment he saw O’Reilly’s face, he +knew there was no hope--he asked no question: the surgeon came out, and +told him that in consequence of having broke a blood-vessel, which bled +internally, Sir Herbert had just expired--his mother and sister were +with him. Ormond retired--he begged the servants would write to him at +Dr. Cambray’s--and he immediately went away. + +Two days after he had a note from O’Reilly, written in haste, at a very +early hour in the morning, to say that he was just setting out with the +hearse to the family burial-place at Herbert--it having been thought +best that the funeral should not be in this neighbourhood, on account +of the poor people at Annaly being so exasperated against those who were +thought to be the immediate occasion of his death. Sir Herbert’s last +orders to O’Reilly were to this effect--“to _take care_, and to have +every thing done as privately as possible.” + +No pomp of funeral was, indeed, necessary for such a person. The great +may need it--the good need it not: they are mourned in the heart, and +they are remembered without vain pageantry. If public sorrow can soothe +private grief--and surely in some measure it must--the family and +friends of this young man had this consolation; but they had another and +a better. + +It is the triumph of religion and of its ministers to be able to support +the human heart, when all other resources are of little avail. Time, +it is true, at length effaces the recollection of misfortune, and age +deadens the sense of sorrow. But that power to console is surely far +superior in its effect, more worthy of a rational and a social being, +which operates--not by contracting or benumbing our feelings and +faculties, but by expanding and ennobling them--inspiring us, not with +stoic indifference to the pains and pleasures of humanity, but with +pious submission to the will of Heaven--to the order and orderer of the +universe. + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + +Though Sir Ulick O’Shane contrived to laugh on most occasions +where other people would have wept, and though he had pretty well +_case-hardened_ his heart, yet he was shocked by the first news of the +death of Sir Herbert Annaly. He knew the man must die, he said--so must +we all, sooner or later--but for the manner of his death, Sir Ulick +could not help feeling a secret pang. He felt conscious of having +encouraged, or at least connived at, the practices of those wretches +who had roused the generous and just indignation of Sir Herbert, and in +pursuit of whom this fine young man had fallen a sacrifice. + +Not only the “still small voice,” but the cry of the country, was +against Sir Ulick on this occasion. He saw that he must give up the +offenders, and show decidedly that he desired to have them punished. +Decidedly, then, and easily, as ever prince abandoned secretary or +chancellor to save his own popularity, quickly as ever grand seignior +gave up grand vizier or chief baker to appease the people, Sir Ulick +gave up his “_honest rascals_,” his “_rare rapparees_,” and even his +“_wrecker royal_.” Sir Ulick set his magistrate, Mr. M’Crule, at work +for once on the side both of justice and law; warrants, committals, and +constables, cleared the land. Many fled--a few were seized, escorted +ostentatiously by _a serjeant and twelve_ of Sir Ulick’s corps, and +lodged in the county jail to stand their trial, bereft of all _favour +and purtection_, bonâ fide delivered up to justice. + +A considerable tract of Sir Ulick’s coast estate, in consequence of +this, remained untenanted. Some person in whom he could confide must be +selected to inhabit the fishing-lodge, and to take care of the cabins +and land till they should be relet. Sir Ulick pitched upon Moriarty +Carroll for this purpose, and promised him such liberal reward, that all +Moriarty’s friends congratulated him upon his “great luck in getting +the appointment, against the man, too, that Mr. Marcus had proposed and +favoured.” + +Marcus, who was jealous in the extreme of power, and who made every +trifle a matter of party competition, was vexed at the preference +given against _an honest man_ and a _friend_ of his own, in favour of +Moriarty, a catholic; a fellow he had always disliked, and a protege +of Mr. Ormond. Ormond, though obliged to Sir Ulick for this kindness to +Moriarty, was too intent on other things to think much about the matter. +_When_ he should see Florence Annaly again, seemed to him the only +question in the universe of great importance. + +Just at this time arrived letters for Mr. Ormond, from Paris, from M. +and Mad. de Connal; very kind letters, with pressing invitations to him +to pay them a visit. M. de Connal informed him, “that the five hundred +pounds, King Corny’s legacy, was ready waiting his orders. M. de Connal +hoped to put it into Mr. Ormond’s hands in Paris in his own hotel, where +he trusted that Mr. Ormond would do him the pleasure of soon occupying +the apartments which were preparing for him.” It did not clearly appear +whether they had or had not heard of his accession of fortune. Dora’s +letter was not from _Dora_--it was from _Mad. de Connal_. It was on +green paper, with a border of Cupids and roses, and store of sentimental +devices in the corners. The turn of every phrase, the style, as far +as Ormond could judge, was quite French--aiming evidently at being +perfectly Parisian. Yet it was a letter so flattering to the vanity of +man as might well incline him to excuse the vanity of woman. “Besides,” + as Sir Ulick O’Shane observed, “after making due deductions for French +sentiment, there remains enough to satisfy an honest English heart that +the lady really desires to see you, Ormond; and that now, in the midst +of her Parisian prosperity, she has the grace to wish to show kindness +to her father’s adopted son, and to the companion and friend of her +childhood.” Sir Ulick was of opinion that Ormond could not do +better than accept the invitation. Ormond was surprised, for he well +recollected the manner in which his guardian had formerly, and not many +months ago, written and spoken of Connal as a coxcomb and something +worse. + +“That is true,” said Sir Ulick; “but that was when I was angry about +your legacy, which was of great consequence to us then, though of none +now--I certainly did suspect the man of a design to cheat you; but it +is clear that I was wrong--I am ready candidly to acknowledge that I did +him injustice. Your money is at your order--and I have nothing to say, +but to beg M. de Connal ten thousand French pardons. Observe, I do not +beg pardon for calling him a coxcomb, for a coxcomb he certainly is.” + +“An insufferable coxcomb!” cried Ormond. + +“But a coxcomb _in fashion_,” said Sir Ulick; “and a coxcomb in fashion +is a useful connexion. He did not fable about Versailles--I have made +particular inquiries from our ambassador at Paris, and he writes me +word that Connal is often at court--_en bonne odeur_ at Versailles. +The ambassador says he meets the Connals every where in the first +circles--how they came there I don’t know.” + +“I am glad to hear that, for Dora’s sake,” said Ormond. + +“I always thought her a sweet, pretty little creature,” said Sir Ulick, +“and no doubt she has been polished up; and dress and fashion make such +a difference in a woman--I suppose she is now ten times better--that is, +prettier: she will introduce you at Paris, and your own _merit_--that +is, manners, and figure, and fortune--will make your way every where. +By-the-bye, I do not see a word about poor Mademoiselle--Oh, yes! here +is a Line squeezed in at the edge--‘Mille tendres souvenirs de la part +de Mdlle. O’Faley.’” + +“Poor Mademoiselle!” + +“Poor Mademoiselle!” repeated Sir Ulick. + +“Do you mean _that thing half Irish, half French, half mud, half +tinsel?_” said Ormond. + +“Very good memory! very sly, Harry! But still in the Irish half of her +I dare say there is a heart; and we must allow her the tinsel, in pure +gratitude, for having taught you to speak French so well--that will be a +real advantage to you in Paris.” + +“Whenever I go there, sir,” said Ormond, coldly. + +Sir Ulick was very much disappointed at perceiving that Ormond had +no mind to go to Paris; but dropping the subject, he turned the +conversation upon the Annalys: he praised Florence to the skies, hoped +that Ormond would be more fortunate than Marcus had been, for somehow +or other, he should never live or die in peace till Florence Annaly was +more nearly connected with him. He regretted, however, that poor Sir +Herbert was carried off before he had completed the levying of those +fines, which would have cut off the entail, and barred the heir-at-law +from the Herbert estates. Florence was not now the great heiress it was +once expected she should be; indeed she had but a moderate gentlewoman’s +fortune--not even what at Smithfield a man of Ormond’s fortune might +expect; but Sir Ulick knew, he said, that this would make no difference +to his ward, unless to make him in greater impatience to propose for +her. + +It was impossible to be in greater impatience to propose for her than +Ormond was. Sir Ulick did not wonder at it; but he thought that Miss +Annaly would not, _could_ not, listen to him yet. _Time, the comforter_, +must come first; and while time was doing this business, love could not +decently be admitted. + +“That was the reason,” said Ulick, returning by another road to the +charge, “why I advised a trip to Paris; but you know best.” + +“I cannot bear this suspense--I must and will know my fate--I will write +instantly, and obtain an answer.” + +“Do so; and to save time, I can tell what your fate and your answer will +be: from Florence Annaly, assurance of perfect esteem and regard, as far +as friendship, perhaps; but she will tell you that she cannot think of +love at present. Lady Annaly, prudent Lady Annaly, will say that she +hopes Mr. Ormond will not think of settling for life till he has seen +something more of the world. Well, you don’t believe me,” said Sir +Ulick, interrupting himself just at the moment when he saw that Ormond +began to think there was some sense in what he was saying. + +“If you don’t believe me, Harry,” continued he, “consult your oracle, +Dr. Cambray: he has just returned from Annaly, and he can tell you how +the land lies.” + +Dr. Cambray agreed with Sir Ulick that both Lady Annaly and her daughter +would desire that Ormond should see more of the world before he settled +for life; but as to going off to Paris, without waiting to see or write +to them, Dr. Cambray agreed with Ormond that it would be the worst thing +he could do--that so far from appearing a proof of his respect to +their grief, it would only seem a proof of indifference, or a sign +of impatience: they would conclude that he was in haste to leave his +friends in adversity, to go to those in prosperity, and to enjoy the +gaiety and dissipation of Paris. Dr. Cambray advised that he should +remain quietly where he was, and wait till Miss Annaly should be +disposed to see him. This was most prudent, Ormond allowed. “But +then the delay!” To conquer by delay we must begin by conquering our +impatience: now that was what our hero could not possibly do--therefore +he jumped hastily to this conclusion, that “in love affairs no man +should follow any mortal’s opinion but his own.” + +Accordingly he sat down and wrote to Miss Annaly a most passionate +letter, enclosed in a most dutiful one to Lady Annaly, as full of +respectful attachment and entire obedience, as a son-in-law expectant +could devise--beginning very properly and very sincerely, with anxiety +and hopes about her ladyship’s health, and ending, as properly, and as +sincerely, with hopes that her ladyship would permit him, as soon as +possible, to take from her the greatest, the only remaining source of +happiness she had in life--her daughter. + +Having worded this very plausibly--for he had now learned how to write +a letter--our hero despatched a servant of Sir Ulick’s with his epistle; +ordering him to wait certainly for an answer, but above all things to +make haste back. Accordingly the man took a cross road--a short cut, and +coming to a bridge, which he did not know was broken down till he was +_close upon it_, he was obliged to return and to go round, and did not +get home till long after dark--and the only answer he brought was, that +there was no answer--only Lady Annaly’s compliments. + +Ormond could scarcely believe that no answer had been sent; but the man +took all the saints in heaven, or in the calendar, to witness, that he +would not tell his honour, or any _jantleman_, a lie. + +Upon a cross-examination, the man gave proof that he had actually seen +both the ladies. They were sitting so and so, and dressed so and so, in +mourning. Farther, he gave undeniable proof that he had delivered the +letters, and that they had been opened and read; for--_by the same +token_--he was summoned up to my lady on account of one of Mr. Ormond’s +letters, he did not know _which_, or to _who_, being dated Monday, +whereas it was Wednesday; and he had to clear himself of having been +three days on the road. + +Ormond, inordinately impatient, could not rest a moment. The next +morning he set off at full speed for Annaly, determined to find out what +was the matter. + +Arrived there, a new footman came to the door with “_Not at home_, +sir.” Ormond could have knocked him down, but he contented himself +with striking his own forehead--however, in a genteel proper voice, he +desired to see Sir Herbert’s own man, O’Reilly. + +“Mr. O’Reilly is not here, sir--absent on business.” + +Every thing was adverse. Ormond had one hope, that this new fellow, +not knowing him, might by mistake have included him in a general order +against morning visitors. + +“My name is Ormond, sir.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“And I beg you will let Lady Annaly and Miss Annaly know that Mr. Ormond +is come to pay his respects to them.” + +The man seemed very unwilling to carry any message to his ladies. “He +was sure,” he said, “that the ladies would not see anybody.” + +“Was Lady Annaly ill?” + +“Her ladyship had been but poorly, but was better within the last two +days.” + +“And Miss Annaly?” + +“Wonderful better, too, sir; has got up her spirits greatly to-day.” + +“I am very glad to hear it,” said Ormond. “Pray, sir, can you tell me +whether a servant from Mr. Ormond brought a letter here yesterday?” + +“He did, sir.” + +“And was there any answer sent?” + +“I really can’t say, sir.” + +“Be so good to take my name to your lady,” repeated Ormond. + +“Indeed, sir, I don’t like to go in, for I know my lady--both my ladies +is engaged, very particularly engaged--however, if you very positively +desire it, sir--” + +Ormond did very positively desire it, and the footman obeyed. While +Ormond was waiting impatiently for the answer, his horse, as impatient +as himself, would not stand still. A groom, who was sauntering about, +saw the uneasiness of the horse, and observing that it was occasioned by +a peacock, who, with spread tail, was strutting in the sunshine, he +ran and chased the bird away. Ormond thanked the groom, and threw him a +_luck token_; but not recollecting his face, asked how long he had +been at Annaly. “I think you were not here when I was here last?” said +Ormond. + +“No, sir.” said the man, looking a little puzzled; “I never was here +till the day before yesterday in my born days. We _bees_ from England.” + +“We!” + +“That is, I and master--that is, master and I.” Ormond grew pale; but +the groom saw nothing of it--his eyes had fixed upon Ormond’s horse. + +“A very fine horse this of yours, sir, for sartain, if he could but +_stand_, sir; he’s main restless at a door. My master’s horse is just +his match for that.” + +“And pray who is your master, sir?” said Ormond, in a voice which he +forced to be calm. + +“My master, sir, is one Colonel Albemarle, son of the famous General +Albemarle, as lost his arm, sir, you might have heard talk of, time +back,” said the groom. + +At this moment a window-blind was flapped aside, and before the wind +blew it back to its place again, Ormond saw Florence Annaly sitting on a +sofa, and a gentleman, in regimentals, kneeling at her feet. + +“Bless my eyes!” cried the groom, “what made you let go his bridle, sir? +Only you sat him well, sir, he would ha’ thrown you that minute--Curse +the blind! that flapped in his eyes.” + +The footman re-appeared on the steps. “Sir, it is just as I said--I +could not be let in. Mrs. Spencer, my lady’s woman, says the ladies is +engaged--you can’t see them.” + +Ormond had seen enough. + +“Very well, sir,” said he--“Mr. Ormond’s compliments--he called, that’s +all.” + +Ormond put spurs to his horse, and galloped off; and, fast as he went, +he urged his horse still faster. + +In the agony of disappointed love and jealousy, he railed bitterly +against the whole sex, and against Florence Annaly in particular. Many +were the rash vows he made that he would never think of her more--that +he would tear her from his heart--that he would show her that he was no +whining lover, no easy dupe, to be whiffled off and on, the sport of a +coquette. + +“A coquette!--is it possible, Florence Annaly?--_You_--and after all!” + +Certain tender recollections obtruded; but he repelled them--he would +not allow one of them to mitigate his rage. His naturally violent +passion of anger, now that it broke again from the control of his +reason, seemed the more ungovernable from the sense of past and the +dread of future restraint. + +So, when a horse naturally violent, and half trained to the curb, takes +fright, or takes offence, and, starting, throws his master, away he +gallops; enraged the more by the falling bridle, he rears, plunges, +curvets, and lashes out behind at broken girth or imaginary pursuer. + +“Good Heavens! what is the matter with you, my dear boy?--what has +happened?” cried Sir Ulick, the moment he saw him; for the disorder of +Ormond’s mind appeared strongly in his face and gestures--still more +strongly in his words. + +When he attempted to give an account of what had happened, it was so +broken, so exclamatory, that it was wonderful how Sir Ulick made out the +plain fact. Sir Ulick, however, well understood the short-hand language +of the passions: he listened with eager interest--he sympathized +so fully with Ormond’s feelings--expressed such astonishment, such +indignation, that Harry, feeling him to be his warm friend, loved him as +heartily as in the days of his childhood. + +Sir Ulick saw and seized the advantage: he had almost despaired of +accomplishing his purpose--now was the critical instant. + +“Harry Ormond,” said he, “would you make Florence Annaly feel to the +quick--would you make her repent in sackcloth and ashes--would you make +her pine for you, ay! till her very heart is sick?” + +“Would I? to be sure--show me how!