Lady O’Shane, extremely terrified, had scarcely power to rise. She
opened the drawer of the table, and thrust her trembling hand down to
the bottom of the silk bag, into which the keys had fallen. Impatient of
delay, Ormond pushed open the door, snatched the keys, and disappeared.
The whole passed in a few seconds. The music drowned the noise of the
opening door, and of the two chairs, which Ormond had thrown down: those
who sat near, thought a servant had pushed in and gone out; but, however
rapid the movement, the full view of the figure had been seen by Miss
Annaly, who was sitting on the opposite side of the room; Sir Ulick was
sitting beside her, talking earnestly. Lady Annaly had just retired.
“For Heaven’s sake, what’s the matter?” cried he, stopping in the middle
of a sentence, on seeing Miss Annaly grow suddenly pale as death.
Her eyes were fixed on the door of the green-house; his followed that
direction. “Yes,” said he, “we can get out into the air that way--lean
on me.” She did so--he pushed his way through the crowd at the bottom of
the country dance; and, as he passed, was met by Lady O’Shane and Miss
Black, both with faces of horror.
“Sir Ulick, did you see,” pointing to the door, “did you see Mr.
Ormond?--There’s blood!”
“There’s mischief, certainly,” said Miss Black. “A quarrel--Mr. Marcus,
perhaps.”
“Nonsense! No such thing, you’ll find,” said Sir Ulick, pushing on,
and purposely jostling the arm of a servant who was holding a salver
of ices, overturning them all; and whilst the surrounding company were
fully occupied about their clothes, and their fears, and apologies, he
made his way onwards to the green-house--Lady O’Shane clinging to
one arm--Miss Annaly supported by the other--Miss Black following,
repeating, “Mischief! mischief! you’ll see, sir.”
“Miss Black, open the door, and not another word.”
He edged Miss Annaly on, the moment the door opened, dragged Lady
O’Shane after him, pushed Miss Black back as she attempted to follow:
but, recollecting that she might spread the report of mischief, if he
left her behind, drew her into the green-house, locked the door, and led
Miss Annaly out into the air.
“Bring salts! water! something, Miss Black--follow me, Lady O’Shane.”
“When I’m hardly able--your wife! Sir Ulick, you might,” said Lady
O’Shane, as she tottered on, “you might, I should have _thought_--”
“No time for such thoughts, my dear,” interrupted he. “Sit down on the
steps--there, she is better now--now what is all this?”
“I am not to speak,” said Miss Black.
Lady O’Shane began to say how Mr. Ormond had burst in, covered with
blood, and seized the keys of the gates.
“The keys!” But he had no time for _that_ thought. “Which way did he
go?”
“I don’t know; I gave him the keys of both gates.”
The two entrances were a mile asunder. Sir Ulick looked for footsteps on
the grass. It was a fine moonlight night. He saw footsteps on the path
leading to the gardener’s house. “Stay here, ladies, and I will bring
you intelligence as soon as possible.”
“This way, Sir Ulick--they are coming,” said Miss Annaly, who had now
recovered her presence of mind.
Several persons appeared from a turn in the shrubbery, carrying some
one on a hand-barrow--a gentleman on horseback, with a servant and
many persons walking. Sir Ulick hastened towards them; the gentleman on
horseback spurred his horse and met him.
“Marcus!--is it you?--thank God! But Ormond--where is he, and what has
happened?”
The first sound of Marcus’s voice, when he attempted to answer, showed
that he was not in a condition to give a rational account of any thing.
His servant followed, also much intoxicated. While Sir Ulick had been
stopped by their ineffectual attempts to explain, the people who were
carrying the man on the hand-barrow came up. Ormond appeared from
the midst of them. “Carry him on to the gardener’s house,” cried he,
pointing the way, and coming forward to Sir Ulick. “If he dies, I am a
murderer!” cried he.
“Who is he?” said Sir Ulick.
“Moriarty Carroll, please your honour,” answered several voices at once.
“And how happened it?” said Sir Ulick.
