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diff --git a/9107-h/9107-h.htm b/9107-h/9107-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f26bd39 --- /dev/null +++ b/9107-h/9107-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,24785 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + Tales and Novels, by Maria Edgeworth + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + .side { float: right; font-size: 75%; width: 25%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; margin-left: 0.8em; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +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 + + + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + TALES AND NOVELS + </h1> + <h4> + VOLUME IX (of X) + </h4> + <h3> + HARRINGTON; THOUGHTS ON BORES; ORMOND + </h3> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Maria Edgeworth + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h5> + With Engravings On Steel<br /> (Engravings are not included in this + edition) + </h5> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> TO THE READER. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>HARRINGTON.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> <b>THOUGHTS ON BORES.</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> <b>ORMOND</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER IX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER X. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XVI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XVII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XIX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XXI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XXII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER XXV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0046"> CHAPTER XXVII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER XXVIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER XXIX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0049"> CHAPTER XXX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0050"> CHAPTER XXXI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0051"> CHAPTER XXXII. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE READER. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I have been reprehended by some of the public critics for the <i>notices</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And now, indulgent reader, I beg you to pardon this intrusion, and, with + the most grateful acknowledgments, I bid you farewell for ever. + </p> + <p> + RICHARD LOVELL EDGEWORTH. + </p> + <p> + <i>Edgeworthstown, May</i> 31,1817. + </p> + <p> + <i>Note</i>—Mr. Edgeworth died a few days after he wrote this + Preface—the 13th June, 1817. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HARRINGTON. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + I resisted, and, clinging to the rails, began kicking and roaring. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>see with my own eyes</i>. 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 <i>my</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>sort + of thing</i> which they would do, and doubtless have done themselves + without scruple, for a favourite maid, who is always a <i>faithful + creature</i>. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + I soon grew vain of my fears. My antipathy, my <i>natural</i>, 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 <i>idiosyncrasy</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>timersome</i>, and that there was + no use in nursing and pampering of me up in them fantastical <i>fancifulnesses</i>: + so the nurse, and lady’s maid, and housekeeper, went down all together to + <i>their</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Belier, mon ami, commences par le commencement</i>,” 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, <i>solitary and in + concert, touching fear</i>, and <i>of and concerning sympathies and + antipathies</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>female</i> 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 <i>settle</i> 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 <i>Beggars’ Opera</i>; 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 <i>Jew</i>. 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 <i>printed books</i>. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>dealing with the Jews</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Jew Bill</i> 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 <i>the + naturalization</i>: 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>for</i>, and which against the Jews. All those + who were against them, I considered as my father’s friends; all those who + were <i>for</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>the + thing</i> 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?” + </p> + <p> + “The Jews, to be sure, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “Right,” cried my father; “and what about them, my dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Whether they ought to be let to live in England, or any where.” + </p> + <p> + “Right again, that is right in the main,” cried my father; “though that is + a larger view of the subject than we took.” + </p> + <p> + “And what reasons did you hear?” said a gentleman in company. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve nothing to say about reasons, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “No! that was not a fair question,” said my father; “but, my boy, you know + on which side you are, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure—on your side, father.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s right—bravo! To know on which side one is, is one great + point in life.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>party</i>.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>too much</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + Now it was well known in our house, that a sentence of my father’s + beginning and ending “<i>by Jupiter Ammon</i>” 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>bon-mot</i> 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 <i>give up</i>. 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>one</i>, and I will + make the most of it: I think I should never have done so <i>much</i> + 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 <i>my honest + fellow</i>, extortioner and <i>my friend Jacob</i>—my tongue could + not have uttered the words, my soul detested the thought; yet all this, + and more, could Mowbray do, and did. + </p> + <p> + 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, <i>you</i> + know, or <i>I</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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “That mother of mine,” said he to us, “would not hear of her son’s being + <i>turned out</i>—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>I am sorry to be obliged to take + up my pen</i>,’ or, ‘<i>I am concerned to be under the necessity of + sitting down to inform your ladyship</i>.’ 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.” + </p> + <p> + Mowbray, accordingly, wrote to his mother what he called a <i>chef-d’oeuvre</i> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>roasted</i> + him well.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Jacob made no reply, but he looked as if he felt much. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied Jacob, “I think you <i>could</i>, I think you <i>would.”</i> + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Whilst I live, my father shall ask no charity, I hope,” said the son, + retreating from the insulting alms which Mowbray still proffered. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Jacob’s countenance continued rigidly calm, except some little convulsive + twitches about the mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Spare him, Mowbray,” whispered I, pulling back Mowbray’s arm; “Jew as he + is, you see he has some feeling about his father.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>you</i> believe, boys, that a Jew pedlar <i>can</i> + love a father gratis, as we do?” + </p> + <p> + “As we do!” repeated some of the boys: “Oh! no, for his father can’t be as + good as ours—he is a Jew!” + </p> + <p> + “Jacob, is your father good to you?” said one of the little boys. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I could not use a dog so,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “A dog, no! nor I; but this is a Jew.” + </p> + <p> + “A fellow-creature,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “A fine discovery! And pray, Harrington, what has made you so + tender-hearted all of a sudden for the Jews?” + </p> + <p> + “Your being so hard-hearted, Mowbray,” said I: “when you persecute and + torture this poor fellow, how can I help speaking?” + </p> + <p> + “And pray, sir,” said Mowbray, “on <i>which</i> side are you speaking?” + </p> + <p> + “On the side of humanity,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Fudge! On <i>whose</i> side are you?” + </p> + <p> + “On yours, Mowbray, if you won’t be a tyrant.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>If!</i> If you have a mind to rat, rat <i>sans phrase</i>, and run + over to the Jewish side. I always thought you were a Jew at heart, + Harrington.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “No more a Jew than myself! pray how do you make that out?” + </p> + <p> + “By being more of a Christian—by sticking more to the maxim ‘Do as + you would be done by.’” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s see if I can’t <i>pull</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Young Lord—,” said he, “and <i>dear</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + 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!—<i>Wandering + Jew!</i>” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>more reasonable</i> than + Dutton’s, the tide of popularity ran high in his favour. <i>Poor Jacob</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Not trouble myself! Oh, Master Harrington,” said he, “poor Jacob is not + so ungrateful as that would come to.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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—<i>was</i>, 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 <i>old Simon</i>, 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>I</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—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>reading young + gentleman</i>. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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—<i>Mr. William Harrington + Harrington</i> (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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> “——Hebrew roots are always found<br /> To flourish best on barren ground,"<br /></pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>facts</i>, to mark the effect of + circumstances in changing my own prepossessions. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>careful</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> + <p> + 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 “<i>intensity + of will</i>,”—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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>no dealings with the Jews</i>. It was in vain that I + endeavoured to give my explanation of the word <i>dealings</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>presentiments</i> 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 <i>presentiments</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>presentiment</i>, + 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 <i>wondered</i>—for + both she and my father were great <i>wonderers</i>, 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 + <i>l’esprit de corps</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> ‘This is the Jew<br /> That Shakspeare drew!’<br /></pre> + <p> + Whose lines are those, Harrington? do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Yours</i>, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Mine! you do me much honour: no, they are Mr. Pope’s. Then you don’t know + the anecdote? + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>lines</i>, + or as Quin insisted upon their being called, the <i>cordage</i> 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.] + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>special jury</i>. + 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 ‘<i>Very well—very well indeed! + this man seems to know what he is about</i>.’ 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 <i>trial scene</i> 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 <i>Charles + the Great</i> for that night.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, <i>back + stairs.</i> + </p> + <p> + Of Lady de Brantefield, the <i>touch-me-not</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>finale</i> 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 <i>prettiest</i> in, the + universe, <i>boue de Paris, oeil de l’empereur</i>, and a <i>suppressed + sigh</i>. + </p> + <p> + At that moment, Lady Anne wore the <i>suppressed sigh</i>, but I did not + know it—I mistook it for <i>boue de Paris</i>—conceive my + ignorance! No two things in nature, not a horse-chestnut and a + chestnut-horse, could be more different. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>venez-y + voir</i>; 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. + </p> + <p> + After the <i>venez-y voir</i> had fixed all eyes as desired, the lady + turning alternately to Colonels Topham and Beauclerk, with rapid gestures + of ecstasy, exclaimed, “The <i>pouf!</i> the <i>pouf!</i> Oh! on Wednesday + I shall have the <i>pouf</i>!” + </p> + <p> + Now what manner of thing a <i>pouf!</i> 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 <i>boue de + Paris</i> and the <i>suppressed sigh</i>, this time I found safety in + silence. I listened, and learned, first that <i>un pouf</i> 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 <i>pouf</i>, she would look so killing. + </p> + <p> + “So killing,” was the colonel’s last. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>show place</i>. 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>I have been having</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not know Fowler had a daughter, and a daughter grown up.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>wiggy</i>—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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> “Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way."<br /></pre> + <p> + 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 <i>presentiments</i>—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?—<i>peculiarity</i>. 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—<i>wafer work</i>, 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 <i>album</i>?—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 <i>album</i> to copy—<i>Advice + to a Lady in Autumn</i>. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> “Asses’ milk, half a pint, take at seven, or before."<br /></pre> + <p> + My mother, who saw that I did not relish the asses’ milk, put in a word + for me. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Lady Anne, it is not worth while to write these lines in your <i>album</i>, + for they were in print long ago, in every lady’s old memorandum-book, and + in Dodsley’s Collection, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “But still that was quite a different thing,” Lady Anne said, “from having + them in her <i>album</i>; 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: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> ‘The dews of the evening moat carefully shun,<br /> Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun.‘<br /></pre> + <p> + <i>Now</i>, here’s your friend, Mr. Harrington, says it’s only a <i>prettiness</i>, + 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 + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> ‘Keep all cold from your breast, there’s already too much?’”<br /></pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> ‘<i>Keep all cold from your breast, there’s already too much</i>.’”<br /></pre> + <p> + “Whether prose or poetry, I pronounce it to be very good advice.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Never <i>intentionally</i> to hurt another’s feelings, ma’am,” said I; “I + hope you will allow me to plead the innocence of my intentions.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes! there was no malicious <i>intent</i>: Not guilty—Not + guilty!” cried Mowbray. “Anne, you acquit him there, don’t you, Anne?” + </p> + <p> + Anne sobbed, but spoke not. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, but after all, in fact,” said Mowbray, “there was nothing to make + any body seriously angry.” + </p> + <p> + “Of that every body’s own feelings must be the best judge,” said my + mother, “the best and the sole judge.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank Heaven! that is not the law of libel <i>yet</i>, not the law of the + land <i>yet</i>,” said Mowbray; “no knowing what we may come to. Would it + not be hard, ma’am, to constitute the feelings of one person <i>always</i> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + “But what’s the news, my lord?” said my mother. + </p> + <p> + “News! not for you, ma’am, only for Harrington; news of the Jews.” + </p> + <p> + “The Jews!” said my mother. + </p> + <p> + “The Jews!” said I, both in the same breath, but in very different tones. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Jews</i>, did I say?” replied Mowbray: “Jew, I should have said.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Montenero?” cried I. + </p> + <p> + “Montenero!—Can you think of nothing but Mr. Montenero, whom you’ve + never seen, and never will see?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for that, my lord,” said my mother; “one touch from you is + worth a hundred from me.” + </p> + <p> + “But of what Jew then are you talking? and what’s your news, my lord?” + said I. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I am heartily glad of it!” cried I, with enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + “And is that all?” said my mother, coldly. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>odd</i>.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>pouf</i>—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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>at</i> me continually, and at every opening gave me sly cuts, + which she flattered herself I felt sorely. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>dying</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>stand off, man</i>!—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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + My exalted ideas of love were lowered—my morning visions of life + fled—I was dispirited. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>the thing</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>nobody knew</i>. 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?” + </p> + <p> + “An East Indian, I should guess, by her dark complexion,” whispered Lady + Anne to me. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> “Many a time, and oft,<br /> In the Rialto, you have rated me,<br /> About my moneys and my usances;<br /> Still have I borne it with a patient shrug;<br /> For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.<br /> You call me misbeliever! cut-throat dog!<br /> And spit upon my Jewish gabardine;<br /> And all, for use of that which is my own.<br /> Well, then, it now appears you need my help.<br /> Go to, then—you come to me, and you say,<br /> Shylock, we would have moneys; you say so.<br /> Shall I bend low, and in a bondsman key, <br /> With bated breath, and whisp’ring humbleness, Say this:<br /> Fair sir, you spit on me last Wednesday; <br /> You spurned me such a day; another time <br /> You called me dog; and for these courtesies <br /> I’ll lend you thus much moneys?” </pre> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p> + 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, <br /> + </p> + <p> + <i style="font-style: italic;"><br /> </i> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"><i style="font-style: italic;">"What’s his reason?—I am a Jew</i><span + style="font-style: italic;">.<br /> Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs,<br /> dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with<br /> the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject<br /> to the same diseases, healed by the same means,<br /> warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as<br /> a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed?<br /> if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison<br /> us, do not we die? and if you wrong us, shall we not<br /> revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will<br /> resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian,<br /> what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian<br /> wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be, by<br /> Christian example? Why, revenge."</span></pre> + <p> + <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /> </span> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + I begged Mowbray to go back, for I could not leave these ladies. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Montenero!” repeated Lord Mowbray and I, in the same instant. “I + thought,” said I, “this young lady’s name was Berry. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + For all further satisfaction of my curiosity, I was obliged to wait till + the next morning. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> + <p> + 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 + <i>tête-à-tête</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Considering all the circumstances</i>,” 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. + </p> + <p> + “True,” said he; “and as a dramatic poet, it was his business, I + acknowledge, to take advantage of the popular prejudice as a <i>power</i>—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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “In the <i>true</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Brutal</i>,” 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Montenero, from America, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Montenero! I am happy to have the honour—the pleasure—I + am very happy—” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>presentiment</i> 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 + <i>Rio Verde</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think him agreeable, ma’am?” + </p> + <p> + “Very agreeable.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew you would think so, my dear mother; an uncommonly agreeable man.” + </p> + <p> + “But—” + </p> + <p> + “But what, ma’am?” + </p> + <p> + “But so much the worse.” + </p> + <p> + “How so, ma’am? Because he is a Jew, is he forbidden to be agreeable?” + said I, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>antipathies</i>. 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.” + </p> + <p> + I did not advert to the <i>if</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps in general it might be so,” she said; “but in this particular + instance she was persuaded she was right and <i>correct</i>; 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>Mussulman</i>, 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 <i>presentiment</i>—but + you have no faith in <i>presentiments</i>: 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>so</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + I had often observed that my mother’s <i>presentiments</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + It was not till he came to the words <i>your friend</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + Jacob led us through several handsome, I might say splendid, apartments, + to the picture-room. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all—I am interested—go on.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “His first words at meeting me in the public streets were, ‘So! are you + here, <i>young Shylock?</i> What brings you to Gibraltar? You are of the + tribe of Gad, I think, <i>thou Wandering Jew!</i>’ + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>young Shylock</i> by some, + and by others the <i>Wandering Jew</i>. It was a bitter jest, and soon + became bitter earnest. + </p> + <p> + “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.] + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>Wandering Jew</i>. 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 <i>we—I</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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Jacob ended by promising, with a smile, that he would show me that a Jew + could forgive. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>the</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>these early prepossessions, which were so difficult, scarcely possible, + completely to conquer</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>Castillo is no more!</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Weakness, not vice, I hope,” I heard Miss Montenero say in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + The father answered with a sigh, “<i>that</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Happily for Cano, this story did not reach the ears of the Inquisition,” + said Mr. Montenero, “or he would have been burnt alive.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> “With winged speed outstrips the eastern wind,<br /> And leaves the breezes of the morn behind."<br /></pre> + <p> + 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, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> “And leaves the breezes of the morn behind."<br /></pre> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>so circumstanced</i>, and so inclined, as + to allow him the pleasure he much desired, of cultivating my acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>pièce + justificative</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>indispensable engagements</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + I was almost angry with my dear friend Mowbray, for not being as + enthusiastic this day as I was myself. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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—‘” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>compared notes</i>, 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Montenero, past the age of romantic extravagance, could not sympathize + with this enthusiasm, but he bore with it. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Montenero came in just as I was ranting, from Clarence’s dream— + </p> + <div style="margin-left: 80px;"> + <span style="font-style: italic;"> “Seize on him, furies! take him to your + torments!—<br /> With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends<br /> + Environ’d me, and howled in mine ears"</span> + </div> + <p> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Montenero asked, “What of the tapestry-chamber?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> “Evil spirits! of the deathbed call<br /> Of him who robb’d the widow, and devour’d<br /> The orphan’s portion—of unquiet souls<br /> Ris’n from the grave, to ease the heavy guilt<br /> Of deeds in life conceal’d—of shapes that walk<br /> At dead of night, and clank their chains, and wave<br /> The torch of Hell around the murderer’s bed!”<br /></pre> + <p> + Mowbray and Mr. Montenero, who had stayed behind us a few minutes, came up + just as I was, with much emphasis and gesticulation, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> “Waving the torch of Hell."<br /></pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We were talking of ‘The Pleasures of Imagination,’” said Berenice to her + father. “Mr. Harrington is a great admirer of Akenside.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>modern + self-tormentor.</i> “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?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + What chiefly pleased me in Miss Montenero was the composure, the <i>sincerity</i> + 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 <i>proportion</i> of the admiration she + expressed for all that was in various degrees excellent in arrangement, or + ingenious in contrivance: in short.... + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + That I deny—but I will go on with my story. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Berenice thanked Heaven that the times of persecution were over; and + added, that she hoped any prejudice which still existed would soon die + away. + </p> + <p> + Mowbray exclaimed against the very idea of the existence of such + prejudices at this time of day in England, among the higher classes. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>too</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The playful tone in which Mr. Montenero spoke, put me quite at my ease. + </p> + <p> + 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.” <i>Pucker and + quandary!</i>—Oh! how I groaned inwardly! + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + A look of surprise from Lord Mowbray, without giving himself the trouble + to articulate, was quite sufficient to make the lady go on. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>idears</i> were admitted to be + decisive. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>coolness</i> betwixt the alderman + and Mr. Montenero: “It was,” she said, “about the Manessas, and a young + man called Jacob.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>was</i> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “And never noticed me, I declare,” said Mrs. Coates: “that’s too good!” + </p> + <p> + “But Miss Montenero! I thought she was to be here?” cried Mowbray. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” said Peter, giving his sister a monitory pinch—“can’t you + say your say under your breath? <i>he’s</i> within seven of you, and he + has ears like the devil.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?’” + </p> + <p> + “Not I.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll see, presently,” said Mowbray. + </p> + <p> + “But tell me <i>now</i>,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Only the drawing the teeth of the Jew, by order of some one of our most + merciful lords the kings—John, Richard, or Edward.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “There! Christie has it up! The dear rascal! hear him puff it!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Who bids more?” + </p> + <p> + A bidder started up, who seemed very eager. He was, we were told, an + engraver. + </p> + <p> + “Who bids more?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Beyond my expectation, faith! Both mad!” whispered Mowbray. I thought so + too. Still Mr. Montenero went higher. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “A Jewish gentleman, ma’am, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Very true, ma’am—I’ll call for your carriage, for I suppose you + have had enough of this.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Montenero turned, and looked at me with surprise. + </p> + <p> + “I beg pardon, sir,” said I; “but it made me absolutely—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>mamma</i>—I + did not mean to hurt you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I pass over my mother’s remonstrances against my <i>dining at the + Monteneros’;</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + The next day came. “Now we shall hear about the dentition of the Jew,” + said Mowbray, as we got to Mr. Montenero’s door. + </p> + <p> + And now we shall see Berenice! thought I. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Remember it! certainly.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Then, in a low voice, to Mr. Montenero, the general added, “Do you think + we have not an Englishman good enough for her?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not,” said I. “There is a harp; I hope Miss Montenero will play + on it,” added I. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + I immediately approached, resolved to stand the sight, that I might not be + suspected of affectation. + </p> + <p> + Berenice had not yet seen the painting: she shrunk back the moment she + beheld it, exclaiming, “Oh, father! Why purchase such a horrible picture?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Amen,” said the good old general, and all present joined in that <i>amen</i>. + I heard it pronounced by Miss Montenero in a very low voice, but + distinctly and fervently. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>sees</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + Then, with Jacob’s assistance, Mr. Montenero burned every shred of this + abominable picture, to my inexpressible satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + During this <i>auto-da-fè</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And to your good self,” said I. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + I never saw Berenice and her father look so much pleased with Mowbray as + they did at this instant. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>frequently</i>. + </p> + <p> + I sprang into Mowbray’s carriage one of the happiest men on earth, full of + love, hope, and joy. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. + </h2> + <p> + “All gone to bed but you?” said I to the footman, who opened the door. + </p> + <p> + “No, sir,” said the drowsy fellow, “my lady is sitting up for you, I + believe.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, Mowbray, come in—come up with me to my mother, pray do, for + one instant.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “To-night—to-night—now, now,” persisted I. He complied: “Any + thing to oblige you.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + So snatching up a bougie, the wick of which scattered fire behind him, he + left the room. + </p> + <p> + “Good Heavens! what have I done?” cried Mowbray. + </p> + <p> + “What you can never undo,” said I. + </p> + <p> + My mother spoke not one word, but sat smelling her salts. + </p> + <p> + “Never fear, man,” whispered Mowbray; “he will sleep it off, or by + to-morrow we shall find ways and means.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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—<i>Mrs. Harrington, jun. that is to be!</i>” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>presentiments</i>—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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Even so,” said I: “this day I will know my fate—this day I will + propose for Miss Montenero.” + </p> + <p> + Against this mad precipitation he argued in the most earnest manner. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>in forma pauperis</i> 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—‘” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>certain class</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + My indignation rose. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!—Are you in earnest?—Now you have put it into my head, + I will think of it seriously.” + </p> + <p> + Then in a careless, pick-tooth manner, he stood, as if for some moments + debating the matter with himself. + </p> + <p> + “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—<i>dipped + me</i> 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—” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I have, my lord.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “My lord, this trifling I can bear no longer; I must beg seriously that we + may understand each other.” + </p> + <p> + “Trifling!—Never was more serious in my life. I’d turn Jew—I’d + turn any thing, for a woman I loved.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you, or have you not, my lord, any intention of addressing Miss + Montenero?” + </p> + <p> + “Since I have your permission—since you have put it in my head—since + you have piqued me—frankly—yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I thank you for your frankness, my lord; I understand you. Now we + understand each other,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “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, <i>en honneur;</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Open war!—yes—better than hollow peace.” + </p> + <p> + “Then a truce for to-day; to-morrow, with your good leave, I enter the + lists.” + </p> + <p> + “When you please, my lord.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>curious</i>—I would not allow that I was <i>anxious</i>—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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>toque</i> or + a <i>system</i>, 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 <i>system</i>, + 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 <i>battened</i> down + on each side of the triangle to the face. Then there were things called <i>curls</i>—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 <i>chignon</i>—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 <i>pouf</i>. + 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 “<i>a veil + addeth to beauty.</i>” 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 <i>Montenero,</i> and the word <i>Jewess,</i> + 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, <i>mica,</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Jewess</i>, 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 <i>fashionable impertinents</i>, and how impracticable + it would be to <i>get on</i> 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 <i>authorized</i> 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 <i>morbid + sensibility</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>touchy on + the Jewish chapter</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>suceed</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Never, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “The <i>Caraites</i> 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 <i>Caraites</i> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Blessed art thou, O Everlasting King! that thou hast not made me a + woman.” + </p> + <p> + The woman’s lowly response is, “Blessed art thou, O Lord! that thou hast + made me according to thy will.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>terrible eyes</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>him</i>; indeed he could never forget—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>there was nothing he would not sacrifice to a woman he loved</i>. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>to run amuck</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. + </h2> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “But Mr. and Miss Montenero—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! they was off by times this morning—they be gone—” + </p> + <p> + “Gone?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + I recovered my breath. “And can you, my good lady, tell me where they are + gone?” + </p> + <p> + “Somewhere down in Surrey—Lord knows—I forget the names—but + to General somebody’s.” + </p> + <p> + “General B——‘s, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, ay,—that’s it.” + </p> + <p> + My imagination ran over in an instant all the general’s family, the gouty + brother, and the white-toothed aide-de-camp. + </p> + <p> + “How long are they to stay at General B——‘s, can you tell me, + my good lady?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>outed</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>fortin’s</i> sake, without caring + sixpence about them, that—I ask your pardon, Mr. Harrington—but + I thought you might, in the alderman’s phrase, be <i>of the same kidney</i>; + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>other</i> <i>matters</i>.” 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.” + </p> + <p> + The waiting-maid’s second epistle, on which Mrs. Coates had written, “<i>a + sugar plum for a certain gentleman</i>,” 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; <i>where her heart was, fur certain</i>. 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 <i>match</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Good Heavens!” I exclaimed, “is Miss Montenero ill?” + </p> + <p> + “My daughter is perfectly well, my dear sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank Heaven! But you, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “I,” said Mr. Montenero, “am also in perfect health. What alarms you?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He sighed; and I went on with vehement incoherence. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “You do not know then? You have not been informed? Then I did Lord Mowbray + injustice.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I am aware of it,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Then of what nature can it be? Some base slander—Lord Mowbray—Nothing + shall prevent me!” cried I, starting up furiously. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I have not seen or heard from him since I saw you last.” + </p> + <p> + “Your word is sufficient,” said I. “Then I suspected him unjustly.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Command my own mind! Oh! Mr. Montenero, how easy to say—how + difficult to command the passions—such a passion!” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>antipathies</i>, + my mother’s <i>presentiments</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>medicined</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>proof</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>St. James’s</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, “<i>No + Jews, no wooden shoes</i>!” 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 <i>the master</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>boys</i> 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 <i>fut</i>, + with or without the wooden shoes. <i>Keep ourselves to ourselves</i>, 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 <i>they</i> call a <i>papish</i>; 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 <i>the like</i>, 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 <i>yees</i> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She began by making the footman take down “the outlandish name from off + the door; for no name at all, sure, was better <i>nor</i> a foreign name + these times.” She charged the footman to “say <i>sorrow</i> 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 <i>them</i>. 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 <i>kay</i>, nor mind when to laugh or cry in the right place; + moreover, when they’d get <i>frighted</i> with a cross-examination, they’d + be apt to be <i>cutting</i> themselves. Now, the ould one himself, if he + had me <i>on the table</i> even, I’d defy to get the truth out of me, if + not convanient, and I in the sarvice of a frind.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>polishing</i> + 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 <i>fabling</i>, 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!” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Anne Mowbray’s voice! and Lady de Brantefield!” cried I. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>chaperon</i> 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 <i>papist</i>. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>just in the dress they were</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But are they <i>Romans?</i>” (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 <i>Romans</i>, + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What is that person—that woman?” cried Lady de Brantefield, who now + heard and saw the orange-woman for the first time. + </p> + <p> + “Woman!—is it me she manes?” said the orange-woman, coming forward + quite composedly, shouldering on her cloak. + </p> + <p> + “Is it who I am?—I’m the Widow Levy.—Any commands?” + </p> + <p> + “How did she get in?” continued Lady de Brantefield, still with a look of + mixed pride and terror: “how did she get in?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Anne!—Lady Anne!—Did she follow us in?” said Lady de + Brantefield. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>the Jew’s</i> house—and what matter?” + </p> + <p> + “What matter!” repeated Lady de Brantefield: “are you my daughter, and a + descendant of Sir Josseline de Mowbray, and ask what matter?” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>all + that,</i> 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 <i>our</i> house—and, oh! the great mirror, mamma!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>the boys</i> 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 <i>‘cute</i> 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 <i>have</i> 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Montenero returned to the drawing-room, to learn the determination of + his guests. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Murder!—but you can’t help it—so no more about it—but + what arms have ye?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, so best, send for the dragoons, the only thing left on earth for us + now: but don’t let ‘em fire on <i>the boys</i>—disperse ‘em with the + horse, asy, ye can, without a shot; so best—I’ll step down and feel + the pulse of all below.” + </p> + <p> + While Mr. Montenero wrote, Berenice, alarmed for her father, stood leaning + on the back of his chair, in silence. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>my</i> compliments—Lady Anne Mowbray’s compliments—he’ll + come directly, I’m sure.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>them</i>: + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “See, now, <i>they’ll</i> 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 <i>them</i>, in case they are wid <i>ye</i> afore + I’d get the military up?—I have it,” cried she. + </p> + <p> + She rushed to the door, but turned back again to look for her pipe, which + she had laid on the table. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s my pipe?—Lend it me—What am I without my pipe?” + </p> + <p> + “The savage!” cried Lady de Brantefield. + </p> + <p> + “The fool!” said Lady Anne. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>thought</i> together;—I + was allowed to help her in the midst of the general bustle. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Then we’ll pull down the house.” + </p> + <p> + “The military will be here directly,” said Mr. Montenero, coolly; “you had + better go away.” + </p> + <p> + “The military!—then make haste, boys, with the work.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Berenice, in vain, tried to persuade her to move. Her ideas were + bewildered or concentrated. Only the obstinacy of pride remained alive + within her. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said, “she would never move from that spot—she would not + be commanded by Jew or Jewess.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you hear the mob—the stones at the windows?” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. They would all pay for it on the scaffold or the gibbet.” + </p> + <p> + “But if they break in here you will be torn to pieces.” + </p> + <p> + “No—those only will be sacrificed who <i>have sacrificed</i>. A ‘de + Brantefield’—they dare not!—I shall not stir from this spot. + Who will presume to touch Lady de Brantefield?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Montenero and I lifted up the huge chair on which she sat, and carried + her and it into the back room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + A man leaped in, and, in the struggle, Mr. Montenero’s gun was wrested + from him. + </p> + <p> + On my presenting a pistol, the man scrambled out of the window, carrying + away with him the prize he had seized. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Jewish</i>—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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I am now quite convinced,” said Mr. Montenero, smiling, “that Mr. + Harrington never could have been engaged or attached to Lady Anne + Mowbray.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible you ever imagined?” + </p> + <p> + “I did not <i>imagine</i>, I only heard and believed—and now I have + seen, and I disbelieve.” + </p> + <p> + “And is this the obstacle, the invincible obstacle?” cried I. + </p> + <p> + Berenice sighed, and walked on to her room. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Jew</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “If that be the case,” said the magistrate, “the piece is still loaded.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>proof</i>! 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 <i>old iron shops</i> 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 <i>concealed</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I was obliged to resign Berenice to the care of her attendants. A short + time afterwards I received from her father the following note:— + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I dare not trust my gratitude—my daughter and you must never meet + again, or must meet to part no more. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “A. MONTENERO.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. + </h2> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>free Britons</i>. + Why, Lord ‘a mercy! ‘tis a great deal better <i>maxim</i> to sleep safe in + our beds than to be <i>free Britons</i> and burnt to death [Footnote: Vide + Mrs. Piozzi’s Letters.].” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?—‘<i>No + Jews!—no wooden shoes</i>!’—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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>if</i>—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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>this</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I was just going to tell my mother of the conversation that I had had with + Mr. Montenero, and of <i>the obstacle</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But there are so many elderly gentlemen with canes,” said my mother, + joining me at the window. “Is it Mr. Harrington?” + </p> + <p> + “It is very like my father, ma’am. Now you can see him plainly picking his + way over the crossing.” + </p> + <p> + “He is looking down,” said my mother; “that is a very bad sign.—But + is he not looking up now?” + </p> + <p> + “No, ma’am; and now he is taking snuff.” + </p> + <p> + “Taking snuff! is he? Then there is some hope,” said my mother. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>presentiments</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “All’s lost—and all’s safe,” said my father. “My fortune’s safe, + Mrs. Harrington.” + </p> + <p> + “What becomes of your presentiments, my dear mother?” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Thank Heaven!” said my mother, “I was wrong for once.” + </p> + <p> + “You might thank Heaven for more than once, madam,” said my father. + </p> + <p> + “But then what did you mean by all’s lost, Mr. Harrington; if all’s safe, + how can all be lost?” + </p> + <p> + “My all, Mrs. Harrington, is not all fortune. There is such a thing as + credit as well as fortune, Mrs. Harrington.” + </p> + <p> + “But if you have not lost your fortune, you have not lost your credit, I + presume,” said my mother. + </p> + <p> + “I have a character as a gentleman, Mrs. Harrington.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “A character for consistency, Mrs. Harrington, to preserve.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis a hard thing to preserve, no doubt,” said my mother. + </p> + <p> + “But I wish you’d speak plain, for my nerves can’t bear it.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Berenice!” cried I. + </p> + <p> + “Impossible!” cried my mother. “How came you to see her?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “As long as you please, my dear father,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Your dear father</i>!—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 <i>that</i> yet, my good sir—I have some + consistency.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Where was I?” said he. + </p> + <p> + “You know best,” said my mother; “you said you had lost your heart to a + Jewess, and Harrington exclaimed <i>Berenice!</i> and that’s all I’ve + heard yet.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I will interrupt you no more,” said my mother, submissively, for she was + curious. + </p> + <p> + I placed an arm-chair for my father—in my whole life I never felt so + dutiful or so impatient. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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, <i>Mr. + Montenero</i>. 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 <i>Mr. Montenero, Mr. + Harrington—Mr. Harrington, Mr. Montenero</i>. I bowed, and wished + the <i>Jew</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “‘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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>against time</i>, 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.’ + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>consent</i>, you know, + Harrington, or some sly underplot of that kind. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “When I found that my <i>Jupiter Amman</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing easier, if I would partake of a cold collation just serving in + the next room for the friends of the house. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>he</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>propose</i>, for Miss + Montenero. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Both father and mother turned about, and asked, “What answer?” + </p> + <p> + I repeated, as nearly as I could, Mr. Montenero’s words—and I + produced his note. + </p> + <p> + Both excited surprise and curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “What can this obstacle—this mysterious obstacle be?” said my + mother. + </p> + <p> + “An obstacle on their side!” exclaimed my father: “is that possible?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “At least,” said my mother, “I hope we shall know what the objection is.” + </p> + <p> + “It is very extraordinary, after all, that it should be on their side,” + repeated my father. + </p> + <p> + My mother’s imagination, and my father’s pride, were both strongly + excited; and I let them work without interruption. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>gratis</i>. “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 <i>form</i> of the rings, their <i>number</i>, their <i>matter</i>, + and their <i>colour</i>. 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 <i>difficult</i> + customers. Two hours had scarcely elapsed before a footman came from Lady + de Brantefield with the following note:— + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Lady de Brantefield requests that Mr. Manessa will bring the ring <i>himself</i> + to Lady Warbeck’s, Hanover-square, where Lady de Brantefield is at + present. + </p> + <p> + “Lady de Brantefield desires Mr. M. will make <i>no delay</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Hanover-square, Tuesday.</i>” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>inestimable</i> 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 <i>idle gaieties</i>; 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. + </p> + <p> + I looked, and saw a face which awakened the most painful associations of + my childhood. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>The most faithful creature!</i>” said my mother, in the very tone I + had heard it pronounced twenty years before. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>that</i> Jacob’s possession—<i>that</i> + Jacob, of whom she had a very bad opinion! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Too good reason, her ladyship emphatically said: she had heard her son, + Lord Mowbray, express a <i>very</i> bad opinion of him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I wondered she had trusted her jewels, then, in such hands. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Has your ladyship,” I asked, “any particular reason for remembering this + fact?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes! several very particular reasons.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>guard + ring</i>, 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 <i>wrong</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “But was not it possible,” I asked, “that your ladyship might this once + have put on Sir Josseline’s ring without recollecting the guard?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “But might not it be left in the glove?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + The muff! I asked if the muff, as well as the glove, had been searched + carefully. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but the muff, did your ladyship examine it yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + I requested permission to see the muff. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “I did.” + </p> + <p> + And Miss Nancy with the treble ruffles in her hand now appeared. + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis your mother, child, I want,” said Lady de Brantefield. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady, she is only just finished assisting to lay out the ball + supper.” + </p> + <p> + “But I want her—directly.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, my lady, directly.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Fowler, but the muff,” said Lady de Brantefield. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And what did you do with it?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>you’s up</i>, + my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, very well, that will do, I suppose, will it not, Mr. + Harrington?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I found Lady Anne Mowbray—talked nonsense to her ladyship for a + quarter of an hour—and at last, <i>à propos </i>to her perfumed fan, + I brought in the old muff with the horrid smell, on purpose to obtain a + full description of it. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>the + shabby</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + We drove as fast as we could to Swallow-street—dismissed our hackney + coach, and walked up to the pawnbroker’s. + </p> + <p> + Light in the shop!—all alive!—and business going on. The shop + was so full of people, that we stood for some minutes unnoticed. + </p> + <p> + We had leisure to look about us, as we had previously agreed to do, for + Lady De Brantefield’s muff. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I could scarcely refrain from seizing upon it that moment, but Jacob again + restrained me. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 “<i>the splendour of the topaz</i>”—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 <i>stolen goods</i>—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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Mr. Harrington,” said he, “from the time you were <i>Master</i> + 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—‘<i>A + lie has no feet.</i>’” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. + </h2> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Then observing, I believe, that her threat made no impression, her tone + changed again to the whine of supplication. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mr. Harrington, if I could hope for your forgiveness, I could reveal + such a secret—a secret that so concerns you!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “The loss of her jewels, do you mean, sir?” said I: “they are found.” + </p> + <p> + “Jewels!” said my father; “I don’t know what you are talking of.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know then what you mean, sir,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>jest</i> + (the word <i>jest</i> scratched out), the thing farther than to show him + his power to break off matters, if he pleased—but he now repented.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I did not tell her, sir; I never uttered a sentence of his lordship’s <i>death</i>.” + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “A jest! Oh, wretch!” cried my mother. + </p> + <p> + “I was a wretch, indeed, ma’am; but Lord Mowbray was, you’ll allow, the + wickedest.” + </p> + <p> + “And at the moment he is dead,” said my father, “is this a time—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me the plain fact at once, woman.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + My mother rose, and said that she would tell the plain fact. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>insanity</i>. 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 <i>worst</i>; + 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 <i>that</i> + poor young gentleman’s <i>strange fits</i>; and she questioned the + apothecary whether they had come on ever <i>very</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>extraordinary illness</i>, 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 <i>on the move</i>—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—<i>never to be mentioned + without a sigh</i>—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 <i>drawn</i> from her—to + refuse to give further information lest she should do mischief. When + assured that the Monteneros were friends, then to tell <i>circumstances + agreed upon</i>—to end with a promise to produce a <i>keeper</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Berenice</i>: 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. + </p> + <p> + My mother’s carriage was at the door; it was by this time the hour for + visiting. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + I kissed my mother’s hand I don’t know how many times, till my father told + me I was a <i>fool</i>. + </p> + <p> + “But,” turning to me, when the carriage had driven off, “though I am + delighted that the <i>obstacle</i> 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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Montenero turned to me, and I saw tears in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “There is no obstacle between us now, I hope,” said I, eagerly seizing the + hand which he held out to me. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Montenero pressed me in his arms, with the affection of a parent. + </p> + <p> + “Heyday! heyday!” said my father, in a tone between pleasure and anger,—“do + you at all know what you are about, Harrington?—remember!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>tapestry-chamber</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Montenero appeared determined not to say any more, but something + seemed to be still in reserve in his mind. + </p> + <p> + “I hope, Mr. Montenero,” said I, “that now no obstacle exists.” + </p> + <p> + “On my part none,” replied Mr. Montenero; “but you recollect—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “At all hazards?” said Mr. Montenero. + </p> + <p> + “No hazards with such a woman as Berenice,” said I, “though her religion—” + </p> + <p> + “I would give,” exclaimed my father, “I would give one of my fingers this + instant, that she was not a Jewess!” + </p> + <p> + “Is your objection, sir, to her not being a Christian, or to her being the + daughter of a Jew?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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—(<i>Jew</i>, he was on the point of saying) + excellent Mr. Montenero; but, is not she your daughter?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “A Christian! a Protestant!” repeated my father. + </p> + <p> + “An English Protestant: her mother was daughter of—” + </p> + <p> + “An English Protestant!” interrupted my father, “English! English! Do you + hear that, Mrs. Harrington?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank Heaven! I do hear it, my dear,” said my mother. “But, Mr. + Montenero, we interrupt—daughter of—?” + </p> + <p> + “Daughter of an English gentleman, of good family, who accompanied one of + your ambassadors to Spain.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “You thought, Mrs. Harrington,” interposed my father, “you thought, to be + sure, that Miss Montenero <i>looked like a Christian</i>. Yes, yes; and no + doubt you had <i>presentiments</i> plenty.” + </p> + <p> + “Granted, granted, my dear; but don’t let us say any more about them now.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, my boy! well, Harrington! not a word?” + </p> + <p> + “No—I am too happy!—the delight I feel—But, my dear Mr. + Montenero,” said I, “why—<i>why</i> did not you tell all this + sooner? What pain you would have spared me!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Though</i>”—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. + </p> + <p> + “Why did not I spare you the pain?” repeated he. “And do you think that + the trial cost <i>me</i>, cost <i>us</i> no pain?” said Mr. Montenero. + “The time may come when, as my son, you may perhaps learn from Berenice—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That is true, indeed!” said my mother. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! no rushing, for mercy’s sake, Harrington!” said my mother: “some + consideration for Miss Montenero’s nerves!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “This evening, perhaps, Miss Montenero would allow us,” said my mother. + </p> + <p> + “This instant,” said Mr. Montenero, “if you will do me the honour, Mrs. + Harrington.” + </p> + <p> + “The carriage,” said my mother, ringing. + </p> + <p> + “The carriage, directly,” cried my father to the servant as he entered. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s a fellow will certainly fly the moment you let him go,” said my + father. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “That’s all settled—all over—let me pass, good Jacob.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Who will, I hope,” said my father, appearing at the top of the stairs, + “soon be his bride.” + </p> + <p> + “His bride!” + </p> + <p> + Jacob saw Mr. Montenero’s face behind me, and clasping his, hands, “The + very thing I wished!” cried he, opening the house-door. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>your choice</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “And I, Miss Montenero!—Let me speak, pray, Mrs. Harrington,” said + my father. + </p> + <p> + “By and by,” whispered my mother; “not yet, my love.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, put the ring on her finger—that’s right, boy!” cried my father, + as my mother drew him back. + </p> + <p> + Berenice accepted of the ring in the most gracious, the most graceful + manner. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>our</i> happiness.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “For shame, my dear,” said my mother; “you make Miss Montenero blush!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It was otherwise, they say, in the days of Theagenes and Chariclea. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Harrington—good Mr. Harrington—I have a favour to ask + from you.” + </p> + <p> + “A favour! from me! Oh! name it,” cried I: “What pleasure I shall have in + granting it!” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not. You will not have pleasure—immediate pleasure—in + granting it: it will cost you present pain.” + </p> + <p> + “Pain!—impossible! but no matter how much pain if you desire it. + What can it be?” + </p> + <p> + “That wretched woman—Fowler!” + </p> + <p> + I shuddered and started back. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “By Jupiter Ammon,” cried my father, “none but a good Christian could do + this!” + </p> + <p> + “And why,” said Berenice, laying her hand gently on my father’s arm, “and + why not a good Jew?” + </p> + <p> + END OF HARRINGTON. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THOUGHTS ON BORES. + </h2> + <p> + A bore is a biped, but not always unplumed. There be of both kinds;—the + female frequently plumed, the <i>male-military</i> plumed, helmed, or + crested, and whisker-faced, hairy, <i>Dandy bore</i>, ditto, ditto, ditto.—There + are bores unplumed, capped, or hatted, curled or uncurled, bearded and + beardless. + </p> + <p> + The <i>bore</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, <i>il s’appesantit</i>—Touch and go, it is + not in the nature of a bore to do—whatever he touches turns to lead. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>bore</i>, + <i>boor</i>, and <i>boar</i>, are all three spelt indifferently, and <i>consequently</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>thing</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In the first place, there is the <i>mortal great bore</i>, 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, <i>can</i> be a great + bore; others are not endured long enough in society, to come to the + perfection of tiresomeness. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>fooleries</i> and misinformations”—<i>vide</i> a life + published by Hearne—Thomas Hearne—him to whom Time said, + “Whatever I forget, you learn.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>quantum</i> 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 <i>the cold enthusiasm</i>; 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. + </p> + <p> + But I have been already guilty of an error of arrangement; I should have + given precedence to the <i>old original English bore</i>; which should + perhaps be more properly spelt <i>boor</i>; indeed it was so, as late as + the time of Mrs. Cowley, who, in the Belle’s Stratagem, talks of man’s + being <i>boored</i>. + </p> + <p> + The <i>boor</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + <i>The parliamentary bore</i> 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 <i>licence</i>; and + frank letters—some illegibly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hear! Hear! Hear!—Hear him! Hear him! Hear him!—Speaker! + Speaker! Speaker! Speaker!—Order! Order! Order!—Hear the + honourable member!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>evasives</i>, + 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 <i>make up</i> my mind” (an expression borrowed from the laundress). + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Approved beginnings of speeches as follows—for a raw bore: + </p> + <p> + “Unused as I am to public speaking, Mr. Speaker, I feel myself on the + present occasion called upon not to give a silent vote.” + </p> + <p> + For old stagers: + </p> + <p> + “In the whole course of my parliamentary career, never did I rise with + such diffidence.” + </p> + <p> + In reply, the bore begins with: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + For a premeditated harangue of four hours or upwards he regularly + commences with + </p> + <p> + “At this late hour of the night, I shall trouble the house with only a few + words, Mr. Speaker.” + </p> + <p> + 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, <i>bonâ fide</i> 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 <i>to be heard</i>,” 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.” + </p> + <p> + The courtier-bore has sometimes crept into the English parliament.—But + is common on the continent: infinite varieties, as <i>le courtisan propre, + courtisan homme d’état</i>, and <i>le courtisan philosophe</i>—a + curious but not a rare kind in France, of which M. de Voltaire was one of + the finest specimens. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They still flourish abroad, often seen at the tables of the great. <i>The + demi-philosophe-moderne-politico-legislativo-metaphysico-non-logico-grand + philanthrope</i> still scribbles, by the ream, <i>pièces justificatives</i>, + <i>projets de loi</i>, and volumes of metaphysical sentiment, to be seen + at the fair of Leipzig, or on ladies’ tables. The greater bore, the <i>courtisan + propre</i>, is still admired at little <i>serene</i> courts, where, + well-dressed and well-drilled—his back much bent with Germanic bows; + not a dangerous creature—would only bore you to death. + </p> + <p> + We come next to our own <i>blue bores</i>—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 <i>conversaziones</i>, + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>light</i> 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 <i>blue chatterer</i> is seen and heard + every where; it no man will attempt to silence by throwing the + handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + The next species—the <i>mock blue</i>—is scarcely worth + noticing; gone to ladies’ maids, dress-makers, milliners, &c., found + of late behind counters, and in the oddest places. <i>The blue mocking + bird</i> (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. + </p> + <p> + <i>The conversazione blue</i>, or <i>bureau d’esprit blue</i>. 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 <i>bureau d’esprit</i>, or <i>conversazione + blue</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 “<i>No + popery</i>” cries; and when becomes to that pitch be loses his senses and + his common sense completely. “<i>No blues!</i>” “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. + </p> + <p> + <i>The blue bore disguised, or the renegade blue</i>. These may be + detected by their extraordinary fear of being taken for <i>blues</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It should be noticed that the <i>bore condescending</i> is peculiarly + obnoxious to the proud man. + </p> + <p> + Besides the <i>bore condescending</i>, who, whether good-natured or + ill-natured, is a most provoking animal—there is the bore <i>facetious</i>, + an insufferable creature, always laughing, but with whom you can never + laugh. And there is another exotic variety—the <i>vive la bagatelle + bore</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>conversazione</i> + certainly never; whatever she might to a dinner-party. Ease cannot stay, + wit flies away, and humour grows dull, if people try for them. + </p> + <p> + Well-bred persons, abhorring the pedantry of the blues, are usually <i>anti-blues</i>, + or <i>ultra-antis</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, <i>apparently</i>, the most sleepy of all animated beings. <i>Apparently</i>, + 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 <i>sham-sleeping + bore</i> 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 <i>lion-hunters</i>—yea, the <i>lion-loving</i> + bores. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>blue-lion-loving-bore</i> 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 <i>quite</i>; + there is always a difference made, better understood than described. I + have heard lions of my acquaintance complain of showing themselves off to + these <i>ultra-antis</i>, 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 <i>such</i> a lion.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>bon + mots</i> 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, + <i>shirk a bore</i>. It is often attempted, but seldom or never + successfully. He hides in his den, but <i>not at home</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>greater</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>boring</i> + you”—“I must run away or I shall be a bore.” It ended in his + becoming that which he most feared to be. + </p> + <p> + There are a few rare exceptions to all that has been said of the caprices + or <i>weaknesses</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 “<i>go to sleep</i>” + 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. + </p> + <p> + I am come to the crass of the <i>infant bore</i>—the <i>infant + reciting bore</i>; 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>infant + reciter</i>. 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 <i>by heart</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + Pope’s Man of Ross was doomed to suffer first. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> “Rise, honest Muse, and sing the Man of Ross!”<br /></pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The Seven Ages of Man, and “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and + women in it”—gone to destruction. + </p> + <p> + The quality of mercy <i>is</i> strained, and is no longer twice blest. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>dramatic</i> or <i>theatric</i> acting, reading, + singing, recitative—and finally into the + everlasting-quotation-loving bore—Greek, Latin, and English. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I invite every true friend of literature and of good conversation, <i>blues</i> + and <i>antis</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + “The light fantastic toe,” has figured so long in the newspapers, that an + editor of taste would hardly admit it now into his columns. + </p> + <p> + “Pity is akin to love,”—sunk to utter contempt; along with—“Grace + is in all her steps;” and “Man never <i>is</i>, but always <i>to be blest</i>;”—“Youth + at the prow, and pleasure at the helm;”—no longer safe on a boating + party. + </p> + <p> + The bourgeois gentilhomme has talked prose too long without knowing it. + </p> + <p> + “No man is a hero to his <i>valet de chambre</i>,”—gone to the + valets themselves. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + I feel that I am—I fear that I have long been, + </p> + <h3> + A BORE + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ORMOND + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <p> + “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 <i>rear-guard</i>, + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Lady O’Shane, for mercy’s sake let us have no more of these permanent + circle sittings at Castle Hermitage, my dear!” + </p> + <p> + “Sir Ulick, I am sure I should be very glad if it were possible,” replied + Lady O’Shane, “to have no more <i>permanent sittings</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Tea or coffee, Sir Ulick O’Shane, for the third time of asking?” cried a + sharp female voice from the remote tea-table. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Fortunate for yourself, sir—for both are as cold as stones—and + no wonder!” said Miss Black. + </p> + <p> + “No wonder!” echoed Lady O’Shane, looking at her watch, and sending forth + an ostentatious sigh. + </p> + <p> + “What o’clock is it by your ladyship?” asked Miss Black. “I have a notion + it’s tremendously late.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “We are too long, Lady O’Shane,” added he, “standing here like lovers, + talking to no one but ourselves—awkward in company.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Like lovers!</i>” 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. + </p> + <p> + He was a fine gallant <i>off-hand</i> looking Irishman, with something of + <i>dash</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>setters-up</i> + 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 <i>stalko</i>. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>friends</i>, 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 <i>besides</i> 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. <i>Besides</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But where’s my son—where’s Marcus?” said Sir Ulick, drawing Lady + O’Shane aside. “I don’t see him any where.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ought</i>—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.” + </p> + <p> + “Young men are never punctual,” said Sir Ulick; “but Marcus is inexcusable + to-night on account of the Annalys.