--only show me how!” cried Ormond. + +“Look ye, Harry! to have and to hold a woman--trust me, for I have had +and held many--to have and to hold a woman, you must first show her that +you can, if you will, fling her from you--ay! and leave her there: set +off for Paris to-morrow morning--my life upon it, the moment she hears +you are gone, she will wish you back again!” + +“I’ll set off to-night,” said Ormond, ringing the bell to give orders to +his servant to prepare immediately for his departure. + +Thus Sir Ulick, seizing precisely the moment when Ormond’s mind was at +the right heat, aiming with dexterity and striking with force, bent and +moulded him to his purpose. + +While preparations for Ormond’s journey were making, Sir Ulick said +that there was one thing he must insist upon his doing before he +quitted Castle Hermitage--he must look over and settle his guardianship +accounts. + +Ormond, whose head was far from business at this moment, was very +reluctant: he said that the accounts could wait till he should return +from France; but Sir Ulick observed that if he, or if Ormond were to +die, leaving the thing unsettled, it would be loss of property to +the one, and loss of credit to the other. Ormond then begged that the +accounts might be sent after him to Paris; he would look over them there +at leisure, and sign them. No, Sir Ulick said, they ought to be signed +by some forthcoming witness in this country. He urged it so much, and +put it upon the footing of his own credit and honour in such a manner, +that Ormond could not refuse. He seized the papers, and took a pen to +sign them; but Sir Ulick snatched the pen from his hand, and absolutely +insisted upon his first knowing what he was going to sign. + +“The whole account could have been looked over while we have been +talking about it,” said Sir Ulick. + +Ormond sat down and looked it over, examined all the vouchers, saw +that every thing was perfectly right and fair, signed the accounts, +and esteemed Sir Ulick the more for having insisted upon showing, and +proving that all was exact. + +Sir Ulick offered to manage his affairs for him while he was away, +particularly a large sum which Ormond had in the English funds. Sir +Ulick had a banker and a broker in London, on whom he could depend, +and he had, from his place and connexions, means of obtaining good +information in public affairs; he had made a great deal himself by +speculations in the funds, and he could buy in and sell out to great +advantage, he said, for Ormond. But for this purpose a _power of +attorney_ was necessary to be given by Ormond to Sir Ulick. + +There was scarcely time to draw one up, nor was Sir Ulick sure that +there was a printed form in the house. Luckily, however, a proper +_power_ was found, and filled up, and Ormond had just time to sign +it before he stepped into the carriage: he embraced his guardian, and +thanked him heartily for his care of the interests of his purse, and +still more for the sympathy he had shown in the interests of his heart. +Sir Ulick was moved at parting with him, and this struck Harry the more, +because he certainly struggled to suppress his feelings. Ormond stopped +at Vicar’s Dale to tell Dr. Cambray all that had happened, to thank him +and his family for their kindness, and to take leave of them. + +They were indeed astonished when he entered, saying, “Any commands, my +good friends, for London or Paris? I am on my way there--carriage at the +door.” + +At first they could not believe him to be serious; but when they +heard his story, and saw by the agitation of his manner that he was +in earnest, they were still more surprised at the suddenness of his +determination. They all believed and represented to him that there must +be some mistake, and that he was not cool enough to judge sanely at this +moment. + +Dr. Cambray observed that Miss Annaly could not prevent any man from +kneeling to her. Ormond haughtily said, “He did not know what she could +prevent, he only knew what she did. She had not vouchsafed an answer to +his letter--she had not admitted him. These he thought were sufficient +indications that the person at her feet was accepted. Whether he were or +not, Ormond would inquire no further. She might now accept or refuse, as +she pleased--he would go to Paris.” + +His friends had nothing more to say or to do, but to sigh, and to wish +him a good journey, and much pleasure at Paris. + +Ormond now requested that Dr. Cambray would have the goodness to write +to him from time to time, to inform him of whatever he might wish to +know during his absence. He was much mortified to hear from the doctor +that he was obliged to proceed, with his family, for some months, to a +distant part of the north of England; and that, as to the Annalys, +they were immediately removing to the sea-coast of Devonshire, for the +benefit of a mild climate and of sea-bathing. Ormond, therefore, had no +resource but in his guardian. Sir Ulick’s affairs, however, were to +take him over to London, from whence Ormond could not expect much +satisfactory intelligence with respect to Ireland. + +Ormond flew to Dublin, crossed the channel in an express boat, travelled +night and day in the mail to London, from thence to Dover--crossed the +water in a storm, and travelled with the utmost expedition to Paris, +though there was no one reason why he should be in haste; and for so +much, his travelling was as little profitable or amusing as possible. He +saw, heard, and understood nothing, till he reached Paris. + +It has been said that the traveller without sensibility may travel from +Dan to Beersheba, without finding any thing worth seeing. The traveller +who has too much sensibility often observes as little--of this all +persons must be sensible, who have ever travelled when their minds were +engrossed with painful feelings, or possessed by any strong passion. + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + +Ormond had written to M. and Madame de Connal to announce his intentions +of spending some time in Paris, and to thank them for the invitation to +their house; an invitation which, however, he declined accepting; but he +requested M. de Connal to secure apartments for him in some hotel near +them. + +Upon his arrival he found every thing prepared for a Milord Anglois: +handsome apartments, fashionable carriage, well-powdered laquais, and a +valet-de-chambre, waited the orders of monsieur. + +Connal was with him a few minutes after his arrival--welcomed him to +Paris with cordial gaiety--was more glad, and more sorry, and said more +in five minutes, and above all made more protestations of regard, than +an Englishman would make in a year. + +He was rejoiced--delighted--enchanted to see Mr. Ormond. Madame de +Connal was absolutely transported with joy when she heard he was on his +road to Paris. Madame was now at Versailles; but she would return in +a few days: she would be in despair at Mr. Ormond’s not accepting the +apartments in the Hotel de Connal, which were actually prepared for him; +but in fact it was nearly the same thing, within two doors of them. He +hoped Mr. Ormond liked his apartments--but in truth that was of little +consequence, for he would never be in them, except when he was asleep or +dressing. + +Ormond thought the apartments quite superb, and was going to have +thanked M. de Connal for the trouble he had taken; but at the word +_superbe_, Connal ran on again with French vivacity of imagination. + +“Certainly, Mr. Ormond ought,” he said, “to have every thing now in the +first style.” He congratulated our hero on his accession of fortune, +“of which Madame de Connal and he had heard with inexpressible joy. And +Mdlle. O’Faley, too, she who had always prophesied that they should meet +in happiness at Paris, was now absolutely in ecstasy.” + +“You have no idea, in short, my dear Ormond, of what a strong impression +you left on all our minds--no conception of the lively interest you +always inspired.” + +It was a lively interest which had slumbered quietly for a considerable +time, but now it wakened with perfectly good grace. Ormond set little +value on these sudden protestations, and his pride felt a sort of fear +that it should be supposed he was deceived by them; yet, altogether, the +manner was agreeable, and Connal was essentially useful at this moment: +as Sir Ulick had justly observed, a coxcomb in fashion may, in certain +circumstances, be a useful friend. + +“But, my dear fellow,” cried Connal, “what savage cut your hair +last?--It is a sin to trust your fine head to the barbarians--my +hairdresser shall be with you in the twinkling of an eye: I will send +my tailor--allow me to choose your embroidery, and see your lace, before +you decide--I am said to have a tolerable taste--the ladies say so, +and they are always the best judges. The French dress will become you +prodigiously, I foresee--but, just Heaven!--what buckles!--those must +have been made before the flood: no disparagement to your taste, but +what could you do better in the Black Islands? Paris is the only place +for _bijouterie_--except in steel, Paris surpasses the universe--your +eyes will be dazzled by the Palais Royal. But this hat!--you know it +can’t appear--it would destroy you: my _chapelier_ shall be with you +instantly. It will all be done in five minutes--you have no idea of the +celerity with which you may command every thing at Paris. But I am so +sorry that madame is at Versailles, and that I am under a necessity of +being there myself to-morrow for the rest of this week; but I have a +friend, a little _Abbé_, who will be delighted in the mean time to show +you Paris.” + +From the moment of his arrival at Paris, Ormond resolved to put Florence +Annaly completely out of his thoughts, and to drown in gaiety and +dissipation the too painful recollection of her duplicity towards him. +He was glad to have a few days to look about him, and to see something +of Paris. + +He should like, as he told M. de Connal, to go to the play, to +accustom himself to the language. He must wear off his English or Irish +awkwardness a little, before he should be presented to Madame de Connal, +or appear in French society. A profusion of compliments followed from +M. de Connal; but Ormond persisting, it was settled that he should go +incog. this night to the Théâtre François. + +Connal called upon him in the evening, and took him to the theatre. + +They were in _une petite loge_, where they could see without being seen. +In the box with them was the young Abbé, and a pretty little French +actress, Mdlle. Adrienne. At the first coup-d’oeil, the French ladies +did not strike him as handsome; they looked, as he said, like dolls, all +eyes and rouge; and rouge, as he thought, very unbecomingly put on, in +one frightful red patch or plaster, high upon the cheek, without any +pretence to the imitation of natural colour. + +“Eh fi donc!” said the Abbé, “what you call the natural colour, +that would be _rouge coquette_, which no woman of quality can permit +herself.” + +“No, Dieu merci,” said the actress, “that is for us: ‘tis very fair we +should have some advantages in the competition, they have so many--by +birth--if not by nature.” + +M. de Connal explained to Ormond that the frightful red patch which +offended his eye, was the mark of a woman of quality: “women only of +a certain rank have the privilege of wearing their rouge in that +manner--your eye will soon grow accustomed to it, and you will like it +as a sign of rank and fashion.” + +The actress shrugged her shoulders, said something about “_la belle +nature_,” and the good taste of Monsieur l’Anglois. The moment the +curtain drew up, she told him the names of all the actors and actresses +as they appeared--noting the value and celebrity of each. The play was, +unfortunately for Ormond, a tragedy; and Le Kain was at Versailles. +Ormond thought he understood French pretty well, but he did not +comprehend what was going on. The French tone of tragic declamation, so +unnatural to his ear, distracted his attention so much, that he could +not make out the sense of what any of the actors said. + +“‘Tis like the quality rouge,” said Connal; “your taste must be formed +to it. But your eye and your ear will accommodate themselves to both. +You will like it in a month.” + +M. de Connal said this was always the first feeling of foreigners. +“But have patience,” said he; “go on listening, and in a night or two, +perhaps in an hour or two, the sense will break in upon you all at once. +You will never find yourself at a loss in society. Talk, at all events, +whether you speak ill or well, talk: don’t aim at correctness--we +don’t expect it. Besides, as they will tell you, we like to see how a +stranger ‘play with our language.’” + +M. de Connal’s manner was infinitely more agreeable toward Ormond now +than in former days. + +There was perhaps still at the bottom of his mind the same fund of +self-conceit, but he did not take the same arrogant tone. It was +the tone not of a superior to an inferior, but of a friend, in a new +society, and a country to which he is a stranger. There was as little +of the protector in his manner as possible, considering his natural +presumption and acquired habits: considering that he had made his own +way in Paris, and that he thought that to be the first man in a certain +circle there, was to be nearly the first man in the universe. The next +morning, the little Abbé called to pay his compliments, and to offer his +services. + +M. de Connal being obliged to go to Versailles, in his absence the Abbé +would be very happy, he said, to attend Mr. Ormond, and to show him +Paris: he believed, he humbly said, that he had the means of showing him +every thing that was worth his attention. + +Away they drove. + +“Gare! gare!” cried the coachman, chasing away the droves of walkers +before him. There being no footpaths in the streets of Paris, they were +continually driven up close to the walls. + +Ormond at first shrunk at the sight of their peril and narrow escapes. + +“Monsieur apparemment is nervous after his _voyage?_” said the Abbé. + +“No, but I am afraid the people will be run over. I will make the +coachman drive more quietly.” + +“Du tout!--not at all,” said the little Abbé, who was of a noble +family, and had all the airs of it. “Leave him to settle it with the +people--they are used to it. And, after all, what have they to think of, +but to take care of themselves--_la canaille_?” + +“_La canaille_,” synonymous with the _swinish multitude_, an expression +of contempt for which the Parisian nobility have since paid terribly +dear. + +Ormond, who was not used to it, found it difficult to abstract his +sympathy from his fellow-creatures, by whatever name they were called; +and he could not exclusively command his attention, to admire the houses +and churches, which his Abbé continually pointed out to his notice. + +He admired, however, the fine façade of the Louvre, the Place de Louis +XV., the astonishingly brilliant spectacle of the Palais Royal, Notre +Dame, a few handsome bridges, and the drives on the Boulevards. + +But in fact there was at that time much more to be heard, and less to be +seen, than at present in Paris. Paris was not then as fine a city as it +now is. Ormond, in his secret soul, preferred the bay of Dublin to all +he then saw on the banks of the Seine. + +The little Abbé was not satisfied with the paucity of his exclamations, +and would have given him up, as _un froid Anglois_, but that, +fortunately, our young hero had each night an opportunity of redeeming +his credit. They went to the play--he saw French comedy!--he saw and +heard Molet, and Madame de la Ruette: the Abbé was charmed with his +delight, his enthusiasm, his genuine enjoyment of high comedy, and his +quick feeling of dramatic excellence. It was indeed perfection--beyond +any thing of which Ormond could have formed an idea. Every part well +performed--nothing to break the illusion! + +This first fit of dramatic enthusiasm was the third day at its height, +when Connal returned from Versailles; and it was so strong upon him, and +he was so full of Molet and Madame de la Ruette, that he could scarcely +listen to what Connal said of Versailles, the king’s supper, and Madame +la Dauphine. + +“No doubt--he should like to see all that--but at all events he was +positively determined to see Molet, and Madame de la Ruette, every night +they acted.” + +Connal smiled, and only answered, “Of course he would do as he pleased.” + But in the mean time, it was now Madame de Connal’s _night_ for seeing +company, and he was to make his debut in a French assembly. Connal +called for him early, that they might have a few minutes to themselves +before the company should arrive. + +Ormond felt some curiosity, a little anxiety, a slight flutter at the +heart, at the thought of seeing Dora again. + +The arrival of her husband interrupted these thoughts. + +Connal took the light from the hands of Crepin, the valet, and reviewed +Ormond from head to foot. + +“Very well, Crepin: you have done your part, and Nature has done hers, +for Monsieur.” + +“Yes, truly,” said Crepin, “Nature has done wonders for Monsieur; and +Monsieur, now he is dressed, has really all the air of a Frenchman.” + +“Quite l’air comme il faut! l’air noble!” added Connal; and he agreed +with Crepin in opinion that French dress made an astonishing difference +in Mr. Ormond. + +“Madame de Connal, I am sure, will think so,” continued Connal, “will +see it with admiration--for she really has good taste. I will pledge +myself for your success. With that figure, with that air, you will turn +many heads in Paris--if you will but talk enough. Say every thing that +comes into your head--don’t be like an Englishman, always thinking about +the sense--the more nonsense the better--trust me--_livrez-vous_--let +yourself out--follow me, and fear nothing,” cried he, running down +stairs, delighted with Ormond and with himself. + +He foresaw that he should gain credit by _producing_ such a man. He +really wished that Ormond should _succeed_ in French society, and that +he should pass his time agreeably in Paris. + +No man could feel better disposed towards another. Even if he should +take a fancy to Madame, it was to the polite French husband a matter of +indifference, except so far as the _arrangement_ might, or might not, +interfere with his own views. + +And these views--what were they?--Only to win all the young man’s +fortune at play. A cela près--excepting this, he was sincerely Ormond’s +friend, ready to do every thing possible--de faire l’impossible--to +oblige and entertain him. + +Connal enjoyed Ormond’s surprise at the magnificence of his hotel. After +ascending a spacious staircase, and passing through antechamber after +antechamber, they reached the splendid salon, blazing with lights, +reflected on all sides in mirrors, that reached from the painted ceiling +to the inlaid floor. + +“Not a creature here yet--happily.” “Madame begs,” said the servant, +“that Monsieur will pass on into the boudoir.” + +“Any body with Madame?” + +“No one but Madame de Clairville.” + +“Only _l’amie intime_,” said Connal, “the bosom friend.” + +“How will Dora feel?--How will it be with us both?” thought Ormond, as +he followed the light step of the husband. + +“Entrez!--Entrez toujours.” + +Ormond stopped at the threshold, absolutely dazzled by the brilliancy of +Dora’s beauty, her face, her figure, her air, so infinitely improved, so +fashioned! + +“Dora!--Ah! Madame de Connal,” cried Ormond. + +No French actor could have done it better than nature did it for him. + +Dora gave one glance at Ormond--pleasure, joy, sparkled in her eyes; +then leaning on the lady who stood beside her, almost sinking, Dora +sighed, and exclaimed, “Ah! Harry Ormond!” + +The husband vanished. + +“Ah ciel!” said l’amie intime, looking towards Ormond. + +“Help me to support her, Monsieur--while I seek de l’eau de Cologne.” + +Ormond, seized with sudden tremor, could scarcely advance. + +Dora sunk on the sofa, clasping her beautiful hands, and exclaiming, +“The companion of my earliest days!” + +Then Ormond, excused to himself, sprang forward,--“Friend of my +childhood!” cried he: “yes, my sister: your father promised me this +friendship--this happiness,” said he supporting her, as she raised +herself from the sofa. + +“Où est-il? où est-il?--Where is he, Monsieur Ormond?” cried +Mademoiselle, throwing open the door. “Ah ciel, comme il est beau! A +perfect Frenchman already! And how much embellished by dress!--Ah! +Paris for that. Did I not prophesy?--Dora, my darling, do me the +justice.--But--comme vous voilà saisie!