“The long and the short of it, sir,” said Marcus, as well as he could
articulate, “the fellow was insolent, and we cut him down--and if it
were to do again, I’d do it again with pleasure.”
“No, no! you won’t say so, Marcus, when you are yourself,” said Ormond.
“Oh! how dreadful to come to one’s senses all at once, as I did--the
moment after I had fired that fatal shot--the moment I saw the poor
fellow stagger and fall--”
“It was you, then, that fired at him,” interrupted Sir Ulick.
“Yes, oh! yes!” said he, striking his forehead: “I did it in the fury of
passion.”
Then Ormond, taking all the blame upon himself, and stating what had
passed in the strongest light against himself, gave this account of the
matter. After having drunk too much at Mr. Cornelius O’Shane’s, they
were returning from the Black Islands, and afraid of being late, they
were galloping hard, when at a narrow part of the road they were stopped
by some cars. Impatient of the delay, they abused the men who were
driving them, insisting upon their getting out of the way faster than
they could. Moriarty Carroll made some answer, which Marcus said was
insolent; and inquiring the man’s name, and hearing it was Carroll, said
all the Carrolls were bad people--rebels. Moriarty defied him to prove
_that_--and added some expressions about tyranny, which enraged Ormond.
This part of the provocation Ormond did not state, but merely said he
was thrown into a passion by some observation of Moriarty’s; and first
he lifted his whip to give the fellow a horsewhipping. Moriarty seized
hold of the whip, and struggled to wrest it from his hand; Ormond then
snatched a pistol from his holster, telling Moriarty he would shoot him,
if he did not let the whip go. Moriarty, who was in a passion himself,
struggled, still holding the whip. Ormond cocked the pistol, and before
he was aware he had done so, the pistol accidentally went off--the ball
entered Moriarty’s breast. This happened within a quarter of a mile of
Castle Hermitage. The poor fellow bled profusely; and, in assisting to
lift him upon the hand-barrow, Ormond was covered with blood, as has
been already described.
“Have you sent for a surgeon?” said Sir Ulick, coolly.
“Certainly--sent off a fellow on my own horse directly. Sir, will you
come on to the gardener’s house; I want you to see him, to know what
you’ll think. If he die, I am a murderer,” repeated Ormond.
This horrible idea so possessed his imagination, that he could not
answer or hear any of the farther questions that were asked by Lady
O’Shane and Miss Black; but after gazing upon them with unmeaning eyes
for a moment in silence, walked rapidly on: as he was passing by the
steps of the green-house, he stopped short at the sight of Miss Annaly,
who was still sitting there. “What’s the matter?” said he, in a tone of
great compassion, going close up to her. Then, recollecting himself, he
hurried forward again.
“As I can be of no use--unless I can be of any use,” said Miss Annaly,
“I will, now that I am well enough, return--my mother will wonder what
has become of me.”
“Sir Ulick, give me the key of the conservatory, to let Miss Annaly into
the ball-room.”
“Miss Annaly does not wish to dance any more to-night, I believe,” said
Sir Ulick.
“Dance--oh! no.”
“Then, without exciting observation, you can all get in better at the
back door of the house, and Miss Annaly can go up the back stairs to
Lady Annaly’s room, without meeting any one; and you, Lady O’Shane,”
added he, in a low voice, “order up supper, and say nothing of what has
passed. Miss Black, you hear what I desire--no gossiping.”
To get to the back door they had to walk round the house, and in their
way they passed the gardener’s. The surgeon had just arrived.
“Go on, ladies, pray,” said Sir Ulick; “what stops you?”
“‘Tis I stop the way, Sir Ulick,” said Lady O’Shane, “to speak a word to
the surgeon. If you find the man in any dangerous way, for pity’s sake
don’t let him die at our gardener’s--indeed, the bringing him here at
all I think a very strange step and encroachment of Mr. Ormond’s. It
will make the whole thing so public--and the people hereabouts are so
revengeful--if any thing should happen to him, it will be revenged on
our whole family--on Sir Ulick in particular.”