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>you are not ready</i> till I draw on my gloves. Break + a string or two, if necessary.” + </p> + <p> + “We will—we shall—plase your honour.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish, Lady O’Shane,” continued Sir Ulick in a lower tone, “I wish you + had given me a hint of this.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>elevation</i>, thence through all the declining cases + of stultified paralytic ineptitude, down to the horizontal condition of + preterpluperfect ebriety. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “So much the better for you, my dear, if you knew but all,” said Sir + Ulick, laughing. + </p> + <p> + “If I knew but all!” repeated her ladyship, with an alarmed look. + </p> + <p> + “But that’s not the matter in hand at present, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>count</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The keys of the gate instantly,” cried he, “for mercy’s sake!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Sir Ulick, did you see,” pointing to the door, “did you see Mr. Ormond?—There’s + blood!” + </p> + <p> + “There’s mischief, certainly,” said Miss Black. “A quarrel—Mr. + Marcus, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Black, open the door, and not another word.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Bring salts! water! something, Miss Black—follow me, Lady O’Shane.” + </p> + <p> + “When I’m hardly able—your wife! Sir Ulick, you might,” said Lady + O’Shane, as she tottered on, “you might, I should have <i>thought</i>—” + </p> + <p> + “No time for such thoughts, my dear,” interrupted he. “Sit down on the + steps—there, she is better now—now what is all this?” + </p> + <p> + “I am not to speak,” said Miss Black. + </p> + <p> + Lady O’Shane began to say how Mr. Ormond had burst in, covered with blood, + and seized the keys of the gates. + </p> + <p> + “The keys!” But he had no time for <i>that</i> thought. “Which way did he + go?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know; I gave him the keys of both gates.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “This way, Sir Ulick—they are coming,” said Miss Annaly, who had now + recovered her presence of mind. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Marcus!—is it you?—thank God! But Ormond—where is he, + and what has happened?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Who is he?” said Sir Ulick. + </p> + <p> + “Moriarty Carroll, please your honour,” answered several voices at once. + </p> + <p> + “And how happened it?” said Sir Ulick. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “It was you, then, that fired at him,” interrupted Sir Ulick. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, oh! yes!” said he, striking his forehead: “I did it in the fury of + passion.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>that</i>—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. + </p> + <p> + “Have you sent for a surgeon?” said Sir Ulick, coolly. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir Ulick, give me the key of the conservatory, to let Miss Annaly into + the ball-room.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Annaly does not wish to dance any more to-night, I believe,” said + Sir Ulick. + </p> + <p> + “Dance—oh! no.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Go on, ladies, pray,” said Sir Ulick; “what stops you?” + </p> + <p> + “‘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.” + </p> + <p> + “No danger—nonsense, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>people</i> 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, <i>canting</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You are drunk, young man! My dear Ormond, you don’t know what you are + saying,” interposed Sir Ulick. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Supper! ay, every thing goes on as usual,” said Ormond, “and I—” + </p> + <p> + “I must follow them in, and see how things <i>are</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll think better of it before morning,” said Sir Ulick, as he left + Ormond. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>take on</i> 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 <i>forenent</i> me, I can’t close an eye for + thinking of you, Mr. Harry.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>taste</i> 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 <i>good</i> a + man as ever in a fortnight’s time. + </p> + <p> + “Sure, when he’d take the soft sleep he couldn’t but do well.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>if this man die—I shall be a murderer</i>.” + </p> + <p> + This thought, perpetually recurring, so oppressed him, that he stood + motionless, till he was roused by the voice of Sir Ulick O’Shane. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Harry Ormond, how is it with you, my boy?—The fellow’s alive, + I hope?” + </p> + <p> + “Alive—Thank Heaven!—yes; and asleep.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid,” said Ormond, “that I spoke too hastily last night: I beg + your pardon.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, nay, put <i>me</i> 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) “<i>puts + her up to it</i>. 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>part</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Ormond could hardly pronounce the word. + </p> + <p> + “Part!” repeated Sir Ulick: “no, by all the saints, and all the devils in + female form!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Tears started into Ormond’s eyes; Sir Ulick appeared much affected, and in + a state of great embarrassment and indecision. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But where can you go, my dear boy?—What will you do with yourself?—What + will become of you?” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind—never mind what becomes of me, my dear sir: I’ll find + means—I have the use of head and hands.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Ulick put a purse into Ormond’s hand, and left him. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>swore</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>schemer</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>gossoon</i> + 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 <i>banishment</i>: + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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). + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>hanting</i> 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 <i>other</i>—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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I thank your ladyship, but Mr. Harry lets me want for nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor ever will, while I have a farthing I can call my own,” cried Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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—<i>my shot</i> was nothing to it!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>will</i> deserve it in future. If I get over this—interested + in <i>my</i> future fate—Lady Annaly!” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>fated</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <h3> + HARRY OSMOND’S GOOD RESOLUTIONS. + </h3> + <p> + Resolved 1st.—That I will never drink more than (<i>blank number</i> + of) glasses. + </p> + <p> + Resolved 2ndly.—That I will cure myself of being passionate. + </p> + <p> + Resolved 3rdly.—That I will never keep low company. + </p> + <p> + Resolved.—That I am too fond of flattery—women’s, especially, + I like most. To cure myself of that. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ormond</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + “The answer I am from the Black Islands, Master Harry; and would have been + back wid you afore nightfall yesterday, only <i>he</i>—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 <i>abow</i> + in the big lough, forenent the spot where the fir dale was cut last seraph + by them rogues.” + </p> + <p> + The despatch from the King of the Black Islands was then produced from the + messenger’s bosom, and it ran as follows: + </p> + <p> + “Dear Harry. What the mischief has come over Cousin Ulick to be banishing + you from Castle Hermitage? But since he <i>conformed</i>, 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. <i>He</i> 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 + <i>Corny</i>—but no <i>king</i> to you, only your hearty old + friend.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>hospitable echoes</i>, as Moriarty + called them, repeating the sound. A horse, decked with ribands, waited on + the shore, with King Corny’s compliments for <i>Prince</i> Harry, as the + boy, who held the stirrup for Ormond to mount, said he was instructed to + call him, and to proclaim him “<i>Prince Harry</i>” 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Ormond alighted. + </p> + <p> + The gracious, cordial, fatherly welcome, with which he was received, + delighted his heart. + </p> + <p> + “Welcome, prince, my adopted son, welcome to Corny <i>castle—palace</i>, + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Till tea-time,” thought young Harry. “Till supper-time,” thought Father + Jos. “Till bed-time,” thought King Corny. + </p> + <p> + At tea-time young Harry, in pursuance of his <i>resolution</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The wounded boy was axing for you, Master Harry,” said the girl, who came + in to open the shutters. + </p> + <p> + “How is he?” cried Harry, starting up. + </p> + <p> + “He is <i>but soberly</i>; [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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>feeling</i> 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 <i>genteel</i> + people of the islands—a dinner in honour and in introduction of his + <i>adopted son</i>, King Corny gave a toast “to the Prince presumptive,” + as he now styled him—a bumper toast. Soon afterwards he detected <i>daylight</i> + in Harry’s glass, and cursing it properly, he insisted on flowing bowls + and full glasses. “What! are you Prince <i>presumptuous</i>?” 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Ormond had his hand on the lock of the door—it was a bad lock, and + opened with difficulty. + </p> + <p> + “There’s gratitude for you! No heart, after all—I mistook him.” + </p> + <p> + 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, <i>you</i>, my benefactor, + my friend; you have said it—think it you did not—you could + not, but say it you may—<i>You</i> 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—<i>you</i> may. <i>No heart</i>! 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>heretic</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Against drinking, you! King Corny!” said Father Jos, stopping his hand, + “and in case of the gout in your stomach?” + </p> + <p> + “Against drinking! do you think I’d perjure myself? No! But against + pressing <i>him</i> to it—I’ll take my oath I’ll never ask him to + drink another glass more than he likes.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At a court where such ingenious casuistry prevailed, it was happy for our + hero that an unqualifying oath now protected his resolution. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>punished</i> 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 <i>roar</i>!” And he + roared—for another twinge seized him. + </p> + <p> + Nature said <i>sleep</i>! 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.” + </p> + <p> + Harry confessed his ignorance. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + King Corny set to work compounding plasters and embrocations, preparing + all sorts of decoctions of roots and leaves, famous <i>through the country</i>. + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Master Harry—Prince Harry—was now looked up to as a person + all-powerful with <i>the master</i>; 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “She is gone off to the <i>continent</i>—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—<i>à fortiori</i> a king—<i>à + fortiori</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>White Connal</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>cousin Cornelius</i>; 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. + </p> + <p> + But he had since seen hunts in a very different style, and he could no + longer admire the rabble rout. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The other, inhabiting a remote island, secluded from all men but those + over whom he <i>reigned</i>, caring for no earthly consideration, and for + no human opinion but his own, had <i>for</i> himself and <i>by</i> + himself, hewed out his way to his own objects, and then rested, satisfied— + </p> + <p> + “Lord of himself, and all his (<i>little</i>) world his own.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> + <p> + 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, <i>in all haste</i>, that <i>he + “just seen</i> Sir Ulick O’Shane in the boat, crossing the lake for the + Black Islands.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, breathless blockhead! and what of that?” said King Corny—“did + you never see a man in a boat before?” + </p> + <p> + “I did, plase your honour.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what is there extraordinary?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing at all, plase your honour, only—thought your honour might + like to know.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “‘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.” + </p> + <p> + “Morning visit!” repeated Mrs. Betty Dunshaughlin, the housekeeper, who + entered the room, for she was a privileged person, and had <i>les grandes + et les petites entrées in this palace</i>”—Morning visit!—are + you sure, Father Jos—are you clear he isn’t come intending to stay + dinner?” + </p> + <p> + “What, in the devil’s name, Betty, does it signify?” said the king. + </p> + <p> + “About the dinner!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Wheugh</i>.’” said Betty, “one would not like to have a dinner of + scraps—for there’s nothing else to-day for him.” + </p> + <p> + “Then if there <i>is</i> nothing else, there <i>can</i> be nothing else,” + said the priest, very philosophically. + </p> + <p> + “But when strangers come to dine, one would make a bit of an exertion, if + one could,” said Betty. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “A person may speak in this house, I suppose, besides the clergy, Father + Jos,” said Mrs. Betty, under her breath. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>fauterer</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Had Captain Ormond, the father, no fortune?” asked the priest. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>touch</i>; 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell us! Oh! no,” said the priest, “he’ll keep his own secret.” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll let it out, I’ll engage, trying to hide it,” said Corny: “like all + cunning people, he <i>woodcocks</i>—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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s my boy? Where’s Harry Ormond?” was the first leading question Sir + Ulick asked. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “He thought it necessary, for domestic reasons,” replied Sir Ulick. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Continental policy</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What are you so busy about?” said Sir Ulick. + </p> + <p> + “Mending the child’s toy,” said Cornelius. “A man must be doing something + in this world.” + </p> + <p> + “But a man of your ingenuity! ‘tis a pity it should be wasted, as I have + often said, upon mere toys.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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, <i>paid</i> for.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “The fees, of course—but we shall never understand one another,” + said Sir Ulick. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t remember it,” said Sir Ulick. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>cattle</i> upon it speak for themselves; + an honest calf won’t lie for any man.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What prize, may I ask?” + </p> + <p> + “You may ask, and I’ll answer—the prize of <i>success</i>; and, + success to myself, I have, it.” + </p> + <p> + “And succeeding in all your ends by such noble means must be doubly + gratifying—and is doubly commendable and surprising,” said Sir + Ulick. + </p> + <p> + “May I ask—for it’s my turn now to play ignoramus—may I ask, + what noble means excites this gratuitous commendation and surprise?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis a pity you don’t continue the old Irish style of ploughing by the + tail,” said Sir Ulick. + </p> + <p> + “That is against humanity to brute <i>bastes</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>munging</i> + away at their hay ropes.” + </p> + <p> + Cornelius joined in Sir Ulick’s laugh, which shortened its duration. + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis comical ploughing, I grant,” said he, “but still, to my fancy, any + thing’s better and more profitable <i>nor</i> the tragi-comic ploughing + you practise every sason in Dublin.” + </p> + <p> + “I?” said Sir Ulick. + </p> + <p> + “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— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> ‘If there’s a man on earth I hate,<br /> Attendance and dependence be his fate.’”<br /></pre> + <p> + “After all, I have very good prospects in life,” said Sir Ulick. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d rather cut it out for myself than have any body to cut it out for + me,” said Cornelius. + </p> + <p> + “Upon my word, this will require all your extraordinary ingenuity, + cousin.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + On this point Sir Ulick was particularly sore, for he had the character of + being one of the greatest <i>jobbers</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 “<i>shirking the boy</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “And where’s Marcus, sir? would not he come with you to see us?” said + Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + This glance at Harry, the moment Sir Ulick pronounced the words <i>Miss + Annaly</i>, first directed aright the attention of Cornelius. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “All’s safe,” said Sir Ulick to himself, as he took leave. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Woodcocked</i>! that he has—as I foresaw he would,” cried King + Corny, the moment his guest had departed. “<i>Woodcocked</i>! if ever man + did, by all that’s cunning!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad you like me the better, at all events,” said Harry; “but I + don’t think I am a dupe.” + </p> + <p> + “No—if you <i>did</i>, you would not be one: so you don’t see that + it was and <i>is</i> Sir Ulick, and not her ladyship, that wanted and + wants to get rid of you?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Rivalling Marcus in what, or how?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>With</i> whom? boy, is the question you should ask; and in that case + the answer is—Dunce, can’t you guess now?—Miss Annaly.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “More shame for his father that couldn’t do the same by you when he was + about it.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, whoever he <i>pleases</i>; and who will that be, if women are of my + mind?” muttered Corny. “I’ll engage, if you had a mind to rival him—” + </p> + <p> + “Rival him! the thought of rivalling my friend never entered my head.” + </p> + <p> + “But is he your friend?” said Cornelius. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor she of you, I suppose, you’ll swear?” + </p> + <p> + “Nor she of me! assuredly not, sir,” said Harry, with surprise at the + idea. “Do you consider what I am—and what she is?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I am glad they are gone to England out of the way!” said Cornelius. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Might have hoped!—would have become!</i>—That’s a friend + in the air, who may never be found on earth. <i>If you deserved it</i>!—Murder!—who + knows how that might turn out—<i>if</i>—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 <i>if</i> 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!” + </p> + <p> + “But, dear sir, how you have worked yourself up into a passion against + Lady Annaly for nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “She is no preacher, I assure you, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “How dare you tell me that—was not her letter very <i>edifying?</i> + Sir Ulick said.” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir; it was very kind—will you read it?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That list was my own, not hers, sir: I dropped it under a tree.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, drop it into the fire now, and no more about it. Pray, after all, + Harry, for curiosity’s sake, what faults have you?” + </p> + <p> + “Dear sir, I thought you told me you knew them by heart.” + </p> + <p> + “I always forget what I learn by heart; put me in mind, and may be I’ll + recollect as you go on.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir, in the first place, I am terribly passionate.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you said just now you often repented.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! never mind what I said <i>just now</i>—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!” + </p> + <p> + “Methodism, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Methodism</i>, 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 + <i>new</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “But, sir—is it possible—are you able?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>donny</i> English + prince or king, they nicknamed <i>Lackland</i>.—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.” + </p> + <p> + The gift of this <i>principality</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>a</i>sy to see what a man he’d be. Long may he live to + <i>reign</i> over us!” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>free</i> + 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 <i>the Islands</i>. + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>pattern</i>, [Footnote: <i>Patron</i>, probably—an + entertainment held in honour of the <i>patron</i> 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 <i>pattern</i>. + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>the apple-room</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>gentleman</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>success</i>, 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 <i>trusty</i> [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 <i>could</i>, 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 <i>fortunately</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “How now, Moriarty?” said Harry. But looking in his face, he saw the poor + fellow pale as death. + </p> + <p> + “What ails you, Moriarty?” + </p> + <p> + “A pain I just took about my heart,” said Moriarty, pressing both hands to + his heart. + </p> + <p> + “My poor fellow!—Wait!—you’ll be better just now, I hope,” + said Ormond, laying his hand on Moriarty’s shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + A suspicion of the truth now flashed across Ormond’s mind—he was + determined to know whether it was the truth or not. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll not leave you, till I know what’s the matter,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But alive, Moriarty, if the heart is in the case only,” said Ormond, “a + man can open himself to a friend.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Then if you are quite stout again, I shall want you to row me across the + lake.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not able for that, sir,” replied Moriarty, pushing past him. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Sooner stab me to the heart <i>again</i>,” cried Moriarty, breaking from + him. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Wife!” repeated Moriarty, joy illuminating, but fear as instantly + darkening his countenance. “How will that be now?” + </p> + <p> + “It <i>will</i> 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, <i>wife</i>, 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—” + </p> + <p> + Moriarty sighed. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Lean against me, poor fellow. Oh, if I had broken such a heart!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “For what?—For what?—You have done no wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “No:—but I said wrong—very wrong—when I said stab me to + the heart <i>again</i>. Oh, that word <i>again</i>—it was very + ungenerous.” + </p> + <p> + “Noble fellow!” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “Good night to your honour, kindly,” said Moriarty. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>under age</i>. What the <i>under age</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>good people</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>gentleman</i> 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 <i>useful</i>, 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 <i>reading man</i>, + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir—this minute—be kind enough to wait one minute.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Another time, at the very death of Clarissa, King Corny would have Harry + out to see a Solan goose. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>punishment</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>his</i> 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 <i>famous</i> 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. <i>Mademoiselle</i>—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 <i>d’un certain age</i>,” and which Miss O’Faley happily + translated, “a woman of <i>no particular age</i>.” 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. + </p> + <p> + “What do you see so wonderful in Aunt O’Faley?” said Dora. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing—only—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Ormond longed to see more of her, on whom so much of his happiness was to + depend. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>politesse</i>, + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>noble</i>, nor <i>comme + il faut</i>,” 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>finished</i>. + </p> + <p> + “Nor ever will be,” said Dora, looking from her father to her aunt with a + sort of ironical smile. + </p> + <p> + “Why, what has he been doing all this life?” said mademoiselle. + </p> + <p> + “Making a <i>shift</i>,” said Dora: “I will show you dozens of them as we + go over this house. He calls them substitutes—<i>I</i> call them + make-shifts.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>oddities</i>, + and he was often in pain for his good friend Corny. + </p> + <p> + His majesty was both proud and ashamed of his palace: proud of the various + instances it exhibited of his taste, originality, and <i>daring</i>; + ashamed of the deficiencies and want of comfort and finish. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “As the Frenchman answered to the Queen of France,” said Corny, “if it is + possible, it <i>shall</i> be done; and if it is impossible, it <i>must</i> + be done.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>word of honour</i>, 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 <i>remarkable + elegant</i>. + </p> + <p> + 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, <i>succeeded</i>, 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 <i>politesse</i>; and a winter at Paris + would make him quite another person, quite a charming young man. He would + have great <i>success</i>, she could answer for it, in certain <i>circles</i> + and <i>salons</i> that she could name, only it might turn his head too + much.” So far she said, and more she thought. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>living</i>, + what you call <i>living</i>, 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 <i>confidence</i>, 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 <i>talk</i>. + 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 <i>danger</i>. 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 <i>the</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. + </h2> + <p> + 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 + <i>you</i> 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 <i>craturs</i>, 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 <i>con</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Moriarty said not a word more about White Connal, or Miss Dora; and he and + Harry shot a great many birds this day. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>hard</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>points</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>special</i> of my own—a + messenger I sent off to <i>catch post</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “To do what?” said Mademoiselle. + </p> + <p> + “Why, to catch post,” said Corny. “I bid him gallop off for the life and + <i>put across (lake</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Catch-post, my little rascal,” said King Corny, “what have you for + us the day?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “As sure as I’m Cornelius O’Shane, this is White Connal <i>in propria + persona</i>,” said he, opening the note. + </p> + <p> + “Mon Dieu! Bon Dieu! Ah, Dieu!” cried Mdlle. O’Faley. + </p> + <p> + “Hush! Whisht!” cried the father—“here’s Dora coming.” Dora came in. + “Any letter for me?” “Ay, darling, one for <i>you</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, give it me! I’m always in a desperate hurry for my letters: where is + it?” + </p> + <p> + “No—you need not hold out your pretty hand; the letter is <i>for you</i>, + but not to you,” said King Corny; “and now you know—ay, now you + guess—my quick little blusher, who ‘tis from.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>gentleman</i> who folds a + letter so.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “If you were the teacher, Dora, it might, surely,” said her father. + </p> + <p> + “But Heaven, I trust, will arrange that better,” said mademoiselle. + </p> + <p> + “Whatever Heaven arranges must be best,” said Dora. + </p> + <p> + “Heaven and your father, if you please, Dora,” said her father: “put that + and that together, like a dutiful daughter, as you must be.” + </p> + <p> + “Must!” said Dora, angrily. + </p> + <p> + “That offensive <i>must</i> slipped out by mistake, darling; I meant only + being <i>you</i>, you must be all that’s dutiful and good.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Dora, “that’s another view of the subject.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And what is the matter?” said Miss O’Faley. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Form</i>!” continued the father, addressing himself to his daughter; “<i>form</i>, + I acknowledge, is one thing, and a great thing in a daughter’s eyes.” + </p> + <p> + Dora blushed. “But in a father’s eyes substance is apt to be more.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Miss O’Faley, “you have not told us yet what the man says.” + </p> + <p> + “He says he will be here whenever we please.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s never,” said Miss O’Faley: “never, I’d give for answer, if my + pleasure is to be consulted.” + </p> + <p> + “Luckily, there’s another person’s pleasure to be consulted here,” said + the father, keeping his eyes fixed upon his daughter. + </p> + <p> + “Another cup of tea, aunt, if you please.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I only thought you had scalded yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you only thought wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “At any rate, there’s no great occasion to be angry with me, Dora.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “The cream! the cream!” cried Miss O’Faley. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Time enough for that, sir, after marriage,” said Dora. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>marriage</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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, <i>can</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Murder!” cried Sheelah, “it’s Harry Ormond. Oh! did he overhear any thing—or + all, think ye?” + </p> + <p> + “Not I,” answered Ormond, leaping over the hedge directly, and standing + firm before them: “I <i>overheard</i> nothing—I <i>heard</i> 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 <i>that</i>, or any other baseness.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “To blame!” cried Dora. “And pray how—and why—and for what did + you think me to blame, sir?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + Ormond’s imagination took a rapid flight on Dora’s side of the question, + and he finished with the <i>conviction</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “And are you sure you know any better what you say or what you mean, now?” + said Dora. + </p> + <p> + The altered look and tone of tartness in which this question was asked + produced as sudden a change in Harry’s <i>conviction</i>. He hesitatingly + answered, “I am—” + </p> + <p> + “He is,” said Sheelah, confidently. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! believe the young man any way, sure,” said Sheelah; “silence speaks + best for him.” + </p> + <p> + “Best against him, in my opinion,” said Dora. + </p> + <p> + “Dora, will you hear me?” Ormond began. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>what</i> he means, or mean + two minutes together the same thing? A woman might as well listen to a + fool or a madman!” + </p> + <p> + “Too harsh, too severe, Dora,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Too true, too sincere, perhaps you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Since I am allowed, Dora, to speak to you as a brother—” + </p> + <p> + “Who allowed you, sir?” interrupted Dora. + </p> + <p> + “Your father, Dora.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry I presumed so far, Miss O’Shane—I was only going to + offer one word of advice.” + </p> + <p> + “I want no advice—I will take none from you, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “You shall have none, madam, henceforward, from Harry Ormond.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis well, sir. Come away, Sheelah.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! wait, dear—Och! I am too old,” said Sheelah, groaning as she + rose slowly. “I’m too slow entirely for these quick passions.” + </p> + <p> + “Passions!” cried Dora, growing scarlet and pale in an instant: “what do + you mean by passions, Sheelah?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean <i>changes</i>,” 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well, lean on me,” said Dora impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “For ever!” said Dora: “what do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Away from the Black Islands? he can’t mean that,” said Sheelah. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?—Did not I leave Castle Hermitage at a moment’s warning?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Warning!</i> 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But without exposing you to any displeasure, I can,” replied Ormond, + “contrive—” + </p> + <p> + “Contrive nothing at all—do leave me to contrive for myself. I don’t + mean to say <i>leave</i> me—you take up one’s words so quickly, and + are so passionate, Mr. Ormond.” + </p> + <p> + “If you would have me understand you, Dora, explain how you wish me to + live with you.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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—<i>may you live to wonder at your + own good luck!</i>” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Never.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>beau ideal</i>. But she was an + exceedingly pretty girl; she was the only very pretty and tolerably + accomplished girl immediately near him. A dangerous propinquity! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>bête!</i> + and <i>grand bête!</i> by turns, <i>butor! âne!</i> and <i>grand butor!—nigaud!</i> + and <i>grand nigaud!</i>—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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>wife</i> before marriage; but what if she should never <i>be</i> your + wife? thought some. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>fun</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “What, you rascal! are you here still?” cried White Connal: “Hold your + peace! How dare you speak between gentlemen?” + </p> + <p> + Moriarty begged pardon and departed. The hint he had given, however, + operated immediately upon White Connal. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Harry Ormond, do you mean?” said O’Shane. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Cornelius O’Shane stoutly stood by his young friend. + </p> + <p> + He never saw Harry Ormond <i>muzzling</i>—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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>willed</i> + to have, at his own castle, his inmate and his intimate.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “That’s a handsome horse! certainly you are well mounted, Mr. Connal.” + </p> + <p> + O’Shane’s elision of contempt was beyond Mr. Connal’s understanding or + feeling. + </p> + <p> + “Well mounted! certainly I am <i>that</i>, 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—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Leave feeding that dog, and come here to me, Harry,” said O’Shane, “and + answer me truly such questions as I shall ask.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Truly</i>—if I answer at all,” said Harry. + </p> + <p> + “Answer you must, when I ask you: every man, every gentleman, must answer + in all honour for what he does.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, answer <i>for</i> what he does,” said Harry. + </p> + <p> + “<i>For!</i>—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.” + </p> + <p> + “Equivocate! I never equivocated, sir,” said Harry. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Surprised and embarrassed, Ormond answered, “I trust I have not his + ill-will, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “You have, sir,” said O’Shane. + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible?” cried Harry, “when we shook hands; you must have + misunderstood, or have been misinformed. How do you know, my dear sir?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, sir—those are questions which I cannot answer.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, sir, and you shall never have reason—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! sir, can you suspect?” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>know</i> 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—” + </p> + <p> + “Once thought!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>me</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + He had said so repeatedly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>gentle</i> 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 <i>advice</i> + 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 <i>its + ways</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>streamed</i> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Ormond; “and what is the news?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Harry owned he did not. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>secrets</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>worsted</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember it well,” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, and he has got reason to remember it now, sure enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he had a fall?” said Ormond, stopping. + </p> + <p> + “Walk on, can’t ye—keep up, and I’ll tell you all regular.” + </p> + <p> + “There is King Corny!” exclaimed Ormond, who just then saw him come in + view. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Off—how?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Dead!” repeated Corny and Harry, looking at one another. “Heaven forbid!” + said Corny, “that I should—” + </p> + <p> + “Heaven forbid!” repeated Harry; “but—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + O’Tara ran off, saying he would be back again soon; but he had great + business to do. “I told the father last night.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>that</i>!—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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>son</i>, + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “He may be a very different man from White Connal—in every respect,” + said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>by</i> + such an hour, and he should have the first news. + </p> + <p> + “Rest on your oars, you, while I speak to Prince Harry. + </p> + <p> + “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, <i>white</i>, to the top + of this oar; if not, the <i>black</i> 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 <i>great news</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “To hate you, sir? Impossible!” said Ormond, squeezing his hand strongly, + as he felt. + </p> + <p> + “Impossible!—true—for <i>her</i> to hate, who is all love and + loveliness!—impossible too for <i>you</i>, Harry Ormond, who is all + goodness!” + </p> + <p> + “Bon Dieu!” cried Mademoiselle, who was now within exclamation distance. + “What a <i>course</i> we have had after you, gentlemen! Ladies looking for + gentlemen!—C’est inouï!—What is it all? for I am dying with + curiosity.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Can nobody speak to me?—Bien poli!” said Mademoiselle. + </p> + <p> + “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 + <i>she</i> send up dinner now?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + After a general thanksgiving having been offered for her escape from the + <i>butor</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + Various exclamations of surprise and sorrow interrupted him. + </p> + <p> + “Am I never, never, to be free!” cried Dora: “Oh! am not I now at + liberty?” + </p> + <p> + “Hear me, my child,” said her father; “I feel it as you do.” + </p> + <p> + “And what is it next—Qu’est-ce que c’est—this new obstacle?—What + can it be?” said Mademoiselle. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>son</i> that was to be born. He said he would write + immediately to his son, who was now in England. + </p> + <p> + “And now tell me what kind of a person is this new pretender, this Mr. + Black Connal,” cried Mademoiselle. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Harry heard Dora breathe quick and quicker, but she said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “No matter what he is, sir—I’ll die before I will see him,” cried + Dora, rising, and bursting into tears. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Open the window, Harry!” said O’Shane, who saw the conflict; “open the + window!—we all want it.” + </p> + <p> + Harry opened the window, and hung out of it gasping for breath. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “My affairs—oh! what affairs have I? Never think of me, dear sir—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The next morning O’Tara came to breakfast. Every person had a different + question to ask him, except Dora, who was silent. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + To all these questions O’Tara pleaded ignorance: except with respect to + the sports of the field, he had very little curiosity or intelligence. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV + </h2> + <p> + 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, <i>powdering</i> 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 <i>cratur</i>. 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Too plainly,” said Dora, sighing; “but I did not expect he would come in + such a grand style. I wonder—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! so do I, greatly—mostly at the carriage. Never saw the like + with the Connals, so grand—but the queer thing—” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “French! sure Black Connal’s Irish born!” said Sheelah: “that much I know, + any way.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There! French, I told you,” said Mademoiselle, “and quite the gentleman, + depend upon it, my dear—come your ways.” + </p> + <p> + “No matter what he is,” said Dora, “I shall not go down to see him; so you + had better go by yourself, aunt.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Marry! Who talk of marry? Not come to that yet; ten to one he has no + thought of you, more than politeness require.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Just Heavens! What a handsome uniform!” said Miss O’Faley; “and a very + proper-looking man,” said Sheelah. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Very cavalier, indeed, to go out to walk, without waiting to see us,” + said Dora. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I will engage it was that dear father of yours hoisted him out.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>somebody</i> will look.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Dora was vexed to see that she was considered merely <i>as a young lady</i>: + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Chairs!—Oh, now you fish for <i>complimens!</i> But I shall not + tell you how like he thinks you, if you were mise à la Françoise, to la + belle Comtesse de Barnac.” + </p> + <p> + “But is not it very extraordinary, he absolutely never spoke to me,” said + Dora: “a very strange manner of paying his court!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I have no notion of being a cipher,” said Dora: “I am not a French young + lady, Monsieur de Connal.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>le beau-père</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>mauvaise honte</i> and pride, as dinner proceeded, and + Monsieur de Connal’s <i>success</i> was undoubted, she silently gave up + her resolution “not to admire.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>couleur + de rose</i>; 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. + </p> + <p> + To this Corny acceded. He left Mademoiselle to make the invitation; for, + he said, she understood French politeness, and <i>all that</i>, better + than he did. The invitation was made and accepted, with all due + expressions of infinite delight. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “What Miss O’Shane thinks of him is the question,” said Harry, with some + embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>settles</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Come back with them, yourself, Harry—I shall want you also.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + He paused, and again studied her countenance, which was agitated. + </p> + <p> + “Her choice is your choice—her father’s choice is always the choice + of the good daughter,” said Mademoiselle. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + Dora was strongly affected by the solemn manner of her father’s appeal to + her. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “But if I should lose half of Dora’s fortune?” + </p> + <p> + “You would think it well bestowed, I am sure, sir, in securing her from an + unhappy marriage.” + </p> + <p> + “But then she might not, perhaps, so easily find another lover with half a + fortune—that might make a difference, hey, Harry?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The agitation into which Harry Ormond was thrown, flattered and touched + Dora for the moment; her aunt hurried her out of the room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At twelve o’clock Dora, Mademoiselle, and Ormond, were all in the study, + punctually as the clock was striking. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what is M. de Connal’s answer?” cried Mademoiselle. + </p> + <p> + “If he hesitate, my dear Dore, give him up dat minute.” + </p> + <p> + “Undoubtedly,” said Dora: “I have too much spirit to do otherwise. What’s + his answer, father?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought so,” cried Dora, triumphantly. + </p> + <p> + “I thought so,” echoed Mademoiselle. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He hurried out of the room. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a heart for you!” said Corny. + </p> + <p> + “Not for me,” said Mademoiselle: “he has no passion in him.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. + </h2> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You have really prodigious presence of mind, and <i>discretion</i>, and + <i>tact</i>, 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 <i>marry</i>—observe + the emphasis—distinguish—distinguish, and seriously let us + calculate.” + </p> + <p> + 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, <i>fell in love with</i>, + 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 <i>esprit de société</i>. + 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 <i>thinks</i> now,” said M. de Connal, + taking a pinch of snuff with a very pensive air. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Every body</i> in France <i>thinks</i> now!” repeated Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “Every man of a certain rank, that is to say.” + </p> + <p> + “That is to say, of your rank,” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Time, my dear sir—no such thing! Time is merely in idea; but <i>Tais-toi + Jean Jacques! Tais-toi Condillac!</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “You do, indeed,” said Ormond, ingenuously. + </p> + <p> + “I give you joy—I envy you,” said M. de Connal, sighing. + </p> + <p> + “After a certain age, if one lives in the world, one can’t be astonished—that’s + a lost pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I!” exclaimed Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>un homme marquant.”</i> + </p> + <p> + “Oh! spare me, Mr. Connal,” said Ormond. “I am not used to French + compliment.” + </p> + <p> + “No, upon my honour, without compliment, in all English <i>bonhommie</i>,” + (laying his hand upon his heart)—“upon the honour of a gentleman, + your remarks have sometimes perfectly astonished me.” + </p> + <p> + “Really!” said Ormond; “but I thought you had lived so much in the world, + you could not be astonished.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Ormond; “and be assured they are not lost upon me. You + have given me a great deal to think of seriously.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Seriously</i>!—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—<i>lightness</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Légèreté</i>, perhaps you mean,” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “Precisely. I forgot you understood French so well. <i>Légèreté</i>—untranslatable!—You + seize my idea.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>imposed</i> upon by his decisive + tone. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>did</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + One day some conversation passed between Connal and <i>his father-in-law + elect</i>, as he now always called him, upon his future plans of life. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Conceived what, sir?” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>the unfortunate</i> 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Here is another man on earth who was simple enough to believe it,” said + Ormond, “and to give you credit for it.” + </p> + <p> + “You!” cried Connal—“That’s too much!—Impossible!” + </p> + <p> + “But when you said it—when I heard you promise it to Mr. O’Shane—” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>promise</i>—and the accent on <i>promise</i>. Why, even + women, now-a-days, don’t lay such an emphasis on <i>a promise</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “That, I suppose, depends on who gives it.” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “A conscientious man cannot have given two diametrically opposite + promises.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Diametrically</i>!—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 <i>her</i>—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 <i>sain et sauf</i>: 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, Mr. Connal, that is impossible—I am sincere.” + </p> + <p> + “So am I, and sincerely you are too romantic. See things as they are, as a + man of the world, I beseech you.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not a man of the world, and I thank God for it,” cried Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Think what you please of me,” said Ormond, rather haughtily; “what I + think of myself is the chief point with me.