--here’s l’amie with l’eau de +Cologne. Ah! my child, recover yourself, for here is some one--the Comte +de Jarillac it is entering the salon.” + +The promptitude of Dora’s recovery was a new surprise to our hero. +“Follow me,” said she to him, and with Parisian ease and grace she +glided into the salon to receive M. de Jarillac--presented Ormond to +M. le Comte--“Anglois--Irlandois--an English, an Irish gentleman--the +companion of her childhood,” with the slightest, lightest tone of +sentiment imaginable; and another count and another came, and a baron, +and a marquis, and a duke, and Madame la Comtesse de ----, and Madame +la Duchesse ----; and all were received with ease, respect, vivacity, or +sentiment as the occasion required--now advancing a step or two to mark +_empressement_ where requisite;--regaining always, imperceptibly, the +most advantageous situation and attitude for herself;--presenting Ormond +to every one--quite intent upon him, yet appearing entirely occupied +with every body else; and, in short, never forgetting them, him, or +herself for an instant. + +“Can this be Dora?” thought Ormond in admiration, yet in astonishment +that divided his feelings. It was indeed wonderful to see how quickly, +how completely, the Irish country girl had been metamorphosed into a +French woman of fashion. + +And now surrounded by admirers, by adorers in embroidery and blazing +with crosses and stars, she received _les hommages_--enjoyed _le +succès_--accepted the incense without bending too low or holding herself +too high--not too sober, nor too obviously intoxicated. Vanity in all +her heart, yet vanity not quite turning her head, not more than was +agreeable and becoming--extending her smiles to all, and hoping all +the time that Harry Ormond envied each. Charmed with him--for her early +passion for him had revived in an instant--the first sight of his figure +and air, the first glance in the boudoir, had been sufficient. She knew, +too, how well he would _succeed_ at Paris--how many rivals she would +have in a week: these perceptions, sensations, and conclusions, +requiring so much time in slow words to express, had darted through +Dora’s head in one instant, had exalted her imagination, and touched her +heart--as much as that heart could be touched. + +Ormond meantime breathed more freely, and recovered from his tremors. +Madame de Connal, surrounded by adorers, and shining in the salon, was +not so dangerous as Dora, half fainting in the boudoir; nor had any +words that wit or sentiment could devise power to please or touch him +so much as the “_Harry Ormond_!” which had burst naturally from Dora’s +lips. Now he began almost to doubt whether nature or art prevailed. +Now he felt himself safe at least, since he saw that it was only the +coquette of the Black Islands transformed into the coquette of the Hotel +de Connal. The transformation was curious, was admirable; Ormond thought +he could admire without danger, and, in due time, perhaps gallant, with +the best of them, without feeling--without scruple. + +The tables were now arranging for play. The conversation he heard every +where round him related to the good or bad fortune of the preceding +nights. Ormond perceived that it was the custom of the house to play +every evening, and the expressions that reached him about bets and debts +confirmed the hint which his guardian had given him, that Connal played +high. + +At present, however, he did not seem to have any design upon Ormond--he +was engaged at the further end of the room. He left him quite to +himself, and to Madame, and never once even asked him to play. + +There seemed more danger of his being _left out_, than of his being +_taken in_. + +“Donnez-moi le bras--Come with me, Monsieur Ormond,” said Mademoiselle, +“and you shall lose nothing--while they are settling about their +parties, we can get one little moment’s chat.” + +She took him back to the boudoir. + +“I want to make you know our Paris,” said she: “here we can see the +whole world pass in review, and I shall tell you every thing most +necessary for you to know; for example--who is who--and still more it +imports you to know who and who are together.” + +“Look at that lady, beautiful as the day, in diamonds.” + +“Madame de Connal, do you mean?” said Ormond. + +“Ah! no; not her always,” said Mademoiselle: “though she has the apple +here, without contradiction,” continued Mademoiselle, still speaking +in English, which it was always her pride to speak to whomsoever could +understand her. “Absolutely, without vanity, though my niece, I may say +it, she is a perfect creature--and mise à ravir!--Did you ever see such +a change for the best in one season? Ah! Paris!--Did I not tell you +well?--And you felt it well yourself--you lost your head, I saw that, +at first sight of her _à la Françoise_--the best proof of your taste and +sensibilité--she has infinite sensibility too!--interesting, and at the +height, what you English call the tip-top, of the fashion here.” + +“So it appears, indeed,” said Ormond, “by the crowd of admirers I see +round Madame de Connal.” + +“Admirers! yes, adorers, you may say--encore, if you added lovers, you +would not be much wrong; dying for love--éperdument épris! See, +there, he who is bowing now--Monsieur le Marquis de Beaulieu--homme +de cour--plein d’esprit--homme marquant--very remarkable man. But--Ah! +voilà que entre--of the court. Did you ever see finer entrée made by man +into a room, so full of grace? Ah! le Comte de Belle Chasse--How many +women already he has _lost_!--It is a real triumph to Madame de Connal +to have him in her chains. What a smile!--C’est lui qui est aimable pour +nous autres--d’une soumission pour les femmes--d’une fierté pour les +hommes. As the lamb gentle for the pretty woman; as the lion terrible +for the man. It is that Comte de Belle Chasse who is absolutely +irresistible.” + +“_Absolutely_ irresistible,” Ormond repeated, smiling; “not absolutely, +I hope.” + +“Oh! that is understood--you do not doubt la sagesse de +Madame?--Besides, _heureusement_, there is an infinite safety for her in +the number, as you see, of her adorers. Wait till I name them to you--I +shall give you a catalogue raisonnée.” + +With rapid enunciation Mademoiselle went through the names and rank of +the circle of adorers, noting with complacency the number of ladies to +whom each man of gallantry was supposed to have paid his addresses--next +to being of the blood royal, this appearing to be of the highest +distinction. + +“And à propos, Monsieur d’Ormond, you, yourself, when do you count to go +to Versailles?--Ah!--when you shall see the king and the king’s supper, +and Madame la Dauphine! Ah!” + +Mademoiselle was recalled from the ecstasy in which she had thrown up +her eyes to Heaven, by some gentleman speaking to her as he passed the +open door of the boudoir arm in arm with a lady--Mademoiselle answered, +with a profound inclination of the head, whispering to Ormond after +they had passed, “M. le Due de C---- with Madame de la Tour. Why he is +constant always to that woman, Heaven knows better than me! Stand, +if you are so good, Monsieur, a little more this way, and give your +attention--they don’t want you yet at play.” + +Then designating every person at the different card-tables, she said, +“That lady is the wife of M.----, and there is M. le Baron de L---- her +lover, the gentleman who looks over her cards--and that other lady with +the joli pompon, she is intimate with M. de la Tour, the husband of +the lady who passed with M. le Duc.” Mademoiselle explained all these +arrangements with the most perfect sang froid, as things of course, that +every body knew and spoke of, except just before the husbands; but there +was no mystery, no concealment: “What use?--To what good?” + +Ormond asked whether there were _any_ ladies in the room who were +supposed to be faithful to their husbands. + +“Eh!--Ma nièce, par exemple, Madame de Connal, I may cite as a woman of +la plus belle réputation, sans tâche--what you call unblemish.” + +“Assuredly,” said Ormond, “you could not, I hope, think me so +indiscreet--I believe I said _ladies_ in the plural number.” + +“Ah! oui, assuredly, and I can name you twenty. To begin, there, do you +see that woman standing up, who has the air as if she think of nothing +at all, and nobody thinking of her, with only her husband near her, _cet +grand homme blême?_--There is Madame de la Rousse--_d’une réputation +intacte!_--frightfully dressed, as she is always. But, hold, you see +that pretty little Comtesse de la Brie, all in white?--Charmante! I +give her to you as a reputation against which slander cannot +breathe--Nouvelle mariée--bride--in what you call de honey-moon; but we +don’t know that in French--no matter! Again, since you are curious in +these things, there is another reputation without spot, Madame de +St. Ange, I warrant her to you--bien froide, celle-là, cold as +any English--married a full year, and still her choice to make; +allons,--there is three I give you already, without counting my niece; +and, wait, I will find you yet another,” said Mademoiselle, looking +carefully through the crowd. + +She was relieved from her difficulty by the entrance of the little Abbé, +who came to summon Monsieur to Madame de Connal, who did him the honour +to invite him to the table. Ormond played, and fortune smiled upon +him, as she usually does upon a new votary; and beauty smiled upon him +perhaps on the same principle. Connal never came near him till supper +was announced; then only to desire him to give his arm to a charming +little Countess--la nouvelle mariée--Madame de Connal, belonging, by +right of rank, to Monsieur le Comte de Belle Chasse. The supper was one +of the delightful _petit soupers_ for which Paris was famous at that +day, and which she will never see again. + +The moralist, who considers the essential interests of morality, more +than the immediate pleasures of society, will think this rather a +matter of rejoicing than regret. How far such society and correct female +conduct be compatible, is a question which it might take too long a time +to decide. + +Therefore, be it sufficient here to say, that Ormond, without staying +to examine it, was charmed with the present effect; with the gaiety, the +wit, the politeness, the ease, and altogether with that indescribable +thing, that untranslatable esprit de société. He could not afterwards +remember any thing very striking or very solid that had been said, but +all was agreeable at the moment, and there was great variety. Ormond’s +self-love was, he knew not how, flattered. Without effort, it seemed +to be the object of every body to make Paris agreeable to him; and +they convinced him that he would find it the most charming place in the +world--without any disparagement to his own country, to which all solid +honours and advantages were left undisputed. The ladies, whom he had +thought so little captivating at first view, at the theatre, were all +charming on _farther acquaintance_: so full of vivacity, and something +so flattering in their manner, that it put a stranger at once at his +ease. Towards the end of the supper he found himself talking to two very +pretty women at once, with good effect, and thinking at the same time +of Dora and the Comte de Belle Chasse. Moreover, he thought he saw that +Dora was doing the same between the irresistible Comte, and the Marquis, +plein d’esprit, from whom, while she was listening and talking without +intermission, her eyes occasionally strayed, and once or twice met those +of Ormond. + +“Is it indiscreet to ask you whether you passed your evening agreeably?” + said M. de Connal, when the company had retired. + +“Delightfully!” said Ormond: “the most agreeable evening I ever passed +in my life!” + +Then fearing that he had spoken with too much enthusiasm, and that the +husband might observe that his eyes, as he spoke, involuntarily turned +towards Madame de Connal, he moderated (he might have saved himself the +trouble), he moderated his expression by adding, that as far as he could +yet judge, he thought French society very agreeable. + +“You have seen nothing yet--you are right not to judge hastily,” said +Connal; “but so far, I am glad you are tolerably well satisfied.” + +“Ah! oui, Monsieur Ormond,” cried Mademoiselle, joining them, “we shall +fix you at Paris, I expect.” + +“You hope, I suppose you mean, my dear aunt,” said Dora, with such +flattering hope in her voice, and in the expression of her countenance, +that Ormond decided that he “certainly intended to spend the winter at +Paris.” + +Connal, satisfied with this certainty, would have let Ormond go. But +Mademoiselle had many compliments to make him and herself upon his +pronunciation, and his fluency in speaking the French language--really +like a Frenchman himself--the Marquis de Beaulieu had said to her: she +was sure M. d’Ormond could not fail to _succeed_ in Paris with that +perfection added to all his other advantages. It was the greatest of all +the advantages in the world--the greatest advantage in the _universe_, +she was going on to say, but M. de Connal finished the flattery better. + +“You would pity us, Ormond,” cried he, interrupting Mademoiselle, “if +you could see and hear the Vandals they send to us from England with +letters of introduction--barbarians, who can neither sit, stand, nor +speak--nor even articulate the language. How many of these _butors_, +rich, of good family, I have been sometimes called upon to introduce +into society, and to present at court! Upon my honour it has happened to +me to wish they might hang themselves out of my way, or be found dead in +their beds the day I was to take them to Versailles.” + +“It is really too great a tax upon the good-breeding of the lady of the +house,” said Madame de Connal, “deplorable, when she has nothing better +to say of an English guest than that ‘Ce monsieur là a un grand talent +pour le silence.’” + +Ormond, conscious that he had talked away at a great rate, was pleased +by this indirect compliment. + +“But such personnages muëts never really see French society. They never +obtain more than a supper--not a _petit souper_--no, no, an invitation +to a great assembly, where they see nothing. Milord Anglois is lost in +the crowd, or stuck across a door-way by his own sword. Now, what could +any letter of recommendation do for such a fellow as that?” + +“The letters of recommendation which are of most advantage,” said Madame +de Connal, “are those which are written in the countenance.” + +Ormond had presence of mind enough not to bow, though the compliment was +directed distinctly to him--a look of thanks he knew was sufficient. As +he retired, Mademoiselle, pursuing him to the door, begged that he would +come as early as he could next morning, that she might introduce him to +her apartments, and explain to him all the superior conveniences of a +French house. M. de Connal representing, however, that the next day Mr. +Ormond was to go to Versailles, Mademoiselle acknowledged _that_ was an +affair to which all others must yield. + +Well flattered by all the trio, and still more perhaps by his own +vanity, our young hero was at last suffered to depart. + +The first appearance at Versailles was a matter of great consequence. +Court-dress was then an affair of as much importance at Paris as it +seems to be now in London, if we may judge by the columns of birthday +dresses, and the _honourable notice_ of gentlemen’s coats and +waistcoats. It was then at Paris, however, as it is now and ever will +be all over the world, essential to the appearance of a gentleman, that +whatever time, pains, or expense, it might have cost, he should, from +the moment he is dressed, _be_, or at least _seem_ to be, above his +dress. In this as in most cases, the shortest and safest way to +_seem_ is to _be_. Our young hero being free from personal conceit, or +overweening anxiety about his appearance, looked at ease. He called at +the Hotel de Connal the day he was to go to Versailles, and +Mademoiselle was in ecstasy at the sight of his dress, exclaiming, +“superbe!--magnifique!” + +M. de Connal seemed more struck with his air than his dress, and Dora, +perhaps, was more pleased with his figure; she was silent, but it was a +silence that spoke; her husband heeded not what it said, but, pursuing +his own course, observed, that, to borrow the expression of Crepin, the +valet-de-chambre, no contemptible judge in these cases, M. Ormond looked +not only as if he was _né coiffé_, but as if he had been born with a +sword by his side. “Really, my dear friend,” continued M. de Connal, +“you look as if you had come at once full dressed into the world, +which in our days is better than coming ready armed out of the head of +Jupiter.” + +Mdlle. O’Faley, now seizing upon Ormond, whom she called her pupil, +carried him off, to show him her apartments and the whole house; which +she did with many useful notes--pointing out the convenience and entire +liberty that result from the complete separation of the apartments of +the husband and wife in French houses. + +“You see, Monsieur et Madame with their own staircases, their own +passages, their own doors in and out, and all separate for the people of +Monsieur, and the women of Madame, and here through this little door you +go into the apartments of Madame.” + +Ormond’s English foot stopped respectfully. + +“Eh, entrez toujours,” said Mademoiselle, as the husband had said before +at the door of the boudoir. + +“But Madame de Connal is dressing, perhaps,” said Ormond. + +“Et puis?