But is it natural, is it possible, that this Sir Ulick O’Shane could so
easily part with Harry Ormond, and thus “whistle him down the wind to
prey at fortune?” For Harry Ormond, surely, if for any creature living,
Sir Ulick O’Shane’s affection had shown itself disinterested and steady.
When left a helpless infant, its mother dead, its father in India, he
had taken the child from the nurse, who was too poor even to feed or
clothe it as her own; and he had brought little Harry up at his castle
with his own son--as his own son. He had been his darling--literally
his spoiled child; nor had this fondness passed away with the prattling,
playful graces of the child’s first years--it had grown with its
growth. Harry became Sir Ulick’s favourite companion--hunting, shooting,
carousing, as he had been his plaything during infancy. On no one
occasion had Harry, violent and difficult to manage as he was to others,
ever crossed Sir Ulick’s will, or in any way incurred his displeasure.
And now, suddenly, without any cause, except the aversion of a wife,
whose aversions seldom troubled him in any great degree, is it natural
that he should give up Harry Ormond, and suffer him to sacrifice himself
in vain for the preservation of a conjugal peace, which Sir Ulick ought
to have known could not by such a sacrifice be preserved? Is it possible
that Sir Ulick should do this? Is it in human nature?
Yes, in the nature of Sir Ulick O’Shane. Long use had brought him to
this; though his affections, perhaps, were naturally warm, he had on
many occasions in his life sacrificed them to his scheming imaginations.
Necessity--the necessity of his affairs, the consequences of his
extravagance--had brought him to this: the first sacrifices had not been
made without painful struggles; but by degrees his mind had hardened,
and his warmth of heart had cooled. When he said or _swore_ in the
most cordial manner that he “would do any thing in the world to serve a
friend,” there was always a mental reservation of “any thing that does
not hurt my own interest, or cross my schemes.”
And how could Harry Ormond hurt his interest, or cross his schemes? or
how had Sir Ulick discovered this so suddenly? Miss Annaly’s turning
pale was the first cause of Sir Ulick’s change of sentiments towards his
young favourite. Afterwards, during the whole that passed, Sir Ulick had
watched the impression made upon her--he had observed that it was not
for Marcus O’Shane’s safety that she was anxious; and he thought she
had betrayed a secret attachment, the commencement of an attachment he
thought it, of which she was perhaps herself unconscious. Were such an
attachment to be confirmed, it would disappoint Sir Ulick’s schemes:
therefore, with the cool decision of a practised _schemer_, he
determined directly to get rid of Ormond. He had no intention of
parting with him for ever, but merely while the Annalys were at Castle
Hermitage: till his scheme was brought to bear, he would leave Harry at
the Black Islands, and he could, he thought, recal him from banishment,
and force a reconciliation with Lady O’Shane, and reinstate him in
favour, at pleasure.
But is it possible that Miss Annaly, such an amiable and elegant
young lady as she is described to be, should feel any attachment, any
predilection for such a young man as Ormond; ill-educated, unpolished,
with a violent temper, which had brought him early into life into the
dreadful situation in which he now stands? And at the moment when,
covered with the blood of an innocent man, he stood before her, an
object of disgust and horror; could any sentiment like love exist or
arise in a well-principled mind?
Certainly not. Sir Ulick’s acquaintance with unprincipled women misled
him completely in this instance, and deprived him of his usual power
of discriminating character. Harry Ormond was uncommonly handsome; and
though so young, had a finely-formed, manly, graceful figure; and his
manner, whenever he spoke to women, was peculiarly prepossessing. These
personal accomplishments, Sir Ulick thought, were quite sufficient to
win any lady’s heart--but Florence Annaly was not to be won by such
means: no feeling of love for Mr. Ormond had ever touched her heart, nor
even crossed her imagination; none under such circumstances could have
arisen in her innocent and well-regulated mind. Sudden terror, and
confused apprehension of evil, made her grow very pale at the sight of
his bloody apparition at the window of the ball-room. Bodily weakness,
for she was not at this time in strong health, must be her apology, if
she need any, for the faintness and loss of presence of mind, which Sir
Ulick construed into proofs of tender anxiety for the personal fate of
this young man. In the scene that followed, horror of his crime, pity
for the agony of his remorse, was what she felt--what she strongly
expressed to her mother, the moment she reached her apartment that
night: nor did her mother, who knew her thoroughly, ever for an instant
suspect that in her emotion, there was a mixture of any sentiments
but those which she expressed. Both mother and daughter were extremely
shocked. They were also struck with regret at the idea, that a
young man, in whom they had seen many instances of a generous, good
disposition, of natural qualities and talents, which might have made
him a useful, amiable, and admirable member of society, should be, thus
early, a victim to his own undisciplined passion. During the preceding
winter they had occasionally seen something of Ormond in Dublin. In the
midst of the dissipated life which he led, upon one or two occasions,
of which we cannot now stop to give an account, he had shown that he was
capable of being a very different character from that which he had
been made by bad education, bad example, and profligate indulgence, or
shameful neglect on the part of his guardian.