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Insufferable coxcomb,” said Ormond to himself. + </p> + <p> + “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, <i>un billard</i>—a + billiard-table. To tell you all, I confess—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You would not repeat—you are a gentleman, and a man of honour.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ca suffit,” said Connal, lightly. “We understand one another now + perfectly’—you shall in future play the part of <i>prince</i>, and + not of confidant. Pardon me, I forgot your highness’s pretensions;” so + saying, he gaily turned on his heel, and left the room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, then, I’m glad you see things as I do, and are not run away with by + uniform, and <i>all that</i>. 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.” + </p> + <p> + “As little danger as possible!” repeated Harry, surprised. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “My kind father—no father could be kinder,” cried Harry, quite + overpowered. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! sir, as long as you wish me to stay with you—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly, sir, I remember your answer—‘I will give my interest to + this <i>empty sleeve</i>.’” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Forgive</i>!” she began. + </p> + <p> + “Good bye, <i>dear</i> Dora. God bless you—may you be as happy—half + as happy, as I wish you to be!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Is her dressing-box in, and all right?” asked Captain Connal, as he + handed Dora into the carriage, who was still weeping. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Good morning,” said Connal, who had now mounted his Mr. Ormond, “Adieu, + Mr. Ormond—command me in any way you please. Drive on!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. + </h2> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “You were on the continent this morning, Father Jos,” said Cornelius. “Did + ye learn any news for us? Size ace! that secures two points.” + </p> + <p> + “News! I did,” said Father Jos. + </p> + <p> + “Why not tell it us, then?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What new person?” said King Corny. “Doublets, aces, Harry.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Mad!—Three men up—and you can’t enter, Harry. Well, what is + he mad about?” + </p> + <p> + “Because of the presentation to the living,” replied the priest, “which + government wouldn’t make him a compliment of, as he expected.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! them parsons is all one kind,” said Father Jos. + </p> + <p> + “All one kind! No, no more than our own priests,” said Corny. “There’s + good and bad, and all the difference in life.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope we will have no quarrels,” said Corny. + </p> + <p> + “They ought to be abolished,” said Father Jos, “the tithes, that is, I + mean.” + </p> + <p> + “And the quarrels, too, I hope,” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! It’s not our fault if there’s quarrels,” said Father Jos. + </p> + <p> + “Faults on both sides generally in all quarrels,” said Corny. + </p> + <p> + “In lay quarrels, like enough,” said Father Jos. “In church quarrels, it + don’t become a good Catholic to say that.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” said Corny. + </p> + <p> + “<i>That</i>,” said the priest. + </p> + <p> + “Which?” said Corny. + </p> + <p> + “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 + <i>right sides</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Father Jos puffed away at his pipe for some time. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “He is one of them refugee families, the Huguenots, banished France by the + adict of Nantz, they say, and his name’s Cambray.” + </p> + <p> + “Cambray!” exclaimed Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “A very good name,” said O’Shane; “but what do you know of it, Harry?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “No story, only a slight circumstance—which, if you please, I’d + rather not tell you, sir,” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “That is something very extraordinary, and looks mysterious,” said Father + Jos. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing mysterious, I assure you,” said Ormond,—“a mere trifle, + which, if it concerned only myself, I would tell directly.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Annaly!—nothing in the world—only—yes, I recollect + she was present.” + </p> + <p> + “There now—would not any body think I’m a conjuror? a physiognomist + is cousin to (and not twice removed from) a conjuror.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Harry, <i>totally</i> means <i>wholly</i>: 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + “What is there obnoxious in that?” said Cornelius. + </p> + <p> + “Wait till you hear the end—‘and feed and clothe the distressed.’” + </p> + <p> + “That is not obnoxious either, I hope,” said Ormond, laughing. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve heard of a ‘Protestant wind’ before,” said Harry, “but not of a + Protestant laugh.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m serious, Father Jos,” said Corny; “let me hear to the end what + makes your face so long.” + </p> + <p> + “‘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. + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure it is not truth, Father?” said Corny. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Father Jos could not say so much, therefore he said nothing. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Rason! what’s that about rason?” said Father Jos: “I hope faith comes + before rason.” + </p> + <p> + “And after it, too, I hope, Father,” said Corny. + </p> + <p> + Father Jos finished his punch, and went to sleep upon it. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>us</i>, not <i>himself</i>, 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—” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Harry smiled, and wished he had the power as well as the good-will. + </p> + <p> + Father Jos said, “A man ought to be ashamed not to think of his <i>own</i> + first.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>substitutes</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Father Jos smiled, and demurely abased his eye. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Mercy on you!” said Father Jos: “this doctor has bewitched you.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>do good to your enemies</i>—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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s true,” said Corny. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>in + conformity</i>.”—“That’s all well.” General Albemarle’s answer to + Mr. O’Shane’s letter was most satisfactory: in terms that were not merely + <i>officially</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Time enough for my business after we come home—the post does not go + out till morning.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>Ormond</i>. + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. + </h2> + <p> + 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. <i>“Best leave him!”</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Dear General, I hope my young friend, Harry Ormond—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>him that is + gone</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + This night, and for two succeeding nights, the doors of Corny Castle + remained open for all who chose to come. + </p> + <p> + Crowds, as many, and more, than the castle could hold, flocked to King + Corny’s wake, for he was greatly beloved. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>for company</i>—and to tempt him to take something. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You are in the mind to attend the funeral, sir, I think you told me?” + said Sheelah. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” replied Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Ormond thanked her for her kindness—and felt it was real kindness. + He, consequently, did all that was expected from him <i>handsomely</i>. + 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 <i>whole way</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>executrix</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Our young hero’s pride was piqued on the one side, as much as his + gratitude was alive on the other. + </p> + <p> + Sir Ulick O’Shane wrote to Harry that he was at this time <i>peculiarly</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + A proper agent was appointed, who saw Ormond’s accounts settled and + signed, so that no blame or suspicion could rest upon him. + </p> + <p> + “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 + <i>can</i> 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 <i>trust</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + </p> + <h3> + “LONG LIVE KING CORNY.” + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, go <i>to the continent</i>,” 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.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. + </h2> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + “DEAR HARRY, + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>alias</i> he is to be called, is <i>properly</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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—<i>in + consequence</i>, 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 <i>Cromwellians</i>, + 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 <i>help</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “My dear boy, yours ever, + </p> + <p> + “Ulick O’Shane.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My dear doctor, suppose I was now to read over to you my list of books.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you were, and suppose I was to fall asleep,” said the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Not the least likely, sir, when you are to do any thing kind for a friend—may + I say friend?” + </p> + <p> + “You may. Come, read on—I am not proof against flattery, even at my + age—well, read away.” + </p> + <p> + Ormond began; but at that moment there drove past the windows a travelling + chariot and four. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My commission, after all,” cried Harry. “I always knew, I always said, + that Sir Ulick was a good friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he purchased the commission?” said Dr. Cambray. + </p> + <p> + “He does not actually say so, but that must be what his note means,” said + Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “Means! but what does it say?—May I see it?” + </p> + <p> + “It is written in such a hurry, and in pencil, you’ll not be able to make + it out.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor, however, read aloud— + </p> + <p> + “If Mr. Harry Ormond will inquire at Castle Hermitage, he will hear of + something to his advantage. + </p> + <p> + “U. O’SHANE.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, ma’am,” said Harry; and ere the words were well uttered, a + hundred steps were lost. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We did not expect you, sir, till next week—this is a most agreeable + surprise. Did you not say—” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>ami de la maison</i>. Now, my + dear fellow, you understand how the land lies; and depend upon it, you’ll + like her, and find her every way of <i>great advantage to you</i>.” + </p> + <p> + So, thought Harry, is this all the advantage I am to hear of? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>the</i> woman—nothing at all + has been seen in this country like her!—most fascinating! Harry, + take care of your heart.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Norton said, “Indeed, she believed she was a little tired, and rather + sleepy.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my boy,” exclaimed Sir Ulick, stopping short, “aren’t you a most + extraordinary fellow? Pray did you get my note?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, sir, and came instantly in consequence.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet you have never inquired what it is that you might hear to your + advantage.” + </p> + <p> + “I—I thought I had heard it, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Heard it, sir!” repeated Sir Ulick: “what <i>can</i> you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>a great advantage to me</i>, and that led + me to conclude—” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I had,” said Harry, “when first I read your note, I had, I own, another + thought.” + </p> + <p> + “And what might it be?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought of my commission, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “What of your commission?” + </p> + <p> + “That you had procured it for me, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir, if that be the case—you know best.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What can you mean, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. <i>Have also noted</i> and answered, <i>in + conformity</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I <i>hope</i> in Heaven,” said Ormond, “and <i>pray</i> to Heaven that it + may be to my advantage!—I hope neither my head nor my heart may be + turned by sudden prosperity.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “If you’ll excuse me,” said Ormond, “I must run this minute to tell Dr. + Cambray and all my friends at Vicar’s Dale.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! sir, certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “And you will bid adieu to Vicar’s Dale, and take up your quarters at + Castle Hermitage, with your old guardian.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, sir—delightful! But I need not bid adieu to Vicar’s Dale—<i>they</i> + are so near, I shall see them every day.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Sir Ulick, biting his lip; “<i>but</i> I was thinking of + something.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “If you please—thank you, kind Sir Ulick—how <i>can</i> you + think so quickly of every thing?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I declare, sir, I don’t know yet—my poor head is in such a state—and + the horses happen not to be uppermost.” + </p> + <p> + “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, + <i>how</i> I cannot conceive,” said Sir Ulick. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “You know, sir, I have lost an excellent friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Corny—ay, my poor cousin, as far as he could, I am sure, he + wished to be a friend to you.” + </p> + <p> + “He wished to be, and <i>was,</i>” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I am perfectly sensible, sir, that we should never have been happy + together.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>From you!</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>which</i> + of the Miss Cambrays is it that you are so impatient to impart your good + fortune?” + </p> + <p> + “To both, sir,” said Ormond—“equally.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Engaged!—Oh! then you have thought about these young ladies enough + to find that out. Well, this saves your gallantry—good night.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Ulick’s quick eye saw on the table in Harry’s handwriting the <i>list + of books to be read</i>. He took it up, looked it over, and with a smile + asked, “Any thoughts of the church, Harry?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir; it would be rather late for me to think of the church. I should + never prepare myself properly.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>grinder</i> and <i>crammer</i>, 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 <i>ignoramuses</i>, and dunces + yet unborn!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>In</i> what, my dear boy?—To make your complaint English, you + must say deficient in some thing or other—‘tis an <i>Iricism</i> to + say in general that you are <i>very deficient.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “There is one of my particular deficiencies then you see, sir—I am + deficient in English.” + </p> + <p> + “You are not deficient in temper, I am sure,” said Sir Ulick: “come, come, + you may be tolerably well contented with yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Gad! you are a fine fellow, Harry Ormond,” cried Sir Ulick: “I remember + having once, at your age, such feelings and notions myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Very unlike the first thoughts and feelings many young men would have on + coming into unexpected possession of a fortune,” said Dr. Cambray. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care whether they dub me a quiz or not,” said Harry, hastily: + “what are Darrells, Lardners, or Dartfords to me?” + </p> + <p> + “They are something to <i>me</i>,” said Sir Ulick. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I beg pardon, sir—I didn’t know that—that makes it quite + another affair.” + </p> + <p> + “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, <i>ridicule + proof</i>—better than even <i>bullet proof</i>—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 <i>laughed</i> out of them—and + I rejoice, my dear ward, to see that you are safe from this peril.” + </p> + <p> + Benevolent pleasure shone in Dr. Cambray’s countenance, when he heard Sir + Ulick speak in this manner. + </p> + <p> + “You will dine with us, Dr. Cambray?” said Sir Ulick. “Harry, you will not + forget Castle Hermitage?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “To be sure I will,” said Harry. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>The Stream of Time</i>, and with us <i>Le Courant du Jour.”</i> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>produce</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Pray what sort of people are the Darrells and Dartfords?” said Mrs. + Cambray. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! delightful—the girls especially—sing like angels.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, the ladies I know are all angels with you at present—that you + have told us several times.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “The gentlemen, however—I suppose you have seen the inside of some + of them?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly—those who have any thing inside of them—Dartford, + for instance.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Dartford, he is the man Sir Ulick said was so clever.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>in</i> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “And Mr. Darrell—what of him?” + </p> + <p> + “Very fashionable. But indeed all I know about him is, that his dress is + <i>quite the thing</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + “But is he conceited?” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>famous invaluable</i> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “And Mr. Lardner?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>come + out</i>, though in the mean time allowed to appear at Castle Hermitage; + and she was so <i>naïve</i>, 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 <i>honourable</i> 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—<i>flats</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Ormond does not know the <i>original</i>—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.” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Annaly!” cried Ormond, with surprise, “surely not the Lady Annaly I + know.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>very + good!</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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’ <i>fancies</i>. 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 <i>scandal</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>taken + in</i>—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 <i>imprudent</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “My dear boy,” said Sir Ulick, “are you aware that his Excellency the Lord + Lieutenant is coming to Castle Hermitage to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; so I heard you say,” replied Harry. “What sort of a man is he?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Man!</i>” repeated Sir Ulick, smiling. “In the first place, he is a + very <i>great</i> man, and may be of great service to you.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>man</i>, + any <i>great</i> man?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Harry, though a man’s fortune is good, it may be better for + pushing it.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “True, because he pushed ill; if he had pushed well, he would have got + into a good place.” + </p> + <p> + “I thank Heaven, I can get that now without any pushing.” + </p> + <p> + “You can!—yes, by my interest perhaps you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “No; by my own money, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “The only place in the world I should wish for, sir, would be a place in + the country.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Ulick was surprised and alarmed; but said not a word that could betray + his feelings. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Darrell, Dartford, Lardner, which?” said Sir Ulick, with a sarcastic + smile. + </p> + <p> + “I am cured of these foolish fancies, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir, I am very much obliged to you: how could I take advice from you as + any thing but a proof of friendship?” + </p> + <p> + “Then, my dear boy, I must tell you, <i>in confidence</i>, what you will + find out the first night you are in his company, that his Excellency + drinks hard.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “After all,” said Sir Ulick; “but you are not come to <i>after all</i> yet—you + know nothing about his Excellency yet.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What oft was thought, perhaps, but ne’er so bluntly expressed,” said Sir + Ulick. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>court quality</i>. In short, till + the company had drunk a certain quantity of wine, nothing was said worth + repeating, and afterwards nothing repeatable. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>me</i>. 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.” + </p> + <p> + <i>That</i> 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 <i>sacrifice</i>, + 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 <i>describe</i> 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 <i>felt</i>. + 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 <i>of good faith</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>private</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “So I was just thinking,” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Ormond promised to be very careful, and drove off. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Cambray, I declare: the very man I wished to see.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + The pleasure and honour seemed to be painful and embarrassing to both. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “The sooner the better,” said the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “The sooner the better,” echoed the friendly voices of Mrs. Cambray and + her daughter. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I was not aware that Dr. Cambray had the honour of being acquainted with + Lady Millicent,” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Once, and always, I should have thought.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Very true—certainly.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Lady Millicent, you look pale,” said Sir Ulick, as he handed her out. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, I have had a most delightful drive.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear doctor,” said Ormond, in breathless consternation, “what is + the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, I hope,” said the doctor, looking earnestly in Ormond’s face; + “and yet your countenance tells me that my fears are well founded.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it you fear, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “The lady who was in the phaeton with you, Lady Millicent, I fear—” + </p> + <p> + “Why should you fear, sir?—Oh! tell me at once—what do you + know of her?” + </p> + <p> + “At once, then, I know her to be a very imprudent, though hope she is + still an innocent woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Innocent!” repeated Ormond. “Good Heavens! is it possible that there can + be any doubt? Imprudent! My dear doctor, perhaps you have been + misinformed.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>satisfaction of a gentleman</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>sensation</i>, by the repetition of + <i>a severe thing</i>. 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:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> To serve in parliament the nation,<br /> Sir Ulick read his recantation:<br /><br /> At first he joined the patriot throng,<br /> But soon perceiving he was wrong,<br /> He ratted to the courtier tribe,<br /> Bought by a title and a bribe;<br /> But how that new found friend to bind,<br /> With any oath—of any kind,<br /> Disturb’d the premier’s wary mind.<br /> “<i>Upon his faith.—Upon his word,</i>”<br /> Oh! that, my friend, is too absurd.<br /> “<i>Upon his honour</i>.”—Quite a jest.<br /> “<i>Upon his conscience</i>.”—No such test.<br /> “<i>By all he has on earth</i>.”—‘Tis gone.<br /> “<i>By all his hopes of Heaven</i>.”—They’re none.<br /> “How then secure him in our pay—<br /> He can’t be trusted for a day?"<br /> How?—When you want the fellow’s throat—<br /> Pay by the job—you have his vote.<br /></pre> + <p> + 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 <i>quizzers</i>, on purpose to <i>try</i> + Ormond, praised the verses to the skies, and appealed to him for his + opinion. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t admire them, sir,” replied Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “What fault can you find with them?” said the young man, winking at the + bystanders. + </p> + <p> + “I think them <i>incorrect</i>, in the first place, sir,” said Ormond, + “and altogether indifferent.