--and what then? you must get rid as fast as you can of your +English préjugés--and she is not here neither,” said Mademoiselle, +opening the door. + +Madame de Connal was in an inner apartment; and Ormond, the instant +after he entered this room with Mademoiselle, heard a quick step, which +he knew was Dora’s, running to bolt the door of the inner room--he was +glad that she had not quite got rid of her English prejudices. + +Mdlle. O’Faley pointed out to him all the accommodations of a French +apartment: she had not at this moment the slightest _malice_ or bad +intention in any thing she was saying--she simply spoke in all the +innocence of a Frenchwoman--if that term be intelligible. If she had any +secret motive, it was merely the vanity of showing that she was quite +Parisienne; and there again she was mistaken; for having lived half her +life out of Paris, she had forgotten, if she ever had it, the tone of +good society, and upon her return had overdone the matter, exaggerated +French manners, to prove to her niece that she knew les usages, les +convenances, les nuances--enfin, la mode de Paris! A more dangerous +guide in Paris for a young married woman in every respect could scarcely +be found. + +M. de Connal’s valet now came to let Mr. Ormond know that Monsieur +waited his orders. But for this interruption, he was in a fair way +to hear all the private history of the family, all the secrets that +Mademoiselle knew. + +Of the amazing communicativeness of Frenchwomen on all subjects, our +young hero had as yet no conception. + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + +It was during the latter years of the life of Louis the Fifteenth, and +during the reign of Madame du Barry, that Ormond was at Paris. The court +of Versailles was at this time in all its splendour, if not in all its +glory. At the souper du roi, Ormond beheld, in all the magnificence of +dress and jewels, the nobility, wealth, fashion, and beauty of France. +Well might the brilliancy dazzle the eyes of a youth fresh from Ireland, +when it amazed even old ambassadors, accustomed to the ordinary grandeur +of courts. When he recovered from his first astonishment, when his +eyes were a little better used to the light, and he looked round and +considered all these magnificently decorated personages, assembled for +the purpose of standing at a certain distance to see one man eat his +supper, it did appear to him an extraordinary spectacle; and the very +great solemnity and devotion of the assistants, so unsuited to the +French countenance, inclined him to smile. It was well for him, however, +that he kept his Irish risible muscles in order, and that no courtier +could guess his thoughts--a smile would have lost him his reputation. +Nothing in the world appeared to Frenchmen, formerly, of more importance +than their court etiquette, though there were some who began about this +time to suspect that the court order of things might not be co-existent +with the order of nature--though there were some philosophers and +statesmen who began to be aware, that the daily routine of the +courtier’s etiquette was not as necessary as the motions of the sun, +moon, and planets. Nor could it have been possible to convince half at +least of the crowd, who assisted at the king’s supper this night, that +all the French national eagerness about the health, the looks, the +words, of _le roi_, all the attachment, _le dévouement_, professed +habitually--perhaps felt habitually--for the reigning monarch, whoever +or whatever he might be, by whatever name--notre bon roi, or simply +notre roi de France--should in a few years pass away, and be no more +seen. + +Ormond had no concern with the affairs of the nation, nor with +the future fate of any thing he beheld: he was only a spectator, a +foreigner; and his business was, according to Mademoiselle’s maxim, to +enjoy to-day and to reflect to-morrow. His enjoyment of this day was +complete: he not only admired, but was admired. In the vast crowd he was +distinguished: some nobleman of note asked who he was--another observed +_l’air noble_--another exclaimed, “_ Le bel Anglois_!” and his fortune +was made at Paris; especially as a friend of Madame du Barry’s asked +where he bought his embroidery. + +He went afterwards, at least in Connal’s society, by the name of “_Le +bel Anglois_.” Half in a tone of raillery, yet with a look that showed +she felt it to be just, Madame de Connal first adopted the appellation, +and then changed the term to “_mon bel Irlandois_.” Invitations upon +invitations poured upon Ormond--all were eager to have him at their +parties--he was every where--attending Madame de Connal--and she, how +proud to be attended by Ormond! He dreaded lest his principles should +not withstand the strong temptation. He could not leave her, but he +determined to see her only in crowds; accordingly, he avoided every +select party: l’amie intime could never for the first three weeks get +him to one _petit comité_, though Madame de Connal assured him that +her friend’s _petit soupers_ “were charming, worth all the crowded +assemblies in Paris.” Still he pursued his plan, and sought for safety +in a course of dissipation. + +“I give you joy,” said Connal to him one day, “you are fairly launched! +you are no distressed vessel to be _taken in tow_, nor a petty bark +to sail in any man’s _wake_. You have a gale, and are likely to have a +triumph of your own.” Connal was, upon all occasions, careful to impress +upon Ormond’s mind, that he left him wholly to himself, for he was +aware, that in former days, he had offended his independent spirit by +airs of protection. He managed better now--he never even invited him to +play, though it was his main object to draw him to his faro-table. He +made use of some of his friends or confederates, who played for him: +Connal occasionally coming to the table as an unconcerned spectator. +Ormond played with so much freedom, and seemed to have so gentlemanlike +an indifference whether he lost or won, that he was considered as an +easy dupe. Time only was necessary, M. de Connal thought, to lead him +on gradually and without alarm, to let him warm to the passion for play. +Meanwhile Madame de Connal felt as fully persuaded that Ormond’s passion +for her would increase. It was her object to _fix_ him at Paris; but she +should be content, perfectly happy with his friendship, his society, his +sentiments: her own _sentiment_ for him, as she confessed to Madame +de Clairville, was absolutely invincible; but it should never lead her +beyond the bounds of virtue. It was involuntary, but it should never be +a crime. + +Madame de Clairville, who understood her business, and spoke with all +the fashionable _cant_ of sensibility, asked how it was possible that an +involuntary sentiment could ever be a crime? + +As certainly as the novice among a band of sharpers is taught, by the +technical language of the gang, to conquer his horror of crime, so +certainly does the _cant of sentiment_ operate upon the female novice, +and vanquish her fear of shame and moral horror of vice. + +The allusion is coarse--so much the better: strength, not elegance, is +necessary on some occasions to make an impression. The truth will strike +the good sense and good feelings of our countrywomen, and unadorned, +they will prefer it to German or French sophistry. By such sophistry, +however, was Dora insensibly led on. + +But Ormond did not yet advance in learning the language of sentiment--he +was amusing himself in the world--and Dora imagined that the dissipation +in which he lived prevented him from having time to think of his +passion: she began to hate the dissipation. + +Connal one day, when Dora was present, observed that Ormond seemed to be +quite in his natural element in this sea of pleasure. + +“Who would have thought it?” said Dora: “I thought Mr. Ormond’s taste +was more for domestic happiness and retirement.” + +“Retirement at Paris!” said Ormond. + +“Domestic happiness at Paris!” said Connal. + +Madame de Connal sighed--No, it was Dora that sighed. + +“Where do you go to-night?” said her husband. + +“Nowhere--I shall stay at home. And you?” said she, looking up at Harry +Ormond. + +“To Madame de la Tour’s.” + +“That’s the affair of half an hour--only to appear--” + +“Afterwards to the opera,” said Ormond. + +“And after the opera--can’t you sup here?” said Madame de Connal. + +“With the utmost pleasure--but that I am engaged to Madame de la Brie’s +ball.” + +“That’s true,” cried Madame de Connal, starting up--“I had forgot it--so +am I this fortnight--I may as well go to the opera, too, and I can carry +you to Madame de la Tour’s--I owe her a five minutes’ sitting--though +she is un peu precieuse. And what can you find in that little cold +Madame de la Brie--do you like ice?” + +“He like to break de ice, I suppose,” said Mademoiselle. “Ma foi, you +must then take a hatchet there!” + +“No occasion; I had rather slide upon the ice than break it. My business +at Paris is merely, you know, to amuse myself,” said he, looking at +Connal--“Glissez, mortels, n’appuyez pas.” + +“But if de ice should melt of itself,” said Mademoiselle, “what would +you do den? What would become of him, den, do you think, my dear niece?” + +It was a case which she did not like to consider--Dora blushed--no +creature was so blind as Mademoiselle, with all her boasted quickness +and penetration. + +From this time forward no more was heard of Madame de Connal’s taste for +domestic life and retirement--she seemed quite convinced, either by her +husband, or by Mr. Ormond, or both, that no such thing was practicable +at Paris. She had always liked le grand monde--she liked it better now +than ever, when she found Ormond in every crowded assembly, every +place of public amusement--a continual round of breakfasts, dinners, +balls--court balls--bal masqué--bal de l’opera--plays--grand +entertainments--petits soupers--fêtes at Versailles--pleasure in every +possible form and variety of luxury and extravagance succeeded day +after day, and night after night--and Ormond, le bel Irlandois, once +in fashion, was every where, and every where admired; flattered by the +women, who wished to draw him in to be their partners at play--still +more flattered by those who wished to engage him as a lover--most of all +flattered by Dora. He felt his danger. Improved in coquetry by Parisian +practice and power, Dora tried her utmost skill--she played off with +great dexterity her various admirers to excite his jealousy: the Marquis +de Beaulieu, the witty marquis, and the Count de Belle Chasse, the +irresistible count, were dangerous rivals. She succeeded in exciting +Ormond’s jealousy; but in his noble mind there were strong opposing +principles to withstand his selfish gratification. It was surprising +with what politeness to each other, with how little love, all the +suitors carried on this game of gallantry and competition of vanity. + +Till Ormond appeared, it had been the general opinion that before the +end of the winter or the spring, the Count de Belle Chasse would be +triumphant. Why Ormond did not enter the lists, when there appeared +to all the judges such a chance of his winning the prize, seemed +incomprehensible to the spectators, and still more to the rival +candidates. Some settled it with the exclamation “Inouï!” Others +pronounced that it was English bizarrerie. Every thing seemed to smooth +the slippery path of temptation--the indifference of her husband--the +imprudence of her aunt, and the sophistry of Madame de Clairville--the +general customs of French society--the peculiar profligacy of the +society into which he happened to be thrown--the opinion which he +saw prevailed, that if he withdrew from the competition a rival +would immediately profit by his forbearance, conspired to weaken his +resolution. + +Many accidental circumstances concurred to increase the danger. At these +balls, to which he went originally to avoid Dora in smaller parties, +Madame de Connal, though she constantly appeared, seldom danced. She did +not dance well enough to bear comparison with French dancers; Ormond was +in the same situation. The dancing which was very well in England would +not do in Paris--no late lessons could, by any art, bring them to an +equality with French nature. + +“Ah, il ne danse pas!--He dances like an Englishman.” At the first ball +this comforted the suitors, and most the Comte de Belle Chasse; but this +very circumstance drew Ormond and Dora closer together--she pretended +headaches, and languor, and lassitude, and, in short, sat still. + +But it was not to be expected that the Comte de Belle Chasse could give +up dancing: the Comte de Belle Chasse danced like le dieu de la danse, +another Vestris; he danced every night, and Ormond sat and talked to +Dora, for it was his duty to attend Madame when the little Abbé was out +of the way. + +The spring was now appearing, and the spring is delightful in Paris, and +the _promenades_ in the Champs Elysées, and in the Bois de Boulogne, and +the promenade in Long-Champ, commenced. Riding was just coming into high +fashion with the French ladies; and, instead of riding in men’s clothes, +and like a man, it was now the ambition de monter à cheval à l’Angloise: +to ride on a side-saddle and in an English riding habit was now the +ambition. Now Dora, though she could not dance as well, could ride +better than any French woman; and she was ambitious to show herself and +her horsemanship in the Bois de Boulogne: but she had no horse that she +liked. Le Comte de Belle Chasse offered to get one broke for her at the +king’s riding-house--this she refused: but fortunately Ormond, as was +the custom with the English at that time, had, after his arrival, some +English horses brought over to him at Paris. Among these was the horse +he had once broke for Dora. + +For this an English side-saddle was procured--she was properly equipped +and mounted. + +And the two friends, le bel Irlandois, as they persisted in calling +Ormond, and la belle Irlandoise, and their horses, and their +horsemanship, were the admiration of the promenade. + +The Comte de Belle Chasse sent to London for an English horse at any +price. He was out of humour--and Ormond in the finest humour imaginable. +Dora was grateful; her horse was a beautiful, gentle-spirited creature: +it was called Harry--it was frequently patted and caressed, and told how +much it was valued and loved. + +Ormond was now in great danger, because he felt himself secure that he +was only a friend--_l’ami de la maison_. + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + +There was a picture of Dagote’s which was at this moment an object of +fashionable curiosity in Paris. It was a representation of one of the +many charitable actions of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, “then +Dauphiness--at that time full of life, and splendour, and joy, adorning +and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in;” and yet +diffusing life, and hope, and joy, in that lower sphere, to which the +radiance of the great and happy seldom reaches. The Dauphiness was +at that time the pride of France, and the darling of Paris; not +only worshipped by the court, but loved by the people. While she was +Dauphiness, and during the commencement of her reign, every thing, even +disastrous accidents, and the rigour of the season, served to give her +fresh opportunity of winning the affection and exciting the enthusiasm +of the people. When, during the festivities on her marriage, hundreds +were crushed to death by the fall of a temporary building, the +sensibility of the Dauphiness, the eagerness with which she sent all +her money to the lieutenant de police for the families of those who had +perished, conciliated the people, and turned even the evil presage to +good. Again, during a severe frost, her munificence to the suffering +poor excited such gratitude, that the people erected to her honour a +vast pyramid of snow--Frail memorial!--“These marks of respect were +almost as transitory as the snowy pyramid.” + +Ormond went with Mademoiselle O’Faley one morning to see the picture +of the Dauphiness; and he had now an opportunity of seeing a display of +French sensibility, that eagerness to feel and to excite _a sensation_; +that desire to _produce an effect_, to have a scene; that half real, +half theatric enthusiasm, by which the French character is peculiarly +distinguished from the English. He was perfectly astonished by the +quantity of exclamations he heard at the sight of this picture; the +lifting up of hands and eyes, the transports, the ecstasies, the +tears--the actual tears that he saw streaming in despite of rouge. It +was real! and it was not real feeling! Of one thing he was clear--that +this superfluity of feeling or exaggeration of expression completely +silenced him, and made him cold indeed: like one unskilled or dumb he +seemed to stand. + +“But are you of marble?” cried Mademoiselle--“where is your sensibilité +then?” + +“I hope it is safe at the bottom of my heart,” said Ormond; “but when +it is called for, I cannot always find it--especially on these public +occasions.” + +“Ah! but what good all the sensibilité in the world do at the bottom of +your heart, where nobody see it? It is on these public occasions too, +you must always contrive and find it quick at Paris, or after all you +will seem but an Englishman.” + +“I must be content to seem and to be what I am,” said Ormond, in a tone +of playful but determined resignation. + +“Bon!” said a voice near him. Mademoiselle went off in impatience to +find some better auditor--she did not hear the “_Bon_.” + +Ormond turned, and saw near him a gentleman, whom he had often met at +some of the first houses in Paris--the Abbé Morellet, then respected +as the most _reasonable_ of all the wits of France, and who has since, +through all the trying scenes of the revolution, through the varieties +of unprincipled change, preserved unaltered the integrity and frankness +of his character; retaining even to his eighty-seventh year all his +characteristic warmth of heart and clearness of understanding--_le doyen +de la littérature Françoise_--the love, respect, and admiration, of +every honest heart in France. May he live to receive among all the other +tributes, which his countrymen pay publicly and privately to his merit, +this record of the impression his kindness left on grateful English +hearts! + +Our young hero had often desired to be acquainted with the Abbé; but the +Abbé had really hitherto passed him over as a mere young man of fashion, +a mere Milord Anglois, one of the ephemeral race, who appear in Parisian +society, vanish, and leave no trace behind. But now he did him the +honour to enter into conversation with him. The Abbé peculiarly disliked +all affectation of sentiment and exaggeration: they were revolting to +his good sense, good taste, and feeling. Ormond won directly his good +opinion and good-will, by having insisted upon it to Mademoiselle, that +he would not for the sake of fashion or effect pretend to feel more than +he really did. + +“Bah!” said the Abbé, “hear all those women now and all those men--they +do not know what they are saying--they make me sick. And, besides, I +am afraid these flattering courtiers will do no good to our young +Dauphiness, on whom so much of the future happiness or misery of France +will depend. Her heart is excellent, and they tell me she announces a +strong character; but what head of a young beauty and a young Queen will +be able to withstand perpetual flattery? They will lead her wrong, and +then will be the first to desert her--trust me, I know Paris. All this +might change as quickly as the turn of a weathercock; but I will not +trouble you with forebodings perhaps never to be realized. You see +Paris, Monsieur, at a fortunate time,” continued he; “society is now +more agreeable, has more freedom, more life and variety, than at any +other period that I can remember.” + +Ormond replied by a just compliment to the men of letters, who at this +period added so much to the brilliancy and pleasure of Parisian society. + +“But you have seen nothing of our men of literature, have you?” said the +Abbé. + +“Much less than I wish. I meet them frequently in society, but as, +unluckily, I have no pretensions to their notice, I can only catch a +little of their conversation, when I am fortunate enough to be near +them.” + +“Yes,” said the Abbé, with his peculiar look and tone of good-natured +irony, “between the pretty things you are saying and hearing from--Fear +nothing, I am not going to name any _one_, but--every pretty woman +in company. I grant you it must be difficult to hear reason in such a +situation--as difficult almost as in the midst of the din of all the +passions at the faro-table. I observe, however, that you play with +astonishing coolness--there is something still--wanting. Excuse me--but +you interest me, monsieur; the determination not to play at all-- + +“Beyond a certain sum I have resolved never to play,” said Ormond. + +“Ah! but the appetite grows--l’appetit vient en mangeant--the danger is +in acquiring the taste--excuse me if I speak too freely.” + +“Not at all--you cannot oblige me more. But there is no danger of my +acquiring a taste for play, because I am determined to lose.” + +“Bon!” said the Abbé; “that is the most singular determination I ever +heard: explain that to me, then, Monsieur.” + +“I have determined to lose a certain sum--suppose five hundred guineas. +I have won and lost backwards and forwards, and have been longer about +it than you would conceive to be probable; but it is not lost yet. The +moment it is, I shall stop short. By this means I have acquired all the +advantages of yielding to the fashionable madness, without risking my +future happiness.” + +The Abbé was pleased with the idea, and with the frankness and firmness +of our young hero. + +“Really, Monsieur,” said he, “you must have a strong head--you, le bel +Irlandois--to have prevented it from being turned with all the flattery +you have received in Paris. There is nothing which gets into the +head--worse still, into the heart,--so soon, so dangerously, as the +flattery of pretty women. And yet I declare you seem wonderfully sober, +considering.” + +“Ne jurez pas,” said Ormond; “but at least in one respect I have not +quite lost my senses; I know the value and feel the want of a safe, good +guide in Paris: if I dared to ask such a favour, I should, since he has +expressed some interest for me, beg to be permitted to cultivate the +acquaintance of M. l’Abbé Morellet.” + +“Ah ça--now my head will turn, for no head can stand the dose of +flattery that happens to suit the taste. I am particularly flattered by +the idea of being a safe, good friend; and frankly, if I can be of any +service to you, I will. Is there any thing I can do for you?” + +Ormond thanked him, and told him that it was his great ambition to +become acquainted with the celebrated men of