“No danger--nonsense, my dear.”
But now this idea had seized Lady O’Shane, it appeared to her a
sufficient reason for desiring to remove the man even this night. She
asked why he could not be taken to his own home and his own people; she
repeated, that it was very strange of Mr. Ormond to take such liberties,
as if every thing about Castle Hermitage was quite at his disposal. One
of the men who had carried the hand-barrow, and who was now standing at
the gardener’s door, observed, that Moriarty’s _people_ lived five miles
off. Ormond, who had gone into the house to the wounded man, being told
what Lady O’Shane was saying, came out; she repeated her words as he
re-appeared. Naturally of sudden violent temper, and being now in the
highest state of suspense and irritation, he broke out, forgetful of all
proper respect. Miss Black, who was saying something in corroboration
of Lady O’Shane’s opinion, he first attacked, pronouncing her to be an
unfeeling, _canting_ hypocrite: then, turning to Lady O’Shane, he said
that she might send the dying man away, if she pleased; but that if she
did, he would go too, and that never while he existed would he enter her
ladyship’s doors again.
Ormond made this threat with the air of a superior to an inferior,
totally forgetting his own dependent situation, and the dreadful
circumstances in which he now stood.
“You are drunk, young man! My dear Ormond, you don’t know what you are
saying,” interposed Sir Ulick.
At his voice, and the kindness of his tone, Ormond recollected himself.
“Forgive me,” said he, in a very gentle tone. “My head certainly is
not--Oh! may you never feel what I have felt this last hour! If this man
die--Oh! consider.”
“He will not die--he will not die, I hope--at any rate, don’t talk so
loud within hearing of these people. My dear Lady O’Shane, this foolish
boy--this Harry Ormond is, I grant, a sad scapegrace, but you must bear
with him for my sake. Let this poor wounded fellow remain here--I won’t
have him stirred to-night--we shall see what ought to be done in the
morning. Ormond, you forgot yourself strangely towards Lady O’Shane--as
to this fellow, don’t make such a rout about the business; I dare say he
will do very well: we shall hear what the surgeon says. At first I was
horribly frightened--I thought you and Marcus had been quarrelling. Miss
Annaly, are not you afraid of staying out? Lady O’Shane, why do you keep
Miss Annaly? Let supper go up directly.”
“Supper! ay, every thing goes on as usual,” said Ormond, “and I--”
“I must follow them in, and see how things _are_ going on, and prevent
gossiping, for your sake, my boy,” resumed Sir Ulick, after a moment’s
pause. “You have got into an ugly scrape. I pity you from my soul--I’m
rash myself. Send the surgeon to me when he has seen the fellow. Depend
upon me, if the worst come to the worst, there’s nothing in the world I
would not do to serve you,” said Sir Ulick: “so keep up your spirits, my
boy--we’ll contrive to bring you through--at the worst, it will only be
manslaughter.”
Ormond wrung Sir Ulick’s hand--thanked him for his kindness; but
repeated, “it will be murder--it will be murder--my own conscience tells
me so! If he die, give me up to justice.”
“You’ll think better of it before morning,” said Sir Ulick, as he left
Ormond.
The surgeon gave Ormond little comfort. After extracting the bullet, and
examining the wound, he shook his head--he had but a bad opinion of the
case; and when Ormond took him aside, and questioned him more closely,
he confessed that he thought the man would not live--he should not be
surprised if he died before morning. The surgeon was obliged to leave
him to attend another patient; and Ormond, turning all the other people
out of the room, declared he would sit up with Moriarty himself. A
terrible night it was to him. To his alarmed and inexperienced eyes
the danger seemed even greater than it really was, and several times he
thought his patient expiring, when he was faint from loss of blood. The
moments in which Ormond was occupied in assisting him were the least
painful. It was when he had nothing left to do, when he had leisure to
think, that he was most miserable; then the agony of suspense, and the
horror of remorse, were felt, till feeling was exhausted; and he would
sit motionless and stupified, till he was wakened again from this
suspension of thought and feeling by some moan of the poor man, or some
delirious startings. Toward morning the wounded man lay easier; and as
Ormond was stooping over his bed to see whether he was asleep, Moriarty
opened his eyes, and fixing them on Ormond, said, in broken sentences,
but so as very distinctly to be understood, “Don’t be in such trouble
about the likes of me--I’ll do very well, you’ll see--and even suppose
I wouldn’t--not a friend I have shall ever prosecute--I’ll charge
‘em not--so be easy--for you’re a good heart--and the pistol went
off unknownst to you--I’m sure there was no malice--let that be your
comfort. It might happen to any man, let alone gentleman--don’t _take
on_ so. Only think of young Mr. Harry sitting up the night with me!--Oh!