Immediately after Sir Ulick had left Ormond, the surgeon appeared, and
a new train of emotions arose. He had no time to reflect on Sir Ulick’s
conduct. He felt hurried on rapidly, like one in a terrible dream. He
returned with the surgeon to the wounded man.
Moriarty had wakened, much refreshed from his sleep, and the surgeon
confessed that his patient was infinitely better than he had expected
to find him. Moriarty evidently exerted himself as much as he possibly
could to appear better, that he might calm Ormond’s anxiety, who stood
waiting, with looks that showed his implicit faith in the oracle, and
feeling that his own fate depended upon the next words that should be
uttered. Let no one scoff at his easy faith: at this time Ormond was
very young, not yet nineteen, and had no experience, either of the
probability, or of the fallacy of medical predictions. After looking
very grave and very wise, and questioning and cross-questioning a proper
time, the surgeon said it was impossible for him to pronounce any thing
decidedly, till the patient should have passed another night; but that
if the next night proved favourable, he might then venture to declare
him out of immediate danger, and might then begin to hope that, with
time and care, he would do well. With this opinion, guarded and dubious
as it was, Ormond was delighted--his heart felt relieved of part of the
heavy load by which it had been oppressed, and the surgeon was well feed
from the purse which Sir Ulick had put into Ormond’s hands. Ormond’s
next business was to send a _gossoon_ with a letter to his friend the
King of the Black Islands, to tell him all that had passed, and to
request an asylum in his dominions. By the time he had finished and
despatched his letter, it was eight o’clock in the morning; and he was
afraid that before he could receive an answer, it might be too late in
the day to carry a wounded man as far as the Black Islands: he therefore
accepted the hospitable offer of the village school-mistress, to give
him and his patient a lodging for that night. There was indeed no one in
the place who would not have done as much for Master Harry. All were in
astonishment and sorrow when they heard that he was going to leave the
castle; and their hatred to Lady O’Shane would have known no bounds,
had they learned that she was the cause of his _banishment_: but this he
generously concealed, and forbade those of his followers or partisans,
who had known any thing of what had passed, to repeat what they had
heard. It was late in the day before Marcus rose; for he had to sleep
off the effects of his last night’s intemperance. He was in great
astonishment when he learned that Ormond was really going away; and
“could scarcely believe,” as he said repeatedly, “that Harry was so mad,
or such a fool. As to Moriarty, a few guineas would have settled the
business, if no rout had been made about it. Sitting up all night with
such a fellow, and being in such agonies about him--how absurd! What
more could he have done, if he had shot a gentleman, or his best friend?
But Harry Ormond was always in extremes.”