literature in Paris--he +said he should feel extremely obliged if M. Morellet would take occasion +to introduce him to any of them they might meet in society. + +“We must do better for you,” said the abbé--“we must show you our men of +letters.” He concluded by begging Ormond to name a day when he could do +him the honour to breakfast with him. “I will promise you Marmontel, +at least; for he is just going to be married to my niece, and of him we +shall be secure: as to the rest I will promise nothing, but do as much +as I can.” + +The men of letters about this period in Paris, as the Abbé explained to +Ormond, began to feel their own power and consequence, and had assumed a +tone of independence, as yet tempered with due respect for rank. Many +of them lived or were connected with men of rank, by places about the +court, by secretaryships and pensions, obtained through court influence. +Some were attached by early friendship to certain great families; had +apartments to themselves in their hotels, where they received what +friends they pleased; and, in short, lived as if they were at home. +Their company was much sought for by the great; and they enjoyed good +houses, good tables, carriages, all the conveniences of life, and all +the luxuries of the rich, without the trouble of an establishment. Their +mornings were their own, usually employed in study; and the rest of the +day they gave themselves to society. The most agreeable period of French +literary society was, perhaps, while this state of things lasted. + +The Abbé Morellet’s breakfast was very agreeable; and Ormond saw at his +house what had been promised him, many of the literary men at +Paris. Voltaire was not then in France; and Rousseau, who was always +quarrelling with somebody, and generally with every body, could not be +prevailed upon to go to this breakfast. Ormond was assured that he lost +nothing by not seeing him, or by not hearing his conversation, for that +it was by no means equal to his writings; his temper was so susceptible +and wayward, that he was not fit for society--neither capable of +enjoying, nor of adding to its pleasures. Ormond heard, perhaps, more +of Rousseau and Voltaire, and learnt more of their characters, by the +anecdotes that were related, and the bon-mots that were repeated, than +he could have done if they had been present. There was great variety of +different characters and talents at this breakfast; and the Abbé amused +himself by making his young friend guess who the people were, before he +told their names. It was happy for Ormond that he was acquainted with +some of their writings (this he owed to Lady Annaly’s well-chosen +present of French books). He was fortunate in his first +guess--Marivaux’s conversation was so like the style of his writings, so +full of hair-breadth distinctions, subtle exceptions, and metaphysical +refinement and digressions, that Ormond soon guessed him, and was +applauded for his quickness. Marmontel he discovered, by his being the +only man in the room who had not mentioned to him any of “Les Contes +Moraux.” But there was one person who set all his skill at defiance: he +pronounced that he was no author--that he was l’ami de la maison: he was +so indeed wherever he went--but he was both a man of literature, and a +man of deep science--no less a person than the great D’Alembert. Ormond +thought D’Alembert and Marmontel were the two most agreeable men in +company. D’Alembert was simple, open-hearted, unpresuming, and cheerful +in society. Far from being subject to that absence of mind with which +profound mathematicians are sometimes reproached, D’Alembert was present +to every thing that was going forward--every trifle he enjoyed with the +zest of youth, and the playfulness of childhood. Ormond confessed that +he should never have guessed that he was a great mathematician and +profound calculator. + +Marmontel was distinguished for combining in his conversation, as in his +character, two qualities for which there are no precise English words, +_naïveté_ and _finesse_. Whoever is acquainted with Marmontel’s writings +must have a perfect knowledge of what is meant by both. + +It was fortunate for our young hero that Marmontel was, at this time, no +longer the dissipated man he had been during too great a period of his +life. He had now returned to his early tastes for simple pleasures and +domestic virtues--had formed that attachment which afterwards made the +happiness of his life: he was just going to be married to the amiable +Mdlle. Montigny, a niece of the Abbé Morellet. She and her excellent +mother lived with him; and Ormond was most agreeably surprised and +touched at the unexpected sight of an amiable, united, happy family, +when he had expected only a meeting of literati. + +The sight of this domestic happiness reminded him of the +Annalys--brought the image of Florence to his mind. If she had been but +sincere, how he should have preferred her to all he had seen! + +It came upon him just at the right moment. It contrasted with all the +dissipation he had seen, and it struck him the more strongly, because +it could not possibly have been prepared as a moral lesson to make an +impression. He saw the real, natural course of things--he heard in a +few hours the result of the experience of a man of great vivacity, great +talents, who had led a life of pleasure, and who had had opportunities +of seeing and feeling all that it could possibly afford, at the period +of the greatest luxury and dissipation ever known in France. No evidence +could be stronger than Marmontel’s in favour of virtue and of domestic +life, nor could any one express it with more grace and persuasive +eloquence. + +It did Ormond infinite good. He required such a lesson at this juncture, +and he was capable of taking it--it recalled him to his better self. + +The good Abbé seemed to see something of what in Ormond’s mind, and +became still more interested about him. + +“Ah, ça,” said he to Marmontel, as soon as Ormond was gone, “that young +man is worth something: I thought he was only _le bel Irlandois_, but +I find he is much more. We must do what we can for him, and not let +him leave Paris, as so many do, having seen only the worst part of our +society.” + +Marmontel, who had also been pleased with him, was willing, he said, to +do any thing in his power; but he could scarcely hope that they had the +means of withdrawing from the double attraction of the faro-table and +coquetry, a young man of that age and figure. + +“Fear nothing, or rather hope every thing,” said the Abbé: “his head and +his heart are more in our favour, trust me, than his age and his figure +are against us. To begin, my good Marmontel, did not you see how much he +was struck and _edified_ by your reformation?” + +“Ah! if there was another Mdlle. de Montigny for him, I should fear +nothing, or rather hope every thing,” said Marmontel “but where shall he +find such another in all Paris?” + +“In his own country, perhaps, all in good time,” said the Abbé. + +“In his own country?--True,” cried Marmontel, “now you recall it to my +mind, how eager he grew in disputing with Marivaux upon the distinction +between _aimable_ and _amiable_. His description of an _amiable woman_, +according to the English taste, was, I recollect, made _con amore_; +and there was a sigh at the close which came from the heart, and which +showed the heart was in England or Ireland.” + +“Wherever his heart is, _c’est bien placé_,” said the Abbé. “I like +him--we must get him into good company--he is worthy to be acquainted +with your amiable and _aimable_ Madame de Beauveau and Madame de Seran.” + +“True,” said Marmontel; “and for the honour of Paris, we must convince +him that he has taken up false notions, and that there is such a thing +as conjugal fidelity and domestic happiness here.” + +“Bon. That is peculiarly incumbent on the author of _Les Contes +Moraux_,” said the Abbé. + +It happened, fortunately for our hero, that Madame de Connal was, about +this time, engaged to pass a fortnight at the country house of Madame +de Clairville. During her absence, the good Abbé had time to put in +execution all his benevolent intentions, and introduced his young friend +to some of the really good company of Paris. He pointed out to him at +Madame Geoffrin’s, Madame de Tencin’s, Madame du Detfand’s, and Madame +Trudaine’s, the difference between the society at the house of a rich +farmer general--or at the house of one connected with the court, and +with people in place and political power--and the society of mixed rank +and literature. The mere passing pictures of these things, to one who +was not to live in Paris, might not, perhaps, except as a matter of +curiosity, be of much value; but his judicious friend led Ormond from +these to make comparisons and deductions which were of use to him all +his life afterwards. + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + +One morning when Ormond awoke, the first thing he heard was, that a +_person_ from Ireland was below, who was very impatient to see him. It +was Patrickson, Sir Ulick O’Shane’s confidential man of business. + +“What news from Castle Hermitage?” cried Ormond, starting up in his bed, +surprised at the sight of Patrickson. + +“The best that can be--never saw Sir Ulick in such heart--he has a share +of the loan, and--” + +“And what news of the Annalys?” interrupted Ormond. + +“I know nothing about them at all, sir,” said Patrickson, who was a +methodical man of business, and whose head was always intent upon what +he called the main chance. “I have been in Dublin, and heard no country +news.” + +“But have you no letter for me? and what brings you over so suddenly to +Paris?” + +“I have a letter for you somewhere here, sir--only I have so many ‘tis +hard to find,” said Patrickson, looking carefully over a parcel of +letters in his pocket-book, but with such a drawling slowness of manner +as put Ormond quite out of patience. Patrickson laid the letters on the +bed one by one. “That’s not it--and that’s not it; that’s for +Monsieur un tel, marchand, rue ----; that packet’s from the Hamburgh +merchants--What brings me over?--Why, sir, I have business enough, +Heaven knows!” + +Patrickson was employed not only by Sir Ulick O’Shane, but by many +Dublin merchants and bankers, to settle business for them with different +houses on the continent. Ormond, without listening to the various +digressions he made concerning the persons of mercantile consequence to +whom the letters were addressed, or from whom they were answers, pounced +upon the letter in Sir Ulick’s handwriting directed to himself, and tore +it open eagerly, to see if there was any news of the Annalys. None--they +were in Devonshire. The letter was merely a few lines on business--Sir +Ulick had now the opportunity he had foreseen of laying out Ormond’s +money in the loan most advantageously for him; but there had been an +omission in the drawing up of his power of attorney, which had been done +in such a hurry on Ormond’s leaving home. It gave power only to sell out +of the Three per Cents.; whereas much of Ormond’s money was in the Four +per Cents. Another power, Patrickson said, was necessary, and he had +brought one for him to sign. Patrickson in his slow manner descanted +upon the folly of signing papers in a hurry, just when people were +getting into carriages, which was always the way with young gentlemen, +he said. He took care that Ormond should do nothing in a hurry now; for +he put on his spectacles, and read the power, sparing him not a syllable +of the law forms and repetitions. Ormond wrote a few kind lines to Sir +Ulick, and earnestly besought him to find out something more about +the Annalys. If Miss Annaly were married, it must have appeared in the +papers. What delayed the marriage? Was Colonel Albemarle dismissed or +accepted?--Where was he?--Ormond said he would be content if Sir Ulick +could obtain an answer to that single plain question. + +All the time Ormond was writing, Patrickson never stirred his forefinger +from the spot where the signature was to be written at the bottom of the +power of attorney. + +“Pray,” said Ormond, looking up from the paper he going to sign, “pray, +Patrickson, are you really and truly an Irishman?” + +“By the father’s side, I apprehend, sir--but my mother was English. +Stay, sir, if you please--I must witness it.” + +“Witness away,” said Ormond; and after having signed this paper, +empowering Sir Ulick to sell 30,000_l_. out of the Four per cents., +Ormond lay down, and wishing him a good journey, settled himself to +sleep; while Patrickson, packing up his papers, deliberately said, “He +hoped to be in London _in short_; but that he should go by Havre de +Grace, and that he should be happy to execute any commands for Mr. +Ormond there or in Dublin.” More he would have said, but finding Ormond +by this time past reply, he left the room on tiptoe. The next morning +Madame de Connal returned from the country, and sent Ormond word that +she should expect him at her assembly that night. + +Every body complimented Madame de Connal upon the improvement which the +country air had made in her beauty--even her husband was struck with it, +and paid her his compliments on the occasion; but she stood conversing +so long with Ormond, that the faro-players grew impatient: she led him +to the table, but evidently had little interest herself in the game. He +played at first with more than his usual success, but late at night his +fortune suddenly changed; he lost--lost--till at last he stopped, and +rising from table, said he had no more money, and he could play no +longer. Connal, who was not one of the players, but merely looking on, +offered to lend him any sum he pleased. “Here’s a rouleau--here are two +rouleaus--what will you have?” said Connal. + +Ormond declined playing any more: he said that he had lost the sum he +had resolved to lose, and there he would stop. Connal did not urge him, +but laughing said, that a resolution to _lose_ at play was the most +extraordinary he had ever heard. + +“And yet you see I have kept it,” said Ormond. + +“Then I hope you will next make a resolution to win,” said Connal, “and +no doubt you will keep that as well--I prophesy that you will; and you +will give fortune fair play to-morrow night.” Ormond simply repeated +that he should play no more. Madame de Connal soon afterwards rose from +the table, and went to talk to Mr. Ormond. She said she was concerned +for his loss at play this night. He answered, as he felt, that it was +a matter of no consequence to him--that he had done exactly what he had +determined; that in the course of the whole time he had been losing this +money he had had a great deal of amusement in society, had seen a vast +deal of human nature and manners, which he could not otherwise have +seen, and that he thought his money exceedingly well employed. + +“But you shall not lose your money,” said Dora; “when next you play it +shall be on my account as well as your own--you know this is not only a +compliment, but a solid advantage. The bank has certain advantages--and +it is fair that you should share them. I must explain to you,” continued +Madame de Connal--“they are all busy about their own affairs, and we may +speak in English at our ease--I must explain to you, that a good portion +of my fortune has been settled, so as to be at my own disposal--my +aunt, you know, has also a good fortune--we are partners, and put a +considerable sum into the faro bank. We find it answers well. You see +how handsomely we live. M. de Connal has his own share. We have nothing +to do with _that_. If you would take my advice,” continued she, speaking +in a very persuasive tone, “instead of forswearing play, as you seem +inclined to do at the first reverse of fortune, you would join forces +with us; you cannot imagine that _I_ would advise you to any thing which +I was not persuaded would be advantageous to you--you little know how +much I am interested.” She checked herself, blushed, hesitated, and +hurried on--“you have no ties in Ireland--you seem to like Paris--where +can you spend your time more agreeably?” + +“More agreeably--nowhere upon earth!” cried Ormond. Her manner, tone, +and look, at this moment were so flattering, so bewitching, that he was +scarcely master of himself. They went to the boudoir--the company had +risen from the faro-table, and, one after another, had most of them +departed. Connal was gone--only a few remained in a distant apartment, +listening to some music. It was late. Ormond had never till this evening +stayed later than the generality of the company, but he had now +an excuse to himself, something that he had long wished to have an +opportunity of saying to Dora, when she should be quite alone; it was a +word of advice about le Comte de Belle Chasse--her intimacy with him +was beginning to be talked of. She had been invited to a bal paré at the +Spanish ambassador’s for the ensuing night--but she had more inclination +to go to a bal masqué, as Ormond had heard her declare. Now certain +persons had whispered that it was to meet the Comte de Belle Chasse that +she intended to go to this ball; and Ormond feared that such whispers +might be injurious to her reputation. It was difficult to him to speak, +because the counsels of the friend might be mistaken for the jealous +fears of a lover. With some embarrassment he delicately, timidly, hinted +his apprehensions. + +Dora, though naturally of a temper apt to take alarm at the touch of +blame, and offence at the tone of advice, now in the most graceful +manner thanked her friend for his counsel; said she was flattered, +gratified, by the interest it showed in her happiness--and she +immediately yielded her will, her _fantaisie_, to his better judgment. +This compliance, and the look with which it was accompanied, convinced +him of the absolute power he possessed over her heart. He was enchanted +with Dora--she never looked so beautiful; never before, not even in the +first days of his early youth, had he felt her beauty so attractive. + +“Dear Madame de Connal, dear Dora!” he exclaimed. + +“Call me Dora,” said she: “I wish ever to be Dora to Harry Ormond. Oh! +Harry, my first, my best, my only friend, I have enjoyed but little real +happiness since we parted.” + +Tears filled her fine eyes--no longer knowing where he was, Harry Ormond +found himself at her feet. But while he held and kissed in transport the +beautiful hand, which was but feebly withdrawn, he seemed to be suddenly +shocked by the sight of one of the rings on her finger. + +“My wedding-ring,” said Dora, with a sigh. “Unfortunate marriage!” + +That was not the ring on which Ormond’s eyes were fixed. + +“Dora, whose gray hair is this?” + +“My father’s,” said Dora, in a tremulous voice. + +“Your father!” cried Ormond, starting up. The full recollection of that +fond father, that generous benefactor, that confiding friend, rushed +upon his heart. + +“And is this the return I make!--Oh, if he could see us at this +instant!” + +“And if he could,” cried Dora, “oh! how he would admire and love you, +Ormond, and how he would--” + +Her voice failed, and with a sudden motion she hid her face with both +her hands. + +“He would see you, Dora, without a guide, protector, or friend; +surrounded with admirers, among profligate men, and women still more +profligate, yet he would see that you have preserved a reputation of +which your father would be proud.” + +“My father! oh, my poor father!” cried Dora: “Oh! generous, dear, ever +generous Ormond!” + +Bursting into tears--alternate passions seizing her--at one moment +the thoughts of her father, the next of her lover, possessed her +imagination. + +At this instant the noise of some one approaching recalled them both to +their senses. They were found in earnest conversation about a party of +pleasure that was to be arranged for the next day. Madame de Connal made +Ormond promise that he would come the next morning, and settle every +thing with M. de Connal for their intended expedition into the country. + +The next day, as Ormond was returning to Madame de Connal’s, with the +firm intention of adhering to the honourable line of conduct he had +traced out for himself, just as he was crossing the Pont Neuf, some one +ran full against him. Surprised at what happens so seldom in the +streets of Paris, where all meet, pass, or cross, in crowds with magical +celerity and address, he looked back, and at the same instant the person +who had passed looked back also. An apparition in broad daylight could +not have surprised Ormond more than the sight of this person. “Could it +be--could it possibly be Moriarty Carroll, on the Pont Neuf in Paris?” + +“By the blessing, then, it’s the man himself--Master Harry!