if you’d go now and settle yourself yonder on t’other bed, sir--I’d be
a grate dale asier, and I don’t doubt but I’d get a taste of sleep
myself--while now wid you standing over or _forenent_ me, I can’t close
an eye for thinking of you, Mr. Harry.”
Ormond immediately threw himself upon the other bed, that he might
relieve Moriarty’s feelings. The good nature and generosity of this poor
fellow increased Ormond’s keen sense of remorse. As to sleeping, for him
it was impossible; whenever his ideas began to fall into that sort of
confusion which precedes sleep, suddenly he felt as if his heart were
struck or twinged, and he started with the recollection that some
dreadful thing had happened, and wakened to the sense of guilt and all
its horrors. Moriarty now lying perfectly quiet and motionless, and
Ormond not hearing him breathe, he was struck with the dread that he had
breathed his last. A cold tremor came over Ormond--he rose in his bed,
listening in acute agony, when to his relief he at last distinctly heard
Moriarty breathing strongly, and soon afterwards (no music was ever so
delightful to Ormond’s ear) heard him begin to breathe loudly, as if
asleep. The morning light dawned soon afterwards, and the crowing of a
cock was heard, which Ormond feared might waken him; but the poor
man slept soundly through all these usual noises: the heaving of the
bed-clothes over his breast went on with uninterrupted regularity. The
gardener and his wife softly opened the door of the room, to inquire how
things were going on; Ormond pointed to the bed, and they nodded, and
smiled, and beckoned to him to come out, whispering that a _taste_ of
the morning air would do him good. He suffered them to lead him out,
for he was afraid of debating the point in the room with the sleeping
patient. The good people of the house, who had known Harry Ormond from
a child, and who were exceedingly fond of him, as all the poor people in
the neighbourhood were, said every thing they could think of upon this
occasion to comfort him, and reiterated about a hundred times their
prophecies, that Moriarty would be as sound and _good_ a man as ever in
a fortnight’s time.
“Sure, when he’d take the soft sleep he couldn’t but do well.”
Then perceiving that Ormond listened to them only with faint attention,
the wife whispered to her husband, “Come off to our work, Johnny--he’d
like to be alone--he’s not equal to listen to our talk yet--it’s the
surgeon must give him hope--and he’ll soon be here, I trust.”
They went to their work, and left Ormond standing in the porch. It was
a fine morning--the birds were singing, and the smell of the honeysuckle
with which the porch was covered, wafted by the fresh morning air,
struck Ormond’s senses, but struck him with melancholy.
“Every thing in nature is cheerful except myself! Every thing in this
world going on just the same as it was yesterday--but all changed for
me!--within a few short hours--by my own folly, my own madness! Every
animal,” thought he, as his attention was caught by the house dog, who
was licking his hand, and as his eye fell upon the hen and chickens, who
were feeding before the door, “every animal is happy--and innocent! But
_if this man die--I shall be a murderer_.”
This thought, perpetually recurring, so oppressed him, that he stood
motionless, till he was roused by the voice of Sir Ulick O’Shane.
“Well, Harry Ormond, how is it with you, my boy?--The fellow’s alive, I
hope?”
“Alive--Thank Heaven!--yes; and asleep.”