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, at any rate, they can’t be called <i>moderate</i>,” said the + gentleman; “and as to incorrect, the substance, I fancy, is correctly + true.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Fancy</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “In the expression of that opinion at least, sir, I think it ought.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I am, sir, perfectly.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s lucky: for apologies are easier had from ladies than gentlemen, + and become them better.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>If</i> is a great peace-maker, sir; but I scorn to take advantage of + an <i>if</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I to suppose then, sir,” said Ormond, “that it was your intention to + offend me?” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose what you please, sir—I am not in the habit of explanation + or apology.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>Prince Harry</i>, 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 <i>he</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?—<i>me</i>, + of whom she had once a good opinion?—<i>me</i>, in whose fate she + said she was interested?” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>too + late</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII. + </h2> + <p> + Upon his arrival at Annaly, Ormond found that Dr. Cambray and all his + family were there. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I am impatient to tell you, sir,” said he, “how very kindly I was + received by Lady Annaly.” + </p> + <p> + “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 + <i>partout</i>—not quite sufficient at Annaly, you cannot mean, sir—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>that</i> + the Annalys are not.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well, they shall be as imperfect as you like—any thing to + please you.” + </p> + <p> + “But, sir, you used to be so fond of the Annalys. I remember.” + </p> + <p> + “True, and did I tell you that I had changed my opinion?” + </p> + <p> + “Your manner, though not your words, tells me so.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; but not my anxiety for your approbation, and my deference for + your opinion.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>take up</i> any man for relishing the + Ulysseana? Bless ye! I relish it myself—I only laugh at such things: + believe me, ‘tis The best way.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “In my arm, sir—a slight scratch.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s frank,” said Sir Ulick, “and I as frankly assure you I am + perfectly satisfied.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “More or less, I suppose,” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “But, upon my word, I entirely agree with you about Sir Herbert, though I + know he is prejudiced against me to the last degree.” + </p> + <p> + “If he be, I don’t know it, sir—I never found it out.” + </p> + <p> + “He will let it out by and by—I only hope he will not prejudice you + against me.” + </p> + <p> + “That is not very easily done, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Not strong, sir—he has a hectic colour—as I was very sorry to + see.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, poor fellow—he broke some blood-vessel, I think Marcus told me, + when they were in England.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir—so Lady Annaly told me—it was in over-exerting + himself to extinguish a fire.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>have any serious thoughts</i>; + 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 <i>thoughts</i> of Miss Annaly.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>persiflage</i>, + which Marcus supposed, erroneously, that Ormond’s untutored, unpractised + ear would not perceive. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>somebody</i>, + 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 <i>scrape</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>refined</i>, society, he vented his + ill-humour on the poor Irish peasants—the <i>natives</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Marcus looked with a sort of disdainful spleen at the house which Ormond + had fitted up for Moriarty. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “There was no wheedling in the case,” said Ormond: “your father gave it + freely, or I should not have accepted it.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Who is that?” cried Marcus—“Peggy Sheridan, as I live! is it not?” + </p> + <p> + “No, please your honour, but Peggy Sheridan that was—Peggy Carroll + <i>that is</i>,” said Peggy, curtsying, with a slight blush, and an arch + smile. + </p> + <p> + “So, you have married that Moriarty at last.” + </p> + <p> + “I have, please your honour—he is a very honest boy—and I’m + very happy—if your honour’s pleased.” + </p> + <p> + “Who persuaded your father to this, pray, contrary to my advice?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody at all, plase your honour,” said Peggy, looking frightened. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “You! Mr. Ormond!—Oh, I comprehend it all now,” said Marcus, with + his sneering look and tone: “no doubt you had good reasons.” + </p> + <p> + Poor Peggy blushed the deepest crimson. + </p> + <p> + “I understand it all now,” said Marcus—“I understand you now, + Harry.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Then turning from him, Ormond walked away with indignant speed. + </p> + <p> + “Peggy, don’t I see something like a cow yonder, <i>getting her bread</i> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! she strays and trespasses strangely, the red cow, for want of the + little spot your honour promised her,” said Peggy. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>a spot</i> promised her; “but + this is the way, sir, you ruin the country and the people,” said he to his + father. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor I neither, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Then follow Harry Ormond directly, and make him understand that he + misunderstood you,” said Sir Ulick. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, sir—I cannot bend to him,” said Marcus. + </p> + <p> + “And you expect that he will lend you ten thousand pounds at your utmost + need?” + </p> + <p> + “The money, with your estate, can be easily raised elsewhere, sir,” said + Marcus. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you it cannot, sir,” said the father. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot bend to Ormond, sir: to any body but him—any thing but + that—my pride cannot stoop to that.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry for it, sir; especially as I am convinced I can do no good, + and therefore wish not to interfere.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you are right—though I part from you with regret.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be within your reach, sir, you know: whenever you wish for me, if + ever I can be of the least use to <i>you</i>, summon me, and I am at your + orders.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII. + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>company</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>domestic politeness</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>making their rents</i> by nefarious practices. The best of the set were + merely idle fishermen, whose habits of trusting to their <i>luck</i> + incapacitated them from industry: the others were illicit distillers—smugglers—and + miscreants who lived by <i>waifs</i> and <i>strays</i>; 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 <i>tenant’s right</i>, which they + thought a landlord could scarcely resist. They protested that they could + not make <i>the rent</i>, 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 <i>properly</i>, sure his tenants filled his fist. Oh! + Sir Ulick was the great man for <i>favour and purtection</i>, 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 <i>riddle</i>! + </p> + <p> + “Oh, and if he could but afford to be half as good as his promises, Sir + Ulick O’Shane would be too good entirely!” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>ways and + means</i> of paying it he chose to remain in ignorance. All the tenants + whom Sir Herbert <i>banished</i> from his estate flocked to Sir Ulick’s. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, <i>favour</i> and <i>protection</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible?—and what do you all think?” + </p> + <p> + “We think that you would be a perfectly happy man, if you could win Miss + Annaly; and we wish you success most sincerely. But—” + </p> + <p> + “<i>But</i>—Oh, my dear doctor, you alarm me beyond measure.” + </p> + <p> + “What! by wishing you success?” + </p> + <p> + “No, but by something in your look and manner, and by that terrible <i>but</i>: + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I will be patient all my life afterwards, if you will only this instant + tell me whether she is engaged.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That proves that she had not found one amongst them that she liked,” said + Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “Or that she liked some one better than all those whom she refused,” said + Dr. Cambray. + </p> + <p> + “That is true—that is possible—that is a dreadful + possibility,” said Ormond. “But do you think there is any probability of + that?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “To be here!” cried Ormond: “a man of great merit!—I hope he is not + an agreeable man.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a vain hope,” said Dr. Cambray; “he is a very agreeable man.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Very</i> agreeable!—What sort of person—grave or gay?—Like + any body that I ever saw?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing but his duty, I suppose you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Duty!—What duty?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Ormond sighed. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + And Lady Annaly, in a tone of joy, “Colonel Albemarle!—I hope he + will soon be here.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Herbert proceeded: “Cannot obtain leave of absence yet—but lives + <i>in hopes</i>,” said Sir Herbert, reading the letter, and handing it to + his mother. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “She cannot love him, or she could not be thinking of a paragraph in the + newspaper at this moment.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + His old enemy, Miss Black, he recollected well. He obeyed the lady’s + summons, and returned to the house. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>mixture</i>, 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 <i>book</i> and + his <i>figures</i>, that he might surprise Mr. Ormond with his <i>larning</i> + 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 <i>wondered</i> 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 <i>some people</i> + showed. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Cambray pursued his course without attending to her; and little Tommy + pursued his course, improving rapidly in his <i>larning</i>. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>surprises</i>, had cautioned + Moriarty, and begged the doctor not to tell Mr. Harry a word about it, <i>till + all was fixed</i>, “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.” + </p> + <p> + Meantime, Mrs. M’Crule was working against little Tommy with all her + might. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV. + </h2> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Ormond,” said Lady Annaly, “I am sorry to hear that Ireland is in + danger of being ruined by your means.” + </p> + <p> + “By my means!” said Ormond, in great surprise; “I beg your ladyship’s + pardon for repeating your words, but I really cannot understand them.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>protégé</i> of yours, of + the name of Tommy Dun—not Dun Scotus.” + </p> + <p> + “Dunshaughlin, perhaps,” said Ormond, laughing, “Tommy Dunshaughlin! <i>that</i> + little urchin! What harm can little Tommy do to Ireland, or to any + mortal?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Very true, indeed,” said Lady Annaly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot contradict that—I wish I could,” said Lady Annaly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Lady Annaly, ma’am, you <i>can</i> do good by exerting yourself to + prevent the danger in this emergency; you <i>can</i> do good, and it + becomes your station and your character; you <i>can</i> do good, my dear + Lady Annaly, ma’am, to thousands in existence, and thousands yet unborn.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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 + <i>our</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>emergency</i> + and <i>crisis</i> 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 <i>consommé</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember,” said Lady Annaly, “when I was a child, being present once, + when an <i>honest man</i>, that is, a protestant (for in those days no man + but a protestant could be called an <i>honest man</i>), 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 <i>honest man</i>, ‘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.’” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It can do no possible good,” she said, “to admit catholic children to <i>our</i> + schools, because, do what you will, you can never make them good + protestants.” + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>misfortune</i> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. M’Crule sighed and groaned. + </p> + <p> + But Ormond persisted: “The child,” he said, “should have fair play—the + lady patronesses would decide as they thought proper.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” Ormond said, “he could only do his best, and bear to be mortified, + if necessary, or when necessary.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>will</i> + draw inferences.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>prize day</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Murder!” whispered Sheelah to Moriarty, “if she fixes him with that <i>evil + eye</i>, and he gets the stroke of it, Moriarty, ‘tis all over with him + for life.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. M’Crule withdrew, and nobody saw when or how. + </p> + <p> + “It is clear,” said Lady Annaly, “that this boy is no favourite, for he + has friends.” + </p> + <p> + “Or, if he be a favourite, and have friends, it is a proof that he has + extraordinary merit,” said Sir Herbert. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Ormond looked with great satisfaction on Tommy’s treasures, and Miss + Annaly looked at them too with no small delight. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I have, sir; it’s what I’d be glad to speak a word with you, Mr. Harry.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I am afeard I am too troublesome to you, sir,” said the boy. + </p> + <p> + “To me—not the least,” said Ormond: “speak on—say all you have + in your mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, then,” said the child, “I <i>have</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll engage I did, though,” said Sheelah. + </p> + <p> + “Why, then, Sheelah, you’ve quick eyes still.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I’m not so blind but what I could see <i>that</i> 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, <i>who</i> we are to have in marriage,” added Sheelah. + </p> + <p> + “No; not <i>fixed</i> from the first minute we are born, Sheelah: it is <i>not</i>,” + said Moriarty. + </p> + <p> + “And how should you know, Moriarty,” said Sheelah, “whether or not?” + </p> + <p> + “And why not as well as you, Sheelah, dear,” replied Moriarty, “if you go + to that?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, in the name of fortune, have it your own way,” said Sheelah; “and + how do you think it is then?” + </p> + <p> + “Why it is partly fixed for us,” said Moriarty; “but the choice is still + in us, always—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! burn me if I understand that,” said Sheelah. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>that</i> + wrong about Peggy—<i>then</i> see, Heaven had this lady, this angel, + from that time forward in view for him, by way of <i>compensation</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! if she is not beautiful!” cried Sheelah, clasping her hands. + </p> + <p> + Ormond felt it so warmly, and his looks expressed his feelings so + strongly, that Florence, suddenly abashed, could scarcely finish her + speech. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV. + </h2> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Yet</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Herbert smiled, but shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Ormond, do not trust to outward appearances too much. Do not let + my friends entirely deceive themselves. I <i>know</i> that my life cannot + be long—I wish, before I die, to do as much good as I can.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>the neighbours</i> on Sir Ulick + O’Shane’s estate were the offenders. They had grown bold from impunity, + and from the belief that no <i>jantleman</i> “would choose to interfere + with them, on account of their landlord.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I will—I do,” said Sir Herbert; “but it is my duty to think of + public justice before I think of myself.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The inside of an Irish cabin appears very different to those who come to + claim hospitality and to those who come to detect offenders. + </p> + <p> + Ormond having never before entered a cabin with a search-warrant, + constable, or with the military, he was “not <i>up</i> 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, <i>sarving</i> the masons at Sir Herbert’s lighthouse, and + was <i>lying at</i> the hospital, <i>not expected</i>, [Footnote: <i>Not + expected</i> 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 <i>the child</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>lawful + owners</i>, “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Did not you hear it, sir?” said the boy: “I’d be loth to tell it you.” + </p> + <p> + “Has any thing happened to—” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Give him some of the water out of the bucket, can’t ye?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>send out word</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>take care</i>, and to + have every thing done as privately as possible.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI. + </h2> + <p> + Though Sir Ulick O’Shane contrived to laugh on most occasions where other + people would have wept, and though he had pretty well <i>case-hardened</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 “<i>honest rascals</i>,” + his “<i>rare rapparees</i>,” and even his “<i>wrecker royal</i>.” 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 <i>a + serjeant and twelve</i> of Sir Ulick’s corps, and lodged in the county + jail to stand their trial, bereft of all <i>favour and purtection</i>, + bonâ fide delivered up to justice. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>an honest man</i> and a <i>friend</i> 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. + <i>When</i> he should see Florence Annaly again, seemed to him the only + question in the universe of great importance. + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>Dora</i>—it was from <i>Mad. de Connal</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “An insufferable coxcomb!” cried Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “But a coxcomb <i>in fashion</i>,” 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—<i>en bonne odeur</i> at + Versailles. The ambassador says he meets the Connals every where in the + first circles—how they came there I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to hear that, for Dora’s sake,” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>merit</i>—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.’” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Mademoiselle!” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Mademoiselle!” repeated Sir Ulick. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean <i>that thing half Irish, half French, half mud, half tinsel?</i>” + said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Whenever I go there, sir,” said Ormond, coldly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, <i>could</i> not, listen to him yet. <i>Time, the + comforter</i>, must come first; and while time was doing this business, + love could not decently be admitted. + </p> + <p> + “That was the reason,” said Ulick, returning by another road to the + charge, “why I advised a trip to Paris; but you know best.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot bear this suspense—I must and will know my fate—I + will write instantly, and obtain an answer.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>close upon it</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>jantleman</i>, a lie. + </p> + <p> + 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—<i>by the same + token</i>—he was summoned up to my lady on account of one of Mr. + Ormond’s letters, he did not know <i>which</i>, or to <i>who</i>, being + dated Monday, whereas it was Wednesday; and he had to clear himself of + having been three days on the road. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Arrived there, a new footman came to the door with “<i>Not at home</i>, + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. O’Reilly is not here, sir—absent on business.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My name is Ormond, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “And I beg you will let Lady Annaly and Miss Annaly know that Mr. Ormond + is come to pay his respects to them.” + </p> + <p> + The man seemed very unwilling to carry any message to his ladies. “He was + sure,” he said, “that the ladies would not see anybody.” + </p> + <p> + “Was Lady Annaly ill?” + </p> + <p> + “Her ladyship had been but poorly, but was better within the last two + days.” + </p> + <p> + “And Miss Annaly?” + </p> + <p> + “Wonderful better, too, sir; has got up her spirits greatly to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “He did, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “And was there any answer sent?” + </p> + <p> + “I really can’t say, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Be so good to take my name to your lady,” repeated Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>luck + token</i>; 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. + </p> + <p> + “No, sir.” said the man, looking a little puzzled; “I never was here till + the day before yesterday in my born days. We <i>bees</i> from England.” + </p> + <p> + “We!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “A very fine horse this of yours, sir, for sartain, if he could but <i>stand</i>, + sir; he’s main restless at a door. My master’s horse is just his match for + that.” + </p> + <p> + “And pray who is your master, sir?” said Ormond, in a voice which he + forced to be calm. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Ormond had seen enough. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, sir,” said he—“Mr. Ormond’s compliments—he called, + that’s all.” + </p> + <p> + Ormond put spurs to his horse, and galloped off; and, fast as he went, he + urged his horse still faster. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “A coquette!—is it possible, Florence Annaly?—<i>You</i>—and + after all!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Sir Ulick saw and seized the advantage: he had almost despaired of + accomplishing his purpose—now was the critical instant. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Would I? to be sure—show me how!—only show me how!” cried + Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll set off to-night,” said Ormond, ringing the bell to give orders to + his servant to prepare immediately for his departure. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The whole account could have been looked over while we have been talking + about it,” said Sir Ulick. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>power of attorney</i> was necessary to + be given by Ormond to Sir Ulick. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>power</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>superbe</i>, + Connal ran on again with French vivacity of imagination. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>bijouterie</i>—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 <i>chapelier</i> 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 + <i>Abbé</i>, who will be delighted in the mean time to show you Paris.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Connal called upon him in the evening, and took him to the theatre. + </p> + <p> + They were in <i>une petite loge</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + “Eh fi donc!” said the Abbé, “what you call the natural colour, that would + be <i>rouge coquette</i>, which no woman of quality can permit herself.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + The actress shrugged her shoulders, said something about “<i>la belle + nature</i>,” 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. + </p> + <p> + “‘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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.’” + </p> + <p> + M. de Connal’s manner was infinitely more agreeable toward Ormond now than + in former days. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Away they drove. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Ormond at first shrunk at the sight of their peril and narrow escapes. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur apparemment is nervous after his <i>voyage?</i>” said the Abbé. + </p> + <p> + “No, but I am afraid the people will be run over. I will make the coachman + drive more quietly.” + </p> + <p> + “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—<i>la canaille</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>La canaille</i>,” synonymous with the <i>swinish multitude</i>, an + expression of contempt for which the Parisian nobility have since paid + terribly dear. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The little Abbé was not satisfied with the paucity of his exclamations, + and would have given him up, as <i>un froid Anglois</i>, 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>night</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + Ormond felt some curiosity, a little anxiety, a slight flutter at the + heart, at the thought of seeing Dora again. + </p> + <p> + The arrival of her husband interrupted these thoughts. + </p> + <p> + Connal took the light from the hands of Crepin, the valet, and reviewed + Ormond from head to foot. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, Crepin: you have done your part, and Nature has done hers, for + Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, truly,” said Crepin, “Nature has done wonders for Monsieur; and + Monsieur, now he is dressed, has really all the air of a Frenchman.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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—<i>livrez-vous</i>—let + yourself out—follow me, and fear nothing,” cried he, running down + stairs, delighted with Ormond and with himself. + </p> + <p> + He foresaw that he should gain credit by <i>producing</i> such a man. He + really wished that Ormond should <i>succeed</i> in French society, and + that he should pass his time agreeably in Paris. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>arrangement</i> might, or might not, + interfere with his own views. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Not a creature here yet—happily.” “Madame begs,” said the servant, + “that Monsieur will pass on into the boudoir.” + </p> + <p> + “Any body with Madame?” + </p> + <p> + “No one but Madame de Clairville.” + </p> + <p> + “Only <i>l’amie intime</i>,” said Connal, “the bosom friend.” + </p> + <p> + “How will Dora feel?—How will it be with us both?” thought Ormond, + as he followed the light step of the husband. + </p> + <p> + “Entrez!—Entrez toujours.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “Dora!—Ah! Madame de Connal,” cried Ormond. + </p> + <p> + No French actor could have done it better than nature did it for him. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + The husband vanished. + </p> + <p> + “Ah ciel!” said l’amie intime, looking towards Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “Help me to support her, Monsieur—while I seek de l’eau de Cologne.” + </p> + <p> + Ormond, seized with sudden tremor, could scarcely advance. + </p> + <p> + Dora sunk on the sofa, clasping her beautiful hands, and exclaiming, “The + companion of my earliest days!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>empressement</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + And now surrounded by admirers, by adorers in embroidery and blazing with + crosses and stars, she received <i>les hommages</i>—enjoyed <i>le + succès</i>—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 <i>succeed</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + “<i>Harry Ormond</i>!” which had burst naturally from Dora’s lips. Now he + began almost to doubt whether nature or art prevailed. Now he felt himself + safe at least, since he saw that it was only the coquette of the Black + Islands transformed into the coquette of the Hotel de Connal. The + transformation was curious, was admirable; Ormond thought he could admire + without danger, and, in due time, perhaps gallant, with the best of them, + without feeling—without scruple. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + There seemed more danger of his being <i>left out</i>, than of his being + <i>taken in</i>. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She took him back to the boudoir. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Look at that lady, beautiful as the day, in diamonds.” + </p> + <p> + “Madame de Connal, do you mean?” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>à la Françoise</i>—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.” + </p> + <p> + “So it appears, indeed,” said Ormond, “by the crowd of admirers I see + round Madame de Connal.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>lost</i>!—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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Absolutely</i> irresistible,” Ormond repeated, smiling; “not + absolutely, I hope.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! that is understood—you do not doubt la sagesse de Madame?—Besides, + <i>heureusement</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + Ormond asked whether there were <i>any</i> ladies in the room who were + supposed to be faithful to their husbands. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Assuredly,” said Ormond, “you could not, I hope, think me so indiscreet—I + believe I said <i>ladies</i> in the plural number.” + </p> + <p> + “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, <i>cet + grand homme blême?</i>—There is Madame de la Rousse—<i>d’une + réputation intacte!</i>—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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>petit + soupers</i> for which Paris was famous at that day, and which she will + never see again. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>farther + acquaintance</i>: 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is it indiscreet to ask you whether you passed your evening agreeably?” + said M. de Connal, when the company had retired. + </p> + <p> + “Delightfully!” said Ormond: “the most agreeable evening I ever passed in + my life!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! oui, Monsieur Ormond,” cried Mademoiselle, joining them, “we shall + fix you at Paris, I expect.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>succeed</i> 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 <i>universe</i>, + she was going on to say, but M. de Connal finished the flattery better. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>butors</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.’” + </p> + <p> + Ormond, conscious that he had talked away at a great rate, was pleased by + this indirect compliment. + </p> + <p> + “But such personnages muëts never really see French society. They never + obtain more than a supper—not a <i>petit souper</i>—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?” + </p> + <p> + “The letters of recommendation which are of most advantage,” said Madame + de Connal, “are those which are written in the countenance.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>that</i> was + an affair to which all others must yield. + </p> + <p> + Well flattered by all the trio, and still more perhaps by his own vanity, + our young hero was at last suffered to depart. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>honourable notice</i> 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, <i>be</i>, or at least <i>seem</i> to be, above his dress. In + this as in most cases, the shortest and safest way to <i>seem</i> is to <i>be</i>. + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>né coiffé</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Ormond’s English foot stopped respectfully. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, entrez toujours,” said Mademoiselle, as the husband had said before + at the door of the boudoir. + </p> + <p> + “But Madame de Connal is dressing, perhaps,” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Mdlle. O’Faley pointed out to him all the accommodations of a French + apartment: she had not at this moment the slightest <i>malice</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Of the amazing communicativeness of Frenchwomen on all subjects, our young + hero had as yet no conception. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII. + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>le roi</i>, all the attachment, <i>le + dévouement</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>l’air noble</i>—another + exclaimed, “<i> Le bel Anglois</i>!” and his fortune was made at Paris; + especially as a friend of Madame du Barry’s asked where he bought his + embroidery. + </p> + <p> + He went afterwards, at least in Connal’s society, by the name of “<i>Le + bel Anglois</i>.” 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 “<i>mon bel Irlandois</i>.” 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 + <i>petit comité</i>, though Madame de Connal assured him that her friend’s + <i>petit soupers</i> “were charming, worth all the crowded assemblies in + Paris.” Still he pursued his plan, and sought for safety in a course of + dissipation. + </p> + <p> + “I give you joy,” said Connal to him one day, “you are fairly launched! + you are no distressed vessel to be <i>taken in tow</i>, nor a petty bark + to sail in any man’s <i>wake</i>. 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 <i>fix</i> him at Paris; but + she should be content, perfectly happy with his friendship, his society, + his sentiments: her own <i>sentiment</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + Madame de Clairville, who understood her business, and spoke with all the + fashionable <i>cant</i> of sensibility, asked how it was possible that an + involuntary sentiment could ever be a crime? + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>cant of sentiment</i> operate upon the female + novice, and vanquish her fear of shame and moral horror of vice. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Connal one day, when Dora was present, observed that Ormond seemed to be + quite in his natural element in this sea of pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “Who would have thought it?” said Dora: “I thought Mr. Ormond’s taste was + more for domestic happiness and retirement.” + </p> + <p> + “Retirement at Paris!” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “Domestic happiness at Paris!” said Connal. + </p> + <p> + Madame de Connal sighed—No, it was Dora that sighed. + </p> + <p> + “Where do you go to-night?” said her husband. + </p> + <p> + “Nowhere—I shall stay at home. And you?” said she, looking up at + Harry Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “To Madame de la Tour’s.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the affair of half an hour—only to appear—” + </p> + <p> + “Afterwards to the opera,” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “And after the opera—can’t you sup here?” said Madame de Connal. + </p> + <p> + “With the utmost pleasure—but that I am engaged to Madame de la + Brie’s ball.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “He like to break de ice, I suppose,” said Mademoiselle. “Ma foi, you must + then take a hatchet there!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The spring was now appearing, and the spring is delightful in Paris, and + the <i>promenades</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + For this an English side-saddle was procured—she was properly + equipped and mounted. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Ormond was now in great danger, because he felt himself secure that he was + only a friend—<i>l’ami de la maison</i>. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIX. + </h2> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>a sensation</i>; + that desire to <i>produce an effect</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + “But are you of marble?” cried Mademoiselle—“where is your + sensibilité then?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I must be content to seem and to be what I am,” said Ormond, in a tone of + playful but determined resignation. + </p> + <p> + “Bon!” said a voice near him. Mademoiselle went off in impatience to find + some better auditor—she did not hear the “<i>Bon</i>.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>reasonable</i> 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—<i>le + doyen de la littérature Françoise</i>—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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But you have seen nothing of our men of literature, have you?” said the + Abbé. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>one</i>, 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— + </p> + <p> + “Beyond a certain sum I have resolved never to play,” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! but the appetite grows—l’appetit vient en mangeant—the + danger is in acquiring the taste—excuse me if I speak too freely.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Bon!” said the Abbé; “that is the most singular determination I ever + heard: explain that to me, then, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The Abbé was pleased with the idea, and with the frankness and firmness of + our young hero. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Marmontel was distinguished for combining in his conversation, as in his + character, two qualities for which there are no precise English words, <i>naïveté</i> + and <i>finesse</i>. Whoever is acquainted with Marmontel’s writings must + have a perfect knowledge of what is meant by both. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The good Abbé seemed to see something of what in Ormond’s mind, and became + still more interested about him. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, ça,” said he to Marmontel, as soon as Ormond was gone, “that young + man is worth something: I thought he was only <i>le bel Irlandois</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>edified</i> by your reformation?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “In his own country, perhaps, all in good time,” said the Abbé. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>aimable</i> and <i>amiable</i>. His description of an <i>amiable + woman</i>, according to the English taste, was, I recollect, made <i>con + amore</i>; and there was a sigh at the close which came from the heart, + and which showed the heart was in England or Ireland.” + </p> + <p> + “Wherever his heart is, <i>c’est bien placé</i>,” said the Abbé. “I like + him—we must get him into good company—he is worthy to be + acquainted with your amiable and <i>aimable</i> Madame de Beauveau and + Madame de Seran.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Bon. That is peculiarly incumbent on the author of <i>Les Contes Moraux</i>,” + said the Abbé. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXX. + </h2> + <p> + One morning when Ormond awoke, the first thing he heard was, that a <i>person</i> + from Ireland was below, who was very impatient to see him. It was + Patrickson, Sir Ulick O’Shane’s confidential man of business. + </p> + <p> + “What news from Castle Hermitage?” cried Ormond, starting up in his bed, + surprised at the sight of Patrickson. + </p> + <p> + “The best that can be—never saw Sir Ulick in such heart—he has + a share of the loan, and—” + </p> + <p> + “And what news of the Annalys?” interrupted Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But have you no letter for me? and what brings you over so suddenly to + Paris?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Pray,” said Ormond, looking up from the paper he going to sign, “pray, + Patrickson, are you really and truly an Irishman?” + </p> + <p> + “By the father’s side, I apprehend, sir—but my mother was English. + Stay, sir, if you please—I must witness it.” + </p> + <p> + “Witness away,” said Ormond; and after having signed this paper, + empowering Sir Ulick to sell 30,000<i>l</i>. 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 <i>in short</i>; 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>lose</i> at play was the most + extraordinary he had ever heard. + </p> + <p> + “And yet you see I have kept it,” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>that</i>. 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>I</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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>fantaisie</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Madame de Connal, dear Dora!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My wedding-ring,” said Dora, with a sigh. “Unfortunate marriage!” + </p> + <p> + That was not the ring on which Ormond’s eyes were fixed. + </p> + <p> + “Dora, whose gray hair is this?” + </p> + <p> + “My father’s,” said Dora, in a tremulous voice. + </p> + <p> + “Your father!” cried Ormond, starting up. The full recollection of that + fond father, that generous benefactor, that confiding friend, rushed upon + his heart. + </p> + <p> + “And is this the return I make!—Oh, if he could see us at this + instant!” + </p> + <p> + “And if he could,” cried Dora, “oh! how he would admire and love you, + Ormond, and how he would—” + </p> + <p> + Her voice failed, and with a sudden motion she hid her face with both her + hands. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “My father! oh, my poor father!” cried Dora: “Oh! generous, dear, ever + generous Ormond!” + </p> + <p> + Bursting into tears—alternate passions seizing her—at one + moment the thoughts of her father, the next of her lover, possessed her + imagination. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Ormond’s surprise and curiosity increased—he desired Moriarty to + follow him. + </p> + <p> + “And now, Moriarty, what is it you have to say?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “First,” said Ormond, “if you were transported, how came you here?” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>sticks</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “The breaking of Sir Ulick’s bank? I heard from him the day before + yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, in the first place, Moriarty, are you innocent?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That will be a long affair, Moriarty, <i>if you talk out of the face</i>, + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Connal had no doubt that they should yet be able to fix him at Paris. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>good + man</i>?—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.’ + </p> + <p> + “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.’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘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 <i>them</i>: but stay till + to-morrow night, and we’ll try what we can do.’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘The moon,’ said he, ‘will be down in an hour and a half.’ + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “‘As for my part,’ said Dunne, ‘I will go in the morning, boldly, to the + magistrate, and claim his promise.’ + </p> + <p> + “He did so—and the magistrate with good sense, and good faith, kept + his promise, and obtained a pardon for Dunne. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0050" id="link2HCH0050"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXI. + </h2> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said the clerk, “it is a very sudden order for a very large sum.” + </p> + <p> + “True, sir—but you see my power—you know Mr. Ormond’s + handwriting, and you know Sir Ulick O’Shane’s—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! sir, no doubt—compare as much as you please—no doubt + people cannot be too exact and deliberate in doing business.” + </p> + <p> + “It certainly is his signature,” said the clerk. + </p> + <p> + “I witnessed the paper,” said Patrickson. + </p> + <p> + “Sir, I don’t dispute it,” replied the clerk; “but you cannot blame us for + being cautious when such a <i>very</i> large sum is in question, and when + we have no letter of advice from the gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “But I tell you I come straight from Mr. Ormond; I saw him last Tuesday at + Paris—” + </p> + <p> + “And you see him now, sir,” said Ormond, advancing. + </p> + <p> + Patrickson’s countenance changed beyond all power of control. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Ormond!—I thought you were at Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Patrickson!—I thought you were at Havre de Grace—what + brought you here so suddenly?” + </p> + <p> + “I acted for another,” hesitated Patrickson: “I therefore made no delay.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He turned again to speak to Patrickson, but Patrickson had disappeared. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Not <i>from</i> but <i>of</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + With the help of this gentleman’s thirty thousand, they might have + recovered, perhaps—but Mr. Ormond would scarcely have recovered it. + </p> + <p> + As to the ten thousand pounds in the Three per Cents., of which Sir Ulick + had obtained possession a month ago, that was irrecoverable, <i>if</i> his + bank should break—“<i>If</i>.”—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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>would</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, <i>if</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 “<i>half price given here for O’Shane’s notes</i>.” + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>accepted</i>, + as they called it, by the clerks, who thus for the hour soothed and + pacified the sufferers, with the hopes that this <i>acceptance</i> would + be good, and would <i>stand in stead</i> 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 <i>commissioners</i> + should look into it. Sir Ulick would pay all honourably—as far as + possible—fifteen shillings in the pound, or certainly ten shillings—the + <i>accepted</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>sham</i>.” + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>no good</i> now?” + </p> + <p> + Ormond felt the more on hearing these complaints, from his sense of the + absolute impossibility of relieving the universal distress. + </p> + <p> + He pursued his melancholy journey, and took Moriarty into the carriage + with him, that he might not be recognized on the road. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well, I don’t want to hear of Marcus—can you tell me whether + Dr. Cambray is come home?” + </p> + <p> + “Not expected to come till Monday.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! not a morning but I’m there the first thing, asking, and longing for + them.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “What do you intend to do, Peggy?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Leaving this happy and innocent couple to enjoy their felicity we proceed + to Castle Hermitage. + </p> + <p> + Ormond directed the postilions to go the back way to the house. They drove + down the old avenue. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Master Harry himself!—and is it you?—We ask your pardon, your + honour.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Poor gentleman! he has had a deal of trouble—and no help for him,” + said the man. + </p> + <p> + “Better tell him plain,” whispered the next. “Master Harry, Sir Ulick + O’Shane’s trouble is over in this world, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Ormond walked on silently, while they followed, talking at intervals. + </p> + <p> + “There is a very great cry against him, sir, I hear, in Dublin,—and + here in the country, too,” said one. + </p> + <p> + “The distress, they say, is very great, he caused; but they might let his + body rest any way—what good can that do them?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! the pitiful funeral,” said the eldest of the men, “the pitiful + funeral for Sir Ulick O’Shane, that was born to better.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Ormond involuntarily felt for his purse. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! don’t be bothering the gentleman, don’t be talking,” said the old + man. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>unfortunate event</i>, and their own sorrow and <i>distress</i>; + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>the true + thing</i>, and never <i>changed</i>—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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + The day after the funeral an agent came from Dublin to settle Sir Ulick + O’Shane’s affairs in the country. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + “ORMOND, + </p> + <p> + “I intended to <i>employ</i> your money to re-establish my falling credit, + but I never intended to <i>defraud</i> you. + </p> + <p> + “ULICK O’SHANE.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0051" id="link2HCH0051"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXII. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is your money right?” said Ormond. + </p> + <p> + “It is, sir; but I had something to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I will—and not a word of lie, and I beg your honour’s pardon, if—” + </p> + <p> + “Go on—straight to the fact, this instant, or you shall never have + my pardon.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Found!” cried Ormond, stepping hastily up to him—“where is it?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Ormond saw and seized upon a letter in Lady Armaly’s hand, directed to + him. Tore it open—two notes—one from Florence. + </p> + <p> + “I forgive you!” said he to the man, and made a sign to him to leave the + room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly—directly.” + </p> + <p> + Leaving a few lines of explanation and affection for Dr. Cambray, our + young hero was <i>off again</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + And now that he is safe in the carriage, what was in that note of Miss + Annaly’s which has produced such a <i>sensation</i>? No talismanic charm + ever operated with more magical celerity than this note. What were the + words of the charm? + </p> + <p> + That is a secret which shall never be known to the world. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Not receiving this notice, Ormond had unfortunately gone upon the day that + was specially prohibited. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Ormond!” said Lady Annaly, advancing kindly, yet with dignified + reserve—“Mr. Ormond, after his long absence, is welcome to his old + friend.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>sufficiently</i> alarmed by the rearing of his horse at + the sight of the flapping window-blind. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>reign</i> over them. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The End. + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +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-h.htm or 9107-h.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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