--though I +didn’t know him through the French disguise. Oh! master, then, I’ve been +tried and cast, and all but hanged--sentenced to Botany--transported +any way--for a robbery I didn’t commit--since I saw you last. But your +honour’s uneasy, and it’s not proper, I know, to be stopping a jantleman +in the street; but I have a word to say that will bear no delay, not a +minute.” + +Ormond’s surprise and curiosity increased--he desired Moriarty to follow +him. + +“And now, Moriarty, what is it you have to say?” + +“It is a long story, then, please your honour. I was transported to +Botany, though innocent. But first and foremost for what consarns your +honour first.” + +“First,” said Ormond, “if you were transported, how came you here?” + +“Because I was not transported, plase your honour--only sentenced--for I +escaped from Kilmainham, where I was sent to be put on board the tender; +but I got on board of an American ship, by the help of a friend--and +this ship being knocked against the rocks, I came safe ashore in this +country on one of the _sticks_ of the vessel: so when I knowed it was +France I was in, and recollected Miss Dora that was married in Paris, I +thought if I could just make my way any hows to Paris, she’d befriend me +in case of need. + +“But, dear master,” said Moriarty, interrupting, “it’s a folly to +talk--I’ll not tell you a word more of myself till you hear the news I +have for you. The worst news I have to tell you is, there is great fear +of the breaking of Sir Ulick’s bank!” + +“The breaking of Sir Ulick’s bank? I heard from him the day before +yesterday.” + +“May be you did; but the captain of the American ship in which I came +was complaining of his having been kept two hours at that bank, where +they were paying large sums in small notes, and where there was the +greatest run upon the house that ever was seen.” + +Ormond instantly saw his danger--he recollected the power of attorney +he had signed two days before. But Patrickson was to go by Havre de +Grace--that would delay him. It was possible that Ormond by setting out +instantly might get to London time enough to save his property. He went +directly and ordered post horses. He had no debts in Paris, nothing to +pay, but for his stables and lodging. He had a faithful servant, whom he +could leave behind, to make all necessary arrangements. + +“You are right, jewel, to be in a hurry,” said Carroll. “But sure you +won’t leave poor Moriarty behind ye here in distress, when he has no +friend in the wide world but yourself?” + +“Tell me, in the first place, Moriarty, are you innocent?” + +“Upon my conscience, master, I am perfectly innocent as the child +unborn, both of the murder and the robbery. If your honour will give me +leave, I’ll tell you the whole story.” + +“That will be a long affair, Moriarty, _if you talk out of the face_, +as you used to do. I will, however, find an opportunity to hear it all. +But, in the meantime, stay where you are till I return.” + +Ormond went instantly to Connal’s, to inform him of what had happened. +His astonishment was obviously mixed with disappointment. But to do him +justice, besides the interest which he really had in the preservation of +the fortune, he felt some personal regard for Ormond himself. + +“What shall we do without you?” said he. “I assure you, Madame and +I have never been so happy together since the first month after our +marriage as we have been since you came to Paris.” + +Connal was somewhat consoled by hearing Ormond say, that if he were time +enough in London to save his fortune, he proposed returning immediately +to Paris, intending to make the tour of Switzerland and Italy. + +Connal had no doubt that they should yet be able to fix him at Paris. + +Madame de Connal and Mademoiselle were out--Connal did not know where +they were gone. Ormond was glad to tear himself away with as few adieus +as possible. He got into his travelling carriage, put his servant on the +box, and took Moriarty with him in the carriage, that he might relate +his history at leisure. + +“Plase your honour,” said Moriarty, “Mr. Marcus never missed any +opportunity of showing me ill-will. The supercargo of the ship that was +cast away, when you were with Sir Herbert Annaly, God rest his soul! +came down to the sea-side to look for some of the things that he had +lost: the day after he came, early in the morning, his horse, and +bridle, and saddle, and a surtout coat, was found in a lane, near the +place where we lived, and the supercargo was never heard any more of. +Suspicion fell upon many--the country rung with the noise that was made +about this murder--and at last I was taken up for it, because people had +seen me buy cattle at the fair, and the people would not believe it was +with money your honour sent me by the good parson--for the parson was +gone out of the country, and I had nobody to stand my friend; for Mr. +Marcus was on the grand jury, and the sheriff was his friend, and Sir +Ulick was in Dublin, at the bank. Howsomdever, after a long trial, which +lasted the whole day, a ‘cute lawyer on my side found out that there was +no proof that any body had been murdered, and that a man might lose his +horse, his saddle, and his bridle, and his big coat, without being kilt: +so that the judge ordered the jury to let me off for the murder. They +then tried me for the robbery; and sure enough that went again me: for a +pair of silver-mounted pistols, with the man’s name engraved upon them, +was found in my house. They knew the man’s name by the letters in the +big coat. The judge asked me what I had to say for myself: ‘My lard,’ +says I, ‘those pistols were brought into my house about a fortnight +ago, by a little boy, one little Tommy Dunshaughlin, who found them in a +punk-horn, at the edge of a bog-hole.’ + +“The jidge favoured me more than the jury--for he asked how old the boy +was, and whether I could produce him? The little fellow was brought +into court, and it was surprising how clear he told his story. The jidge +listened to the child, young as he was. But M’Crule was on the jury, and +said that he knew the child to be as cunning as any in Ireland, and that +he would not believe a word that came out of his mouth. So the short and +the long of it was, I was condemned to be transported. + +“It would have done you good, if you’d heard the cry in the court when +sentence was given, for I was loved in the country. Poor Peggy and +Sheelah!--But I’ll not be troubling your honour’s tender heart with our +parting. I was transmuted to Dublin, to be put on board the tender, and +lodged in Kilmainham, waiting for the ship that was to go to Botany. I +had not been long there, when another prisoner was brought to the same +room with me. He was a handsome-looking man, about thirty years of age, +of the most penetrating eye and determined countenance that I ever saw. +He appeared to be worn down with ill-health, and his limbs much swelled: +notwithstanding which, he had strong handcuffs on his wrists, and he +seemed to be guarded with uncommon care. He begged the turnkey to lay +him down upon the miserable iron bed that was in the cell; and he begged +him, for God’s sake, to let him have a jug of water by his bedside, and +to leave him to his fate. + +“I could not help pitying this poor cratur; I went to him, and offered +him any assistance in my power. He answered me shortly, ‘What are you +here for?’--I told him. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘whether you are guilty or +not, is your affair, not mine; but answer me at once--are you a _good +man_?--Can you go through with a thing?--and are you steel to the +back-bone?’--‘I am,’ said I. ‘Then,’ said he, ‘you are a lucky man--for +he that is talking to you is Michael Dunne, who knows how to make his +way out of any jail in Ireland.’ Saying this, he sprung with great +activity from the bed. ‘It is my cue,’ said he, ‘to be sick and weak, +whenever the turnkey comes in, to put him off his guard--for they have +all orders to watch me strictly; because as how, do you see, I broke out +of the jail of Trim; and when they catched me, they took me before his +honour the police magistrate, who did all he could to get out of me the +way which I made my escape.’ ‘Well,’ says the magistrate, ‘I’ll put you +in a place where you can’t get out--till you’re sent to ‘Botany.’ ‘Plase +your worship,’ says I, ‘if there’s no offence in saying it, there’s no +such place in Ireland.’--‘No such place as what?’ ‘No such place as will +hold Michael Dunne.’--‘What do you think of Kilmainbam?’ says he. ‘I +think it’s a fine jail--and it will be no asy matter to get out of +it--but it is not impossible.’--‘Well, Mr. Dunne,’ said the magistrate, +‘I have heard of your fame, and that you have secrets of your own for +getting out. Now, if you’ll tell me how you got out of the jail of Trim, +I’ll make your confinement at Kilmainham as asy as may be, so as to +keep you safe; and if you do not, you must be ironed, and I will have +sentinels from an English regiment, who shall be continually changed: so +that you can’t get any of them to help you.’--‘Plase your worship,’ said +Dunne, ‘that’s very hard usage; but I know as how that you are going +to build new jails all over Ireland, and that you’d be glad to know the +best way to make them secure. If your worship will promise me that if I +get out of Kilmainham, and if I tell you how I do it, then you’ll get me +a free pardon, I’ll try hard but what before three months are over I’ll +be a prisoner at large.’--‘That’s more than I can promise you,’ said the +magistrate; ‘but if you will disclose to me the best means of keeping +other people in, I will endeavour to keep you from Botany Bay.’--‘Now, +sir,’ says Dunne, ‘I know your worship to be a man of honour, and that +your own honour regards yourself, and not me; so that if I was ten times +as bad as I am, you’d keep your promise with me, as well as if I was the +best gentleman in Ireland. So that now, Mr. Moriarty,’ said Dunne, ‘do +you see, if I get out, I shall be safe; and if you get out along with +me, you have nothing to do but to go over to America. And if you are a +married man, and tired of your wife, you’ll get rid of her. If you are +not tired of her, and you have any substance, she may sell it and follow +you.’ + +“There was something, Master Harry, about the man that made me have +great confidence in him--and I was ready to follow his advice. Whenever +the turnkey was coming he was groaning and moaning on the bed. At other +times he made me keep bathing his wrists with cold water, so that in +three or four days they were not half the size they were at first. This +change he kept carefully from the jailor. I observed that he frequently +asked what day of the month it was, but that he never made any attempt +to speak to the sentinels; nor did he seem to make any preparation, +or to lay any scheme for getting out. I held my tongue, and waited +qui’tely. At last, he took out of his pocket a little flageolet, and +began to play upon it. He asked me if I could play: I said I could a +little, but very badly. ‘I don’t care how bad it is, if you can play at +all.’ He got off the bed where he was lying, and with the utmost ease +pulled his hands out of his handcuffs. Besides the swelling of his +wrists having gone down, he had some method of getting rid of his thumb +that I never could understand. Says I, ‘Mr. Dunne, the jailor will miss +the fetters,’--‘No,’ said he, ‘for I will put them on again;’ and so he +did, with great ease. ‘Now,’ said he, ‘it is time to begin our work.’ + +“He took off one of his shoes, and taking out the in-sole, he showed +me a hole, that was cut where the heel was, in which there was a little +small flat bottle, which he told me was the most precious thing in life. +And under the rest of the sole there were a number of saws, made of +watch spring, that lay quite flat and snug under his foot. The next time +the turnkey came in, he begged, for the love of God, to have a pipe and +some tobacco, which was accordingly granted to him. What the pipes and +tobacco were for, I could not then guess, but they were found to be +useful. He now made a paste of some of the bread of his allowance, with +which he made a cup round the bottom of one of the bars of the window; +into this cup he poured some of the contents of the little bottle, which +was, I believe, oil of vitriol: in a little time, this made a bad smell, +and it was then I found the use of the pipe and tobacco, for the smell +of the tobacco quite bothered the smell of the vitriol. When he thought +he had softened the iron bar sufficiently, he began to work away with +the saws, and he soon taught me how to use them; so that we kept working +on continually, no matter how little we did at a time; but as we were +constantly at it, what I thought never could be done was finished in +three or four days. The use of the flageolet was to drown the noise of +the filing; for when one filed, the other piped. + +“When the bar was cut through, he fitted the parts nicely together, and +covered them over with rust. He proceeded in the same manner to cut out +another bar; so that we had a free opening out of the window. Our cell +was at the very top of the jail, so that even to look down to the ground +was terrible. + +“Under various pretences, we had got an unusual quantity of blankets on +our beds; these he examined with the utmost care, as upon their strength +our lives were to depend. We calculated with great coolness the breadth +of the strips into which he might cut the blankets, so as to reach from +the window to the ground; allowing for the knots by which they were to +be joined, and for other knots that were to hinder the hands and feet +from slipping. + +“‘Now,’ said he, ‘Mr. Moriarty, all this is quite asy, and requires +nothing but a determined heart and a sound head: but the difficulty is +to baffle the sentinel that is below, and who is walking backward and +forward continually, day and night, under the window; and there is +another, you see, in a sentry-box, at the door of the yard: and, for all +I know, there may be another sentinel at the other side of the wall. Now +these men are never twice on the same duty: I have friends enough out of +doors, who have money enough, and would have talked reason to them; but +as these sentinels are changed every day, no good can be got of _them_: +but stay till to-morrow night, and we’ll try what we can do.’ + +“I was determined to follow him. The next night, the moment that we were +locked in for the night, we set to work to cut the blankets into slips, +and tied them together with great care. We put this rope round one of +the fixed bars of the window; and, pulling at each knot, we satisfied +ourselves that every part was sufficiently strong. Dunne looked +frequently out of the window with the utmost anxiety--it was a moonlight +night. + +“‘The moon,’ said he, ‘will be down in an hour and a half.’ + +“In a little while we heard the noise of several girls singing at a +distance from the windows, and we could see, as they approached, that +they were dancing, and making free with the sentinels: I saw that they +were provided with bottles of spirits, with which they pledged the +deluded soldiers. By degrees the sentinels forgot their duty; and, by +the assistance of some laudanum contained in some of the spirits, they +were left senseless on the ground. The whole of this plan, and the very +night and hour, had been arranged by Dunne with his associates, before +he was put into Kilmainham. The success of this scheme, which was +totally unexpected by me, gave me, I suppose, plase your honour, fresh +courage. He, very honourably, gave me the choice to go down first or to +follow him. I was ashamed not to go first: after I had got out of the +window, and had fairly hold of the rope, my fear diminished, and I went +cautiously down to the bottom. Here I waited for Dunne, and we both of +us silently stole along in the dark, for the moon had gone in, and we +did not meet with the least obstruction. Our out of door’s assistants +had the prudence to get entirely out of sight. Dunne led me to a +hiding-place in a safe part of the town, and committed me to the care of +a seafaring man, who promised to get me on board an American ship. + +“‘As for my part,’ said Dunne, ‘I will go in the morning, boldly, to the +magistrate, and claim his promise.’ + +“He did so--and the magistrate with good sense, and good faith, kept his +promise, and obtained a pardon for Dunne. + +“I wrote to Peggy, to get aboard an American ship. I was cast away on +the coast of France--made my way to the first religious house that I +could hear of, where I luckily found an Irishman, who saved me from +starvation, and who sent me on from convent to convent, till I got to +Paris, where your honour met me on that bridge, just when I was looking +for Miss Dora’s house. And that’s all I’ve got to tell,” concluded +Moriarty, “and all true.” + +No adventures of any sort happened to our hero in the course of his +journey. The wind was fair for England when he reached Calais: he had a +good passage; and with all the expedition that good horses, good roads, +good money, and civil words, ensure in England, he pursued his way; and +arrived in the shortest time possible in London. + +He reached town in the morning, before the usual hour when the banks +are open. Leaving orders with his servant, on whose punctuality he could +depend, to awaken him at the proper hour, he lay down, overcome with +fatigue, and slept--yes--slept soundly. + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + +Ormond was wakened at the proper hour--went immediately to ----‘s bank. +It was but just open, and beginning to do business. He had never been +there before--his person was not known to any of the firm. He entered a +long narrow room, so dark at the entrance from the street that he could +at first scarcely see what was on either side of him--a clerk from some +obscure nook, and from a desk higher than himself, put out his head, +with a long pen behind his ear, and looked at Ormond as he came in. +“Pray, sir, am I right?--Is this Mr. ----‘s bank?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +With mercantile economy of words, and a motion of his head, the clerk +pointed out to Ormond the way he should go--and continued casting up his +books. Ormond walked down the narrow aisle, and it became light as he +advanced towards a large window at the farther end, before which three +clerks sat at a table opposite to him. A person stood with his back to +Ormond, and was speaking earnestly to one of the clerks, who leaned +over the table listening. Just as Ormond came up he heard his own name +mentioned--he recollected the voice--he recollected the back of the +figure--the very bottle-green coat--it was Patrickson--Ormond stood +still behind him, and waited to hear what was going on. + +“Sir,” said the clerk, “it is a very sudden order for a very large sum.” + +“True, sir--but you see my power--you know Mr. Ormond’s handwriting, and +you know Sir Ulick O’Shane’s--” + +“Mr. James,” said the principal clerk, turning to one of the others, “be +so good to hand me the letters we have of Mr. Ormond. As we have never +seen the gentleman sign his name, sir, it is necessary that we should be +more particular in comparing.” + +“Oh! sir, no doubt--compare as much as you please--no doubt people +cannot be too exact and deliberate in doing business.” + +“It certainly is his signature,” said the clerk. + +“I witnessed the paper,” said Patrickson. + +“Sir, I don’t dispute it,” replied the clerk; “but you cannot blame us +for being cautious when such a _very_ large sum is in question, and when +we have no letter of advice from the gentleman.” + +“But I tell you I come straight from Mr. Ormond; I saw him last Tuesday +at Paris--” + +“And you see him now, sir,” said Ormond, advancing. + +Patrickson’s countenance changed beyond all power of control. + +“Mr. Ormond!