“Give ye joy--it would have been an ugly thing--not but what we could
have brought you through: I’d go through thick and thin, you know, for
you, as if it were for my own son. But Lady O’Shane,” said Sir Ulick,
changing his tone, and with a face of great concern, “I must talk to you
about her--I may as well speak now, since it must be said.”
“I am afraid,” said Ormond, “that I spoke too hastily last night: I beg
your pardon.”
“Nay, nay, put _me_ out of the question: you may do what you please with
me--always could, from the time you were four years old; but, you know,
the more I love any body, the more Lady O’Shane hates them. The fact
is,” continued Sir Ulick, rubbing his eyes, “that I have had a weary
night of it--Lady O’Shane has been crying and whining in my ears. She
says I encourage you in being insolent, and so forth: in short, she
cannot endure you in the house any longer. I suspect that sour one” (Sir
Ulick, among his intimates, always designated Miss Black in this manner)
“_puts her up to it_. But I will not give up my own boy--I will take
it with a high hand. Separations are foolish things, as foolish as
marriages; but I’d sooner part with Lady O’Shane at once than let Harry
Ormond think I’d forsake him, especially in awkward circumstances.”
“That, Sir Ulick, is what Harry Ormond can never think of you. He would
be the basest, the most suspicious, the most ungrateful--But I must not
speak so loud,” continued he, lowering his voice, “lest it should waken
Moriarty.” Sir Ulick drew him away from the door, for Ormond was cool
enough at this moment to have common sense.
“My dear guardian-father, allow me still to call you by that name,”
continued Ormond, “believe me, your kindness is too fully--innumerable
instances of your affection now press upon me, so that--I can’t express
myself; but depend upon it, suspicion of your friendship is the last
that could enter my mind: I trust, therefore, you will do me the same
sort of justice, and never suppose me capable of ingratitude--though the
time is come when we must _part_.”
Ormond could hardly pronounce the word.
“Part!” repeated Sir Ulick: “no, by all the saints, and all the devils
in female form!”
“I am resolved,” said Ormond, “firmly resolved on one point--never to
be a cause of unhappiness to one who has been the source of so much
happiness to me: I will no more be an object of contention between you
and Lady O’Shane. Give her up rather than me--Heaven forbid! I the cause
of separation!--never--never! I am determined, let what will become of
me, I will no more be an inmate of Castle Hermitage.”
Tears started into Ormond’s eyes; Sir Ulick appeared much affected, and
in a state of great embarrassment and indecision.
He could not bear to think of it--he swore it must not be: then he
gradually sunk to hoping it was not necessary, and proposing palliatives
and half measures. Moriarty must be moved to-day--sent to his own
friends. That point he had, for peace sake, conceded to her ladyship, he
said; but he should expect, on her part, that after a proper, a decent
apology from Ormond, things might still be accommodated and go on
smoothly, if that meddling Miss Black would allow them.
In short he managed so, that whilst he confirmed the young man in his
resolution to quit Castle Hermitage, he threw all the blame on Lady
O’Shane; Ormond never doubting the steadiness of Sir Ulick’s affection,
nor suspecting that he had any secret motive for wishing to get rid of
him.
“But where can you go, my dear boy?--What will you do with
yourself?--What will become of you?”
“Never mind--never mind what becomes of me, my dear sir: I’ll find
means--I have the use of head and hands.”
“My cousin, Cornelius O’Shane, he is as fond of you almost as I am, and
he is not cursed with a wife, and is blessed with a daughter,” said Sir
Ulick, with a sly smile.
“Oh! yes,” continued he, “I see it all now: you have ways and means--I
no longer object--I’ll write--no, you’d write better yourself to King
Corny, for you are a greater favourite with his majesty than I am. Fare
ye well--Heaven bless you! my boy,” said Sir Ulick, with warm emphasis.
“Remember, whenever you want supplies, Castle Hermitage is your
bank--you know I have a bank at my back (Sir Ulick was joined in
a banking-house)’--Castle Hermitage is your bank, and here’s your
quarter’s allowance to begin with.”
Sir Ulick put a purse into Ormond’s hand, and left him.