Marcus, though he had not a very clear recollection of the events of the
preceding night, was conscious, however, that he had been much more to
blame than Ormond had stated; he had a remembrance of having been very
violent, and of having urged Ormond to chastise Moriarty. It was not the
first time that Ormond had screened him from blame, by taking the whole
upon himself. For this Marcus was grateful to a certain degree: he
thought he was fond of Harry Ormond; but he had not for him the solid
friendship that would stand the test of adversity, still less would it
be capable of standing against any difference of party opinion. Marcus,
though he appeared a mild, indolent youth, was violent where his
prejudices were concerned. Instead of being governed by justice in his
conduct towards his inferiors, he took strong dislikes, either upon
false informations, or without sufficient examination of the facts:
cringing and flattery easily won his favour; and, on the other hand, he
resented any spirit of independence, or even the least contradiction,
from an inferior. These defects in his temper appeared more and more in
him every year. As he ceased to be a boy, and was called upon to act as
a man, the consequences of his actions became of greater importance;
but in acquiring more power, he did not acquire more reason, or greater
command over himself. He was now provoked with Ormond for being so
anxious about Moriarty Carroll, because he disliked the Carrolls, and
especially Moriarty, for some slight cause not worth recording. He went
to Ormond, and argued the matter with him, but in vain. Marcus resented
this sturdiness, and they parted, displeased with each other. Though
Marcus expressed in words much regret at his companion’s adhering to
the resolution of quitting his father’s house, yet it might be doubted
whether, at the end of the conference, these professions were entirely
sincere, whatever they might have been at the beginning: he had not a
large mind, and perhaps he was not sorry to get rid of a companion who
had often rivalled him in his father’s favour, and who might rival him
where it was still more his ambition to please. The coldness of Marcus’s
manner at parting, and the little difficulty which he felt in the
separation, gave exquisite pain to poor Ormond, who, though he was
resolved to go, did wish to be regretted, especially by the companion,
the friend of his childhood. The warmth of his guardian’s manner had
happily deceived him; and to the recollection of this he recurred
for comfort at this moment, when his heart ached, and he was almost
exhausted with the succession of the painful, violently painful,
feelings of the last four-and-twenty hours.
The gossoon who had been sent with the despatch to the King of the Black
Islands did not return this day--disappointment upon disappointment.
Moriarty, who had exerted himself too much, that he might appear better
than he really was, suffered proportionably this night; and so did
Ormond, who, never before having been with any person delirious from
fever, was excessively alarmed. What he endured cannot be described: it
was, however, happy for him that he was forced to bear it all--nothing
less could have made a sufficient impression on his mind--nothing less
could have been a sufficient warning to set a guard upon the violence of
his temper.
In the morning the fever abated: about eight o’clock the patient sunk
into a sound sleep; and Ormond, kneeling by his bedside, ardent in
devotion as in all his sentiments, gave thanks to Heaven, prayed for
Moriarty’s perfect recovery, and vowed with the strongest adjurations
that if he might be spared for this offence, if he might be saved from
the horror of being a murderer, no passion, no provocation should ever,
during the whole future course of his life, tempt him to lift his hand
against a fellow-creature.
As he rose from his knees, after making this prayer and this vow, he was
surprised to see standing beside him Lady Annaly--she had made a sign
to the sick man not to interrupt Ormond’s devotion by any exclamation at
her entrance.
“Be not disturbed--let me not feel that I embarrass you, Mr. Ormond,”
said she: “I came here not to intrude upon your privacy. Be not ashamed,
young gentleman,” continued she, “that I should have witnessed feelings
that do you honour, and that interest me in your future fate.”
“Interest Lady Annaly in my future fate!--Is it possible!” exclaimed
Ormond: “Is it possible that one of whom I stood so much in awe--one
whom I thought so much too good, ever to bestow a thought on--such a one
as I am--as I was, even before this fatal--” (his voice failed).
“Not fatal, I hope--I trust,” said Lady Annaly: “this poor man’s looks
at this moment assure me that he is likely to do well.”
“True for ye, my lady,” said Moriarty, “I’ll do my best, surely: I’d
live through all, if possible, for his sake, let alone my mudther’s, or
shister’s, or my own--‘twould be too bad, after; all the trouble he
got these two nights, to be dying at last, I and _hanting_ him, may be,
whether I would or no--for as to prosecuting, that would never be any
way, if I died twenty times over. I sint off that word to my mudthier
and shister, with my curse if they’d do _other_--and only that they
were at the fair, and did not get the word, or the news of my little
accident, they’d have been here long ago; and the minute they come, I’ll
swear ‘em not to prosecute, or harbour a thought of revenge again’ him,
who had no malice again’ me, no more than a child. And at another’s
bidding, more than his own, he drew the trigger, and the pistol went off
unknownst, in a passion: so there’s the case for you, my lady.”
Lady Annaly, who was pleased with the poor fellow’s simplicity and
generosity in this tragi-comic statement of the case, inquired if she
could in any way afford him assistance.
“I thank your ladyship, but Mr. Harry lets me want for nothing.”
“Nor ever will, while I have a farthing I can call my own,” cried
Ormond.