--I thought you were at Paris.” + +“Mr. Patrickson!--I thought you were at Havre de Grace--what brought you +here so suddenly?” + +“I acted for another,” hesitated Patrickson: “I therefore made no +delay.” + +“And, thank Heaven!” said Ormond, “I have acted for myself!--but just +in time!--Sir,” continued he, addressing himself to the principal clerk, +“Gentlemen, I have to return you my thanks for your caution--it has +actually saved me from ruin--for I understand--” + +Ormond suddenly stopped, recollecting that he might injure Sir Ulick +O’Shane essentially by a premature disclosure, or by repeating a report +which might be ill-founded. + +He turned again to speak to Patrickson, but Patrickson had disappeared. + +Then continuing to address himself to the clerks. “Gentlemen,” said +Ormond, speaking carefully, “have you heard any thing of or from Sir +Ulick O’Shane lately, except what you may have heard from this Mr. +Patrickson?” + +“Not _from_ but _of_ Sir Ulick O’Shane we heard from our Dublin +correspondent--in due course we have heard,” replied the head clerk. +“Too true, I am afraid, sir, that his bank had come to paying in +sixpences on Saturday.” + +The second clerk seeing great concern in Ormond’s countenance, added, +“But Sunday, you know, is in their favour, sir; and Monday and Tuesday +are holidays: so they may stand the run, and recover yet.” + +With the help of this gentleman’s thirty thousand, they might have +recovered, perhaps--but Mr. Ormond would scarcely have recovered it. + +As to the ten thousand pounds in the Three per Cents., of which Sir +Ulick had obtained possession a month ago, that was irrecoverable, _if_ +his bank should break--“_If_.”--The clerks all spoke with due caution; +but their opinion was sufficiently plain. They were honestly indignant +against the guardian who had thus attempted to ruin his ward. + +Though almost stunned and breathless with the sense of the danger he had +so narrowly escaped, yet Ormond’s instinct of generosity, if we may +use the expression, and his gratitude for early kindness, operated; +he _would_ not believe that Sir Ulick had been guilty of a deliberate +desire to injure him. At all events, he determined that, instead of +returning to France, as he had intended, he would go immediately to +Ireland, and try if it were possible to assist Sir Ulick, without +materially injuring himself. + +Having ordered horses, he made inquiry wherever he thought he might +obtain information with respect to the Annalys. All that he could learn +was, that they were at some sea-bathing place in the south of England, +and that Miss Annaly was still unmarried. A ray of hope darted into +the mind of our hero--and he began his journey to Ireland with feelings +which every good and generous mind will know how to appreciate. + +He had escaped at Paris from a temptation which it was scarcely possible +to resist. He had by decision and activity preserved his fortune from +ruin--he had under his protection an humble friend, whom he had saved +from banishment and disgrace, and whom he hoped to restore to his +wretched wife and family. Forgetful of the designs that had been +meditated against him by his guardian, to whose necessities he +attributed his late conduct, he hastened to his immediate assistance; +determined to do every thing in his power to save Sir Ulick from ruin, +_if_ his difficulties arose from misfortune, and not from criminality: +if, on the contrary, he should find that Sir Ulick was fraudulently a +bankrupt, he determined to quit Ireland immediately, and to resume his +scheme of foreign travel. + +The system of posting had at this time been carried to the highest +perfection in England. It was the amusement and the fashion of the time, +to squander large sums in hurrying from place to place, without any +immediate motive for arriving at the end of a journey, but that of +having the satisfaction of boasting in what a short time it had been +performed; or, as it is expressed in one of our comedies, “to enter +London like a meteor, with a prodigious tail of dust.” + +Moriarty Carroll, who was perched upon the box with Ormond’s servant, +made excellent observations wherever he went. His English companion +could not comprehend how a man of common sense could be ignorant of +various things, which excited the wonder and curiosity of Moriarty. +Afterwards, however, when they travelled in Ireland, Moriarty had as +much reason to be surprised at the impression which Irish manners and +customs made upon his companion. After a rapid journey to Holyhead, our +hero found to his mortification that the packet had sailed with a fair +wind about half an hour before his arrival. + +Notwithstanding his impatience, he learned that it was impossible to +overtake the vessel in a boat, and that he must wait for the sailing of +the next day’s packet. + +Fortunately, however, the Lord-Lieutenant’s secretary arrived from +London at Holyhead time enough for the tide; and as he had an order from +the post-office for a packet to sail whenever he should require it, +the intelligent landlord of the inn suggested to Ormond that he might +probably obtain permission from the secretary to have a berth in this +packet. + +Ormond’s manner and address were such as to obtain from the good-natured +secretary the permission he required; and, in a short time, he found +himself out of sight of the coast of Wales. During the beginning of +their voyage the motion of the vessel was so steady, and the weather +so fine, that every body remained on deck; but on the wind shifting and +becoming more violent, the landsmen soon retired below decks, and +poor Moriarty and his English companion slunk down into the steerage, +submitting to their fate. Ormond was never sea-sick; he walked the deck, +and enjoyed the admirable manoeuvring of the vessel. Two or three naval +officers, and some other passengers, who were used to the sea, and who +had quietly gone to bed during the beginning of the voyage, now +came from below, to avoid the miseries of the cabin. As one of these +gentlemen walked backwards and forwards upon deck, he eyed our hero from +time to time with looks of anxious curiosity--Ormond perceiving this, +addressed the stranger, and inquired from him whether he had mistaken +his looks, or whether he had any wish to speak to him. “Sir,” said the +stranger, “I do think that I have seen you before, and I believe that +I am under considerable obligations to you--I was supercargo to that +vessel that was wrecked on the coast of Ireland, when you and your young +friend exerted yourselves to save the vessel from plunder. After +the shipwreck, the moment I found myself on land, I hastened to the +neighbouring town to obtain protection and assistance. In the mean time, +your exertions had saved a great deal of our property, which was lodged +in safety in the neighbourhood. I had procured a horse in the town +to which I had gone, and had ridden back to the shore with the utmost +expedition. Along with the vessel which had been shipwrecked there +had sailed another American sloop. We were both bound from New York to +Bourdeaux. In the morning after the shipwreck, our consort hove in sight +of the wreck, and sent a boat on shore, to inquire what had become of +the crew, and of the cargo, but they found not a human creature on the +shore, except myself. The plunderers had escaped to their hiding-places, +and all the rest of the inhabitants had accompanied the poor young +gentleman, who had fallen a sacrifice to his exertions in our favour. + +“It was of the utmost consequence to my employers, that I should +arrive as soon as possible at Bourdeaux, to give an account of what had +happened. I therefore, without hesitation, abandoned my horse, with its +bridle and saddle, and I got on board the American vessel without delay. +In my hurry I forgot my great coat on the shore, a loss which proved +extremely inconvenient to me--as there were papers in the pockets which +might be necessary to produce before my employers. + +“I arrived safely at Bourdeaux, settled with my principals to their +satisfaction, and I am now on my way to Ireland, to reclaim such part of +my property, and that of my employers, as was saved from the savages who +pillaged us in our distress.”--This detail, which was given with great +simplicity and precision, excited considerable interest among the +persons upon the deck of the packet. Moriarty, who was pretty well +recovered from his sickness, was now summoned upon deck. Ormond +confronted him with the American supercargo, but neither of them had +the least recollection of each other. “And yet,” said Ormond to the +American, “though you do not know this man, he is at this moment under +sentence of transportation for having robbed you, and he very narrowly +escaped being hanged for your murder. A fate from which he was saved by +the patience and sagacity of the judge who tried him.” + +Moriarty’s surprise was expressed with such strange contortions of +delight, and with a tone, and in a phraseology, so peculiarly his own, +as to astonish and entertain the spectators. Among these was the Irish +secretary, who, without any application being made to him, promised +Moriarty to procure for him a free pardon. + +On Ormond’s landing in Dublin, the first news he heard, and it was +repeated a hundred times in a quarter of an hour, was that “Sir Ulick +O’Shane was bankrupt--that his bank shut up yesterday.” It was a public +calamity, a source of private distress, that reached lower and farther +than any bankruptcy had ever done in Ireland. Ormond heard of it from +every tongue, it was written in every face--in every house it was the +subject of lamentation, of invective. In every street, poor men, with +ragged notes in their hands, were stopping to pore over the names at +the back of the notes, or hurrying to and fro, looking up at the +shop-windows for “_half price given here for O’Shane’s notes_.” Groups +of people, of all ranks, gathered--stopped--dispersed, talking of +Sir Ulick O’Shane’s bankruptcy--their hopes--their fears--their +losses--their ruin--their despair--their rage. Some said it was all +owing to Sir Ulick’s shameful extravagance: “His house in Dublin, +fit for a duke!--Castle Hermitage full of company to the last +week--balls--dinners--the most expensive luxuries--scandalous!” + +Others accused Sir Ulick’s absurd speculations. Many pronounced the +bankruptcy to be fraudulent, and asserted that an estate had been +made over to Marcus, who would live in affluence on the ruin of the +creditors. + +At Sir Ulick’s house in town every window-shutter was closed. Ormond +rang and knocked in vain--not that he wished to see Sir Ulick--no, he +would not have intruded on his misery for the world; but Ormond longed +to inquire from the servants how things were with him. No servant could +be seen. Ormond went to Sir Ulick’s bank. Such crowds of people filled +the street that it was with the utmost difficulty and after a great +working of elbows, that in an hour or two he made his way to one of +the barred windows. There was a place where notes were handed in and +_accepted_, as they called it, by the clerks, who thus for the +hour soothed and pacified the sufferers, with the hopes that this +_acceptance_ would be good, and would _stand in stead_ at some future +day. They were told that when things should come to a settlement, all +would be paid. There was property enough to satisfy the creditors, +when the _commissioners_ should look into it. Sir Ulick would pay all +honourably--as far as possible--fifteen shillings in the pound, or +certainly ten shillings--the _accepted_ notes would pass for that any +where. The crowd pressed closer and closer, arms crossing over each +other to get notes in at the window, the clerks’ heads appearing and +disappearing. It was said they were laughing while they thus deluded the +people. + +All the intelligence that Ormond, after being nearly suffocated, could +obtain from any of the clerks, was, that Sir Ulick was in the country. +“They believed at Castle Hermitage--could not be certain--had no letters +for him to-day--he was ill when they heard last--so ill he could do no +business--confined to his bed.” + +The people in the street hearing these answers replied, “Confined in his +bed, is he?--In the jail, it should be, as many will be along of him. +Ill, is he, Sir Ulick?--Sham sickness, may be--all his life a _sham_.” + All these and innumerable other taunts and imprecations, with which the +poor people vented their rage, Ormond heard as he made his way out of +the crowd. + +Of all who had suffered, he who had probably lost the most, and who +certainly had been on the brink of losing the greatest part of what he +possessed, was the only individual who uttered no reproach. + +He was impatient to get down to Castle Hermitage, and if he found that +Sir Ulick had acted fairly, to be some comfort to him, to be with him at +least when deserted by all the rest of the world. + +At all the inns upon the road, as he went from Dublin to Castle +Hermitage, even at the villages where he stopped to water the +horses, every creature, down to the hostlers, were talking of the +bankruptcy--and abusing Sir Ulick O’Shane and his son. The curses that +were deep, not loud, were the worst--and the faces of distress worse +than all. Gathering round his carriage, wherever it stopped, the people +questioned him and his servants about the news, and then turned away, +saying they were ruined. The men stood in unutterable despair. The women +crying, loudly bewailed “their husbands, their sons, that must waste in +the jail or fly the country; for what should they do for the rents that +had been made up in Sir Ulick’s notes, and _no good_ now?” + +Ormond felt the more on hearing these complaints, from his sense of the +absolute impossibility of relieving the universal distress. + +He pursued his melancholy journey, and took Moriarty into the carriage +with him, that he might not be recognized on the road. + +When he came within sight of Castle Hermitage, he stopped at the top +of the hill at a cottage, where many a time in his boyish days he had +rested with Sir Ulick out hunting. The mistress of the house, now an old +woman, came to the door. + +“Master Harry dear!” cried she, when she saw who it was. But the sudden +flash of joy in her old face was over in an instant. + +“But did you hear it?” cried she, “and the great change it caused +him--poor Sir Ulick O’Shane? I went up with eggs on purpose to see him, +but could only hear--he was in his bed--wasting with trouble--nobody +knows any thing more--all is kept hush and close. Mr. Marcus took off +all he could rap, and ran, even to--” + +“Well, well, I don’t want to hear of Marcus--can you tell me whether Dr. +Cambray is come home?” + +“Not expected to come till Monday.” + +“Are you sure?” + +“Oh! not a morning but I’m there the first thing, asking, and longing +for them.” + +“Lie back, Moriarty, in the carriage, and pull your hat over your face,” + whispered Ormond: “postilions, drive on to that little cabin, with the +trees about it, at the foot of the hill.” This was Moriarty’s cabin. +When they stopped, poor Peggy was called out. Alas! how altered from the +dancing, sprightly, blooming girl, whom Ormond had known so few years +since in the Black Islands! How different from the happy wife, whom he +had left, comfortably settled in a cottage suited to her station and +her wishes! She was thin, pale, and haggard--her dress was neglected--an +ill-nursed child, that she had in her arms she gave to a young girl near +her. Approaching the carriage, and seeing Harry Ormond, she seemed ready +to sink into the earth: however, after having drank some water, she +recovered sufficiently to be able to answer Ormond’s inquiries. + +“What do you intend to do, Peggy?” + +“Do, sir!--go to America, to join my husband sure; every thing was to +have been sold, Monday last--but nobody has any money--and I am tould it +will cost a great deal to get across the sea.” + +At this she burst into tears and cried most bitterly; and at this moment +the carriage door flew open--Moriarty’s impatience could be no longer +restrained--he flung himself into the arms of his wife. + +Leaving this happy and innocent couple to enjoy their felicity we +proceed to Castle Hermitage. + +Ormond directed the postilions to go the back way to the house. They +drove down the old avenue. + +Presently they saw a boy, who seemed to be standing on the watch, run +back towards the castle, leaping over hedge and ditch with desperate +haste. Then came running from the house three men, calling to one +another to shut the gates for the love of God! + +They all ran towards the gateway through which the postilions were going +to drive, reached it just as the foremost horses turned, and flung the +gate full against the horses’ heads. The men, without looking or caring, +went on locking the gate. Ormond jumped out of the carriage--at the +sight of him, the padlock fell from the hand of the man who held it. + +“Master Harry himself!--and is it you?--We ask your pardon, your +honour.” + +The men were three of Sir Ulick’s workmen--Ormond forbad the carriage to +follow. “For perhaps you are afraid of the noise disturbing Sir Ulick?” + said be. + +“No, plase your honour,” said the foremost man, “it will not disturb +him--as well let the carriage come on--only,” whispered he, “best to +send the hack postilions with their horses always to the inn, afore +they’d learn any thing.” + +Ormond walked on quickly, and as soon as he was out of hearing of the +postilions again asked the men, “What news?--how is Sir Ulick?” + +“Poor gentleman! he has had a deal of trouble--and no help for him,” + said the man. + +“Better tell him plain,” whispered the next. “Master Harry, Sir Ulick +O’Shane’s trouble is over in this world, sir.” + +“Is he--” + +“Dead, he is, and cold, and in his coffin--this minute--and thanks be to +God, if he is safe there even from them that are on the watch to seize +on his body!--In the dread of them creditors, orders were given to keep +the gates locked. He is dead since Tuesday, sir,--but hardly one knows +it out of the castle--except us.” + +Ormond walked on silently, while they followed, talking at intervals. + +“There is a very great cry against him, sir, I hear, in Dublin,--and +here in the country, too,” said one. + +“The distress, they say, is very great, he caused; but they might let +his body rest any way--what good can that do them?” + +“Bad or good, they sha’n’t touch it,” said the other: “by the blessing, +we shall have him buried safe in the morning, afore they are stirring. +We shall carry the coffin through the under ground passage, that goes +to the stables, and out by the lane to the churchyard asy--and the +gentleman, the clergyman, has notice all will be ready, and the +housekeeper only attending.” + +“Oh! the pitiful funeral,” said the eldest of the men, “the pitiful +funeral for Sir Ulick O’Shane, that was born to better.” + +“Well, we can only do the best we can,” said the other, “let what will +happen to ourselves; for Sir Marcus said he wouldn’t take one of his +father’s notes from any of us.” + +Ormond involuntarily felt for his purse. + +“Oh! don’t be bothering the gentleman, don’t be talking,” said the old +man. + +“This way, Master Harry, if you please, sir, the underground way to the +back yard. We keep all close till after the burying, for fear--that was +the housekeeper’s order. Sent all off to Dublin when Sir Ulick took to +his bed, and Lady Norton went off.” + +Ormond refrained from asking any questions about his illness, fearing +to inquire into the manner of his death. He walked on more quickly and +silently. When they were going through the dark passage, one of the men, +in a low voice, observed to Mr. Ormond that the housekeeper would tell +him all about it. + +When they got to the house, the housekeeper and Sir Ulick’s man +appeared, seeming much surprised at the sight of Mr. Ormond. They said +a great deal about the _unfortunate event_, and their own sorrow and +_distress_; but Ormond saw that theirs were only the long faces, dismal +tones, and outward show of grief. They were just a common housekeeper +and gentleman’s gentleman, neither worse nor better than ordinary +servants in a great house. Sir Ulick had only treated them as such. + +The housekeeper, without Ormond’s asking a single question, went on to +tell him that “Castle Hermitage was as full of company, even to the last +week, as ever it could hold, and all as grand as ever; the first people +in Ireland--champagne and burgundy, and ices, and all as usual--and +a ball that very week. Sir Ulick was very considerate, and sent Lady +Norton off to her other friends; he took ill suddenly that night with a +great pain in his head: he had been writing hard, and in great trouble, +and he took to his bed, and never rose from it--he was found by Mr. +Dempsey, his own man, dead in his bed in the morning--of a broken heart, +to be sure!--Poor gentleman!--Some people in the neighbourhood was +mighty busy talking how the coroner ought to be sent for; but that blew +over, sir. But then we were in dread of the seizure of the body for +debt, so the gates was kept locked; and now you know all we know about +it, sir.” + +Ormond said he would attend the funeral. There was no attempt to seize +upon the body; only the three workmen, the servants, a very few of the +cottagers, and Harry Ormond, attended to the grave the body of the once +popular Sir Ulick O’Shane. This was considered by the country people as +the greatest of all the misfortunes that had befallen him; the lowest +degradation to which an O’Shane could be reduced. They compared him with +King Corny, and “see the difference!” said they; “the one was _the true +thing_, and never _changed_--and after all, where is the great friends +now?--the quality that used to be entertained at the castle above? Where +is all the favour promised him now? What is it come to? See, with all +his wit, and the schemes upon schemes, broke and gone, and forsook and +forgot, and buried without a funeral, or a tear, but from Master Harry.” + Ormond was surprised to hear, in the midst of many of their popular +superstitions and prejudices, how justly they estimated Sir Ulick’s +abilities and character. + +As the men filled up his grave, one of them said, “There lies the making +of an excellent gentleman--but the cunning of his head spoiled the +goodness of his heart.” + +The day after the funeral an agent came from Dublin to settle Sir Ulick +O’Shane’s affairs in the country. + +On opening his desk, the first thing that appeared was a bundle of +accounts, and a letter, directed to H. Ormond, Esq. He took it to his +own room and read-- + +“ORMOND, + +“I intended to _employ_ your money to re-establish my falling credit, +but I never intended to _defraud_ you. + +“ULICK O’SHANE.” + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + +Both from a sense of justice to the poor people concerned, and from a +desire to save Sir Ulick O’Shane’s memory as far as it was in his power +from reproach, Ormond determined to pay whatever small debts were due to +his servants, workmen, and immediate dependents. For this purpose, when +the funeral was over, he had them all assembled at Castle Hermitage. +Every just demand of this sort was paid, all were satisfied; even +the bare-footed kitchen-maid, the drudge of this great house, who, in +despair, had looked at her poor one guinea note of Sir Ulick’s, had that +note paid in gold, and went away blessing Master Harry. Happy for all +that he is come home to us, was the general feeling. But there was one +man, a groom of Sir Ulick’s, who did not join in any of these blessings +or praises: he stood silent and motionless, with his eyes on the money +which Mr. Ormond had put into his hand. + +“Is your money right?” said Ormond. + +“It is, sir; but I had something to tell you.” + +When all the other servants had left the room, the man said, “I am the +groom, sir, that was sent, just before you went to France, with a letter +to Annaly: there was an answer to that letter, sir, though you never got +it.” + +“There was an answer!” cried Ormond, anger flashing, but an instant +afterwards joy sparkling in his eyes. “There was a letter!--From +whom?--I’ll forgive you all, if you will tell me the whole truth.” + +“I will--and not a word of lie, and I beg your honour’s pardon, if--” + +“Go on--straight to the fact, this instant, or you shall never have my +pardon.” + +“Why then I stopped to take a glass coming home; and, not knowing how +it was, I had the misfortune to lose the bit of a note, and I thought +no more about it till, plase your honour, after you was gone, it was +found.” + +“Found!” cried Ormond, stepping hastily up to him--“where is it?” + +“I have it safe here,” said the man, opening a sort of pocket-book “here +I have kept it safe till your honour came back.” + +Ormond saw and seized upon a letter in Lady Armaly’s hand, directed to +him. Tore it open--two notes--one from Florence. + +“I forgive you!” said he to the man, and made a sign to him to leave the +room. + +When Ormond had read, or without reading had taken in, by one glance of +the eye, the sense of the letters--he rang the bell instantly. + +“Inquire at the post-office,” said he to his servant, “whether Lady +Annaly is in England or Ireland?--If in England, where?--if in Ireland, +whether at Annaly or at Herbert’s Town? Quick--an answer.” + +An answer was quickly brought, “In England--in Devonshire, sir: here is +the exact direction to the place, sir. I shall pack up, I suppose, sir?” + +“Certainly--directly.” + +Leaving a few lines of explanation and affection for Dr. Cambray, our +young hero was _off again_, to the surprise and regret of all who saw +him driving away as fast as horses could carry him. His servant, from +the box, however, spread as he went, for the comfort of the deploring +village, the assurance that “Master and he would soon be back again, +please Heaven!--and happier than ever.” + +And now that he is safe in the carriage, what was in that note of Miss +Annaly’s which has produced such a _sensation_? No talismanic charm ever +operated with more magical celerity than this note. What were the words +of the charm? + +That is a secret which shall never be known to the world. + +The only point which it much imports the public to know is probably +already guessed--that the letter did not contain a refusal, nor any +absolute discouragement of Ormond’s hopes. But Lady Annaly and Florence +had both distinctly told him that they could not receive him at Annaly +till after a certain day, on which they said that they should be +particularly engaged. They told him that Colonel Albemarle was at +Annaly--that he would leave it at such a time--and they requested that +Mr. Ormond would postpone his visit till after that time. + +Not receiving this notice, Ormond had unfortunately gone upon the day +that was specially prohibited. + +Now that the kneeling figure appeared to him as a rival in despair, not +in triumph, Ormond asked himself how he could ever have been such an +idiot as to doubt Florence Annaly. + +“Why did I set off in such haste for Paris?--Could not I have waited a +day?--Could not I have written again?--Could I not have cross-questioned +the drunken servant when he was sober?--Could not I have done any thing, +in short, but what I did?” + +Clearly as a man, when his anger is dissipated, sees what he ought to +have done or to have left undone while the fury lasted; vividly as a man +in a different kind of passion sees the folly of all he did, said, +or thought, when he was possessed by the past madness; so clearly, +so vividly, did Ormond now see and feel--and vehemently execrate, his +jealous folly and mad precipitation; and then he came to the question, +could his folly be repaired?--would his madness ever be forgiven? +Ormond, in love affairs, never had any presumption--any tinge of the +Connal coxcombry in his nature: he was not apt to flatter himself that +he had made a deep impression; and now he was, perhaps from his sense +of the superior value of the object, more than usually diffident. Though +Miss Annaly was still unmarried, she might have resolved irrevocably +against him. Though she was not a girl to act in the high-flown heroine +style, and, in a fit of pride or revenge, to punish the man she liked, +by marrying his rival, whom she did not like; yet Florence Annaly, as +Ormond well knew, inherited some of her mother’s strength of character; +and, in circumstances that deeply touched her heart, might be capable +of all her mother’s warmth of indignation. It was in her character +decidedly to refuse to connect herself with any man, however her heart +might incline towards him, if he had any essential defect of temper; +or if she thought that his attachment to her was not steady and strong, +such as she deserved it should be, and such as her sensibility and all +her hopes of domestic happiness required in a husband. And then there +was Lady Annaly to be considered--how indignant she would be at his +conduct! + +While Ormond was travelling alone, he had full leisure to torment +himself with these thoughts. Pressed forward alternately by hope and +fear, each urging expedition, he hastened on--reached Dublin--crossed +the water--and travelling day and night, lost not a moment till he was +at the feet of his fair mistress. + +To those who like to know the how, the when, and the where, it should +be told that it was evening when he arrived. Florence Annaly was walking +with her mother by the seaside, in one of the most beautiful and retired +parts of the coasts of Devonshire, when they were told by a servant that +a gentleman from Ireland had just arrived at their house, and wished to +see them. A minute afterwards they saw--“Could it be?” Lady Annaly said, +turning in doubt to her daughter; but the cheek of Florence instantly +convinced the mother that it could be none but Mr. Ormond himself. + +“Mr. Ormond!” said Lady Annaly, advancing kindly, yet with dignified +reserve--“Mr. Ormond, after his long absence, is welcome to his old +friend.” + +There was in Ormond’s look and manner, as he approached, something +that much inclined the daughter to hope that he might prove not utterly +unworthy of her mother’s forgiveness; and when he spoke to the daughter, +there was in his voice and look something that softened the mother’s +heart, and irresistibly inclined her to wish that he might be able +to give a satisfactory explanation of his strange conduct. Where +the parties are thus happily disposed both to hear reason, to excuse +passion, and to pardon the errors to which passion, even in the most +reasonable minds, is liable, explanations are seldom tedious, or +difficult to be comprehended. The moment Ormond produced the cover, +the soiled cover of the letters, a glimpse of the truth struck Florence +Annaly; and before he had got farther in his sentence than these words, +“I did not receive your ladyship’s letter till within these few days,” + all the reserve of Lady Annaly’s manner was dispelled: her smiles +relieved his apprehensions, and encouraged him to proceed in his story +with happy fluency. The carelessness of the drunken servant, who had +occasioned so much mischief, was talked of for a few minutes with great +satisfaction. + +Ormond took his own share of the blame so frankly and with so good a +grace, and described with such truth the agony he had been thrown into +by the sight of the kneeling figure in regimentals, that Lady Annaly +could not help comforting him by the assurance that Florence had, at the +same moment, been _sufficiently_ alarmed by the rearing of his horse at +the sight of the flapping window-blind. + +“The kneeling gentleman,” said Lady Annaly, “whom you thought at the +height of joy and glory, was at that moment in the depths of despair. So +ill do the passions see what is even before their eyes!” + +If Lady Annaly had had a mind to moralize, she might have done so to any +length, without fear of interruption from either of her auditors, and +with the most perfect certainty of unqualified submission and dignified +humility on the part of our hero, who was too happy at this moment not +to be ready to acknowledge himself to have been wrong and absurd, and +worthy of any quantity of reprehension or indignation that could have +been bestowed upon him. + +Her ladyship went, however, as far from morality as possible--to Paris. +She spoke of the success Mr. Ormond had had in Parisian society--she +spoke of M. and Madame de Connal, and various persons with whom he had +been intimate, among others of the Abbé Morellet. + +Ormond rejoiced to find that Lady Annaly knew he had been in the Abbé +Morellet’s distinguished society. The happiest hopes for the future rose +in his mind, from perceiving that her ladyship, by whatever means, knew +all that he had been doing in Paris. It seems that they had had accounts +of him from several English travellers, who had met him at Paris, and +had heard him spoken of in different companies. + +Ormond took care--give him credit for it all who have ever been in +love--even in these first moments, with the object of his present +affection, Ormond took care to do justice to the absent Dora, whom he +now never expected to see again. He seized, dexterously, an opportunity, +in reply to something Lady Annaly said about the Connals, to observe +that Madame de Connal was not only much admired for her beauty at Paris, +but that she did honour to Ireland by having preserved her reputation; +young, and without a guide, as she was, in dissipated French society, +with few examples of conjugal virtues to preserve in her mind the +precepts and habits of her British education. + +He was glad of this opportunity to give, as he now did with all the +energy of truth, the result of his feelings and reflections on what +he had seen of the modes of living among the French; their superior +pleasures of society, and their want of our domestic happiness. + +While Ormond was speaking, both the mother and daughter could not help +admiring, in the midst of his moralizing, the great improvement which +had been made in his appearance and manners. + +With all his own characteristic frankness, he acknowledged the +impression which French gaiety and the brilliancy of Parisian society +had at first made upon him: he was glad, however, that he had now seen +all that the imagination often paints as far more delightful than +it really is. He had, thank Heaven, passed through this course of +dissipation without losing his taste for better and happier modes of +life. The last few months, though they might seem but a splendid or +feverish dream in his existence, had in reality been, he believed, of +essential service in confirming his principles, settling his character, +and deciding for ever his taste and judgment, after full opportunity +of comparison, in favour of his own country--and especially of his own +countrywomen. + +Lady Annaly smiled benignantly, and after observing that this seemingly +unlucky excursion, which had begun in anger, had ended advantageously +to Mr. Ormond; and after having congratulated him upon having saved his +fortune, and established his character solidly, she left him to plead +his own cause with her daughter--in her heart cordially wishing him +success. + +What he said, or what Florence answered, we do not know; but we are +perfectly sure that if we did, the repetition of it would tire the +reader. Lady Annaly and tea waited for them with great patience to an +unusually late, which they conceived to be an unusually early, hour. The +result of this conversation was, that Ormond remained with them in this +beautiful retirement in Devonshire the next day, and the next, and--how +many days are not precisely recorded; a blank was left for the number, +which the editor of these memoirs does not dare to fill up at random, +lest some Mrs. M’Crule should exclaim, “Scandalously too long to keep +the young man there!”--or, “Scandalously too short a courtship, after +all!” + +It is humbly requested that every young lady of delicacy and feeling +will put herself in the place of Florence Annaly--then, imagining the +man she most approves of to be in the place of Mr. Ormond, she will +be pleased to fill up the blank with what number of days she may think +proper. + +When the happy day was named, it was agreed that they should return to +Ireland, to Annaly; and that their kind friend, Dr. Cambray, should be +the person to complete that union which he had so long foreseen and so +anxiously desired. + +Those who wish to hear something of estates, as well as of weddings, +should be told that about the same time Ormond received letters from +Marcus O’Shane, and from M. de Connal; Marcus informing him that the +estate of Castle Hermitage was to be sold by the commissioners of +bankrupts, and beseeching him to bid for it, that it might not be sold +under value. M. de Connal also besought his dear friend, Mr. Ormond to +take the Black Islands off his hands, for they encumbered him terribly. +No wonder, living, as he did, at Paris, with his head at Versailles, and +his heart in a faro bank. Ormond could not oblige both the gentlemen, +though they had each pressing reasons for getting rid speedily of +their property, and were assured that he would be the most agreeable +purchaser. Castle Hermitage was the finest estate, and by far the best +bargain. But other considerations weighed with our hero. While Sir Ulick +O’Shane’s son and natural representative was living, banished by debts +from his native country, Ormond could not bear to take possession of +Castle Hermitage. For the Black Islands he had a fondness--they were +associated with all the tender recollections of his generous benefactor. +He should hurt no one’s feelings by this purchase--and he might do a +great deal of good, by carrying on his old friend’s improvements, and +by farther civilizing the people of the Islands, all of whom were +warmly attached to him. They considered Prince Harry as the lawful +representative of their dear King Corny, and actually offered up prayers +for his coming again to _reign_ over them. + +To those who think that the mind is a kingdom of yet more consequence +than even that of the Black Islands, it may be agreeable to hear that +Ormond continued to enjoy the empire which he had gained over himself; +and to maintain that high character, which in spite of his neglected +education, and of all the adverse circumstances to which he was early +exposed, he had formed for himself by resolute energy. + +Lady Annaly with the pride of affection, gloried in the full +accomplishment of her prophecies; and was rewarded in the best manner +for that benevolent interest which she had early taken in our hero’s +improvement, by seeing the perfect felicity that subsisted between her +daughter and Ormond. + +The End. + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tales And Novels, Volume 9 (of 10), by +Maria Edgeworth + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES AND NOVELS, VOLUME 9 (OF 10) *** + +***** This file should be named 9107-0.txt or 9107-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/1/0/9107/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, William Flis, David Widger +and Distributed Proofreaders + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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