“But I hope, Mr. Ormond,” said Lady Annaly, smiling, “that when
Moriarty--is not that his name?--regains his strength, to which he
seems well inclined, you do not mean to make him miserable and good for
nothing, by supporting him in idleness?”
“No, he sha’n’t, my lady--I would not let him be wasting his little
substance on me. And did ye hear, my lady, how he is going to lave
Castle Hermitage? Well, of all the surprises ever I got! It come upon me
like a shot--_my shot_ was nothing to it!”
It was necessary to insist upon Moriarty’s submitting to be silent
and quiet; for not having the fear of the surgeon before his eyes, and
having got over his first awe of the lady, he was becoming too full of
oratory and action. Lady Annaly took Ormond out with her, that she might
speak to him of his own affairs.
“You will not, I hope, Mr. Ormond, ascribe it to idle curiosity, but to
a wish to be of service, if I inquire what your future plans in life may
be?”
Ormond had never formed any, distinctly. “He was not fit for any
profession, except, perhaps, the army--he was too old for the navy--he
was at present going, he believed, to the house of an old friend, a
relation of Sir Ulick, Mr. Cornelius O’Shane.”
“My son, Sir Herbert Annaly, has an estate in this neighbourhood, at
which he has never yet resided, but we are going there when we leave
Castle Hermitage. I shall hope to see you at Annaly, when you have
determined on your plans; perhaps you may show us how we can assist in
forwarding them.”
“Is it possible,” repeated Ormond, in unfeigned astonishment, “that your
ladyship can be so very good, so condescending, to one who so
little deserves it? But I _will_ deserve it in future. If I get over
this--interested in _my_ future fate--Lady Annaly!”
“I knew your father many years ago,” said Lady Annaly; “and as his son,
I might feel some interest for you; but I will tell you sincerely, that,
on some occasions, when we met in Dublin, I perceived traits of goodness
in you, which, on your own account, Mr. Ormond, have interested me
in your fate. But fate is an unmeaning commonplace--worse than
commonplace--word: it is a word that leads us to imagine that we are
_fated_ or doomed to certain fortunes or misfortunes in life. I have had
a great deal of experience, and from all I have observed, it appears
to me, that far the greatest part of our happiness or misery in life
depends upon ourselves.”
Ormond stopped short, and listened with the eagerness of one of quick
feeling and quick capacity, who seizes an idea that is new to him, and
the truth and value of which he at once appreciates. For the first
time in his life he heard good sense from the voice of benevolence--he
anxiously desired that she should go on speaking, and stood in such an
attitude of attentive deference as fully marked that wish.
But at this moment Lady O’Shane’s footman came up with a message from
his lady; her ladyship sent to let Lady Annaly know that breakfast was
ready. Repeating her good wishes to Ormond she bade him adieu, while
he was too much overpowered with his sense of gratitude to return her
thanks.
“Since there exists a being, and such a being, interested for me, I must
be worth something--and I will make myself worth something more: I will
begin from this moment, I am resolved, to improve; and who knows but
in the end I may become every thing that is good? I don’t want to be
great.”
Though this resolution was not steadily adhered to, though it was for
a time counteracted by circumstances, it was never afterwards entirely
forgotten. From this period, in consequence of the great and painful
impression which had been suddenly made on his mind, and from a few
words of sense and kindness spoken to him at a time when his heart was
happily prepared to receive them, we may date the commencement of our
hero’s reformation and improvement--hero, we say; but certainly never
man had more faults than Ormond had to correct, or to be corrected,
before he could come up to the received idea of any description of hero.
Most heroes are born perfect--so at least their biographers, or rather
their panegyrists, would have us believe. Our hero is far from this
happy lot; the readers of his story are in no danger of being wearied,
at first setting out, with the list of his merits and accomplishments;
nor will they be awed or discouraged by the exhibition of virtue above
the common standard of humanity--beyond the hope of imitation. On
the contrary, most people will comfort and bless themselves with the
reflection, that they never were quite so foolish, nor quite so bad, as
Harry Ormond.
For the advantage of those who may wish to institute the comparison, his
biographer, in writing the life of Ormond, deems it a point of honour to
extenuate nothing; but to trace, with an impartial hand, not only every
improvement and advance, but every deviation or retrograde movement.