Full of sudden zeal for his own improvement, Ormond sat down at the foot
of a tree, determined to make a list of all his faults, and of all his
good resolutions for the future. He took out his pencil, and began on
the back of a letter the following resolutions, in a sad scrawling hand
and incorrect style.
HARRY OSMOND’S GOOD RESOLUTIONS.
Resolved 1st.--That I will never drink more than (_blank number_ of)
glasses.
Resolved 2ndly.--That I will cure myself of being passionate.
Resolved 3rdly.--That I will never keep low company.
Resolved.--That I am too fond of flattery--women’s, especially, I like
most. To cure myself of that.
_Ormond_. Here he was interrupted by the sight of a little gossoon, with
a short stick tucked under his arm, who came pattering on bare-foot in
a kind of pace indescribable to those who have never seen it--it was
something as like walking or running as chanting is to speaking or
singing.
“The answer I am from the Black Islands, Master Harry; and would have
been back wid you afore nightfall yesterday, only _he_--King Corny--was
at the fair of Frisky--could not write till this morning any way--but
has his service to ye, Master Harry, will be in it for ye by half after
two with a bed and blanket for Moriarty, he bid me say on account he
forgot to put it in the note. In the Sally Cove the boat will be there
_abow_ in the big lough, forenent the spot where the fir dale was cut
last seraph by them rogues.”
The despatch from the King of the Black Islands was then produced from
the messenger’s bosom, and it ran as follows:
“Dear Harry. What the mischief has come over Cousin Ulick to be
banishing you from Castle Hermitage? But since he _conformed_, he was
never the same man, especially since his last mis-marriage. But no use
moralizing--he was always too much of a courtier for me. Come you to
me, my dear boy, who is no courtier, and you’ll be received and embraced
with open arms--was I Briareus, the same way--Bring Moriarty Carroll
(if that’s his name), the boy you shot, which has given you so much
concern--for which I like you the better--and honour that boy, who,
living or dying, forbade to prosecute. Don’t be surprised to see
the roof the way it is:--since Tuesday I wedged it up bodily without
stirring a stick:--you’ll see it from the boat, standing three foot
high above the walls, waiting while I’m building up to it--to get
attics--which I shall for next to nothing--by my own contrivance.
Meantime, good dry lodging, as usual, for all friends at the palace.
_He_ shall be well tended for you by Sheelah Dunshaughlin, the mother of
Betty, worth a hundred of her! and we’ll soon set him up again with the
help of such a nurse, as well as ever, I’ll engage; for I’m a bit of a
doctor, you know, as well as every thing else. But don’t let any other
doctor, surgeon, or apothecary, be coming after him for your life--for
none ever gets a permit to land, to my knowledge, on the Black
Islands--to which I attribute, under Providence, to say nothing of
my own skill in practice, the wonderful preservation of my people in
health--that, and woodsorrell, and another secret or two not to be
committed to paper in a hurry--all which I would not have written
to you, but am in the gout since four this morning, held by the foot
fast--else I’d not be writing, but would have gone every inch of the way
for you myself in style, in lieu of sending, which is all I can now do,
my six-oared boat, streamers flying, and piper playing like mad--for I
would not have you be coming like a banished man, but in all glory, to
Cornelius O’Shane, commonly called King _Corny_--but no _king_ to you,
only your hearty old friend.”
“Heaven bless Cornelius O’Shane!” said Harry Ormond to himself, as he
finished this letter. “King or no king, the most warm-hearted man on
earth, let the other be who he will.”
Then pressing this letter to his heart, he put it up carefully, and
rising in haste, he dropped the list of his faults. That train of
associations was completely broken, and for the present completely
forgotten; nor was it likely to be soon renewed at the Black Islands,
especially in the palace, where he was now going to take up his
residence. Moriarty was laid on a bed; and was transported, with Ormond,
in the six-oared boat, streamers flying, and piper playing, across the
lake to the islands. Moriarty’s head ached terribly, but he nevertheless
enjoyed the playing of the pipes in his ear, because of the air of
triumph it gave Master Harry, to go away in this grandeur, in the face
of the country. King Corny ordered the discharge of twelve guns on his
landing, which popped one after another gloriously--the _hospitable
echoes_, as Moriarty called them, repeating the sound. A horse, decked
with ribands, waited on the shore, with King Corny’s compliments for
_Prince_ Harry, as the boy, who held the stirrup for Ormond to mount,
said he was instructed to call him, and to proclaim him “_Prince Harry_”
throughout the island, which he did by sound of horn, the whole way they
proceeded to the palace--very much to the annoyance of the horse, but
all for the greater glory of the prince, who managed his steed to the
admiration of the shouting ragged multitude, and of his majesty, who
sat in state in his gouty chair at the palace door. He had had himself
rolled out to welcome the coming guest.
“By all that’s princely,” cried he, “then, that young Harry Ormond was
intended for a prince, he sits ahorse so like myself; and that horse
requires a master hand to manage him.”
Ormond alighted.
The gracious, cordial, fatherly welcome, with which he was received,
delighted his heart.
“Welcome, prince, my adopted son, welcome to Corny _castle--palace_,
I would have said, only for the constituted authorities of the
post-office, that might take exceptions, and not be sending me my
letters right. As I am neither bishop nor arch, I have, in their blind
eyes or conceptions, no right--Lord help them!--to a temporal palace.
Be that as it may, come you in with me, here into the big room--and
see! there’s the bed in the corner for your first object, my boy--your
wounded chap; and I’ll visit his wound, and fix it and him the first
thing for ye, the minute he comes up.”
His majesty pointed to a bed in the corner of a large apartment, whose
beautiful painted ceiling and cornice, and fine chimney-piece with
caryatides of white marble, ill accorded with the heaps of oats and
corn, the thrashing cloth and flail, which lay on the floor.
“It is intended for a drawing-room, understand,” said King Corny; “but
till it is finished, I use it for a granary or a barn, when it would not
be a barrack-room or hospital, which last is most useful at present.”
To this hospital Moriarty was carefully conveyed. Here, notwithstanding
his gout, which affected only his feet, King Corny dressed Moriarty’s
wound with exquisite tenderness and skill; for he had actually acquired
knowledge and address in many arts, with which none could have suspected
him to have been in the least acquainted.
Dinner was soon announced, which was served up with such a strange
mixture of profusion and carelessness, as showed that the attendants,
who were numerous and ill-caparisoned, were not much used to gala-days.
The crowd, who had accompanied Moriarty into the house, were admitted
into the dining-room, where they stood round the king, prince, and
Father Jos the priest, as the courtiers, during the king’s supper at
Versailles, surrounded the King of France. But these poor people were
treated with more hospitality than were the courtiers of the French
king; for as soon as the dishes were removed, their contents were
generously distributed among the attendant multitude. The people blest
both king and prince, “wishing them health and happiness long to reign
over them;” and bowing suitably to his majesty the king, and to his
reverence the priest, without standing upon the order of their going,
departed.
“And now, Father Jos,” said the king to the priest, “say grace, and draw
close, and let me see you do justice to my claret, or the whiskey punch
if you prefer; and you, Prince Harry, we will set to it regally as long
as you please.”
“Till tea-time,” thought young Harry. “Till supper-time,” thought Father
Jos. “Till bed-time,” thought King Corny.
At tea-time young Harry, in pursuance of his _resolution_ the first,
rose, but he was seized instantly, and held down to his chair. The royal
command was laid upon him “to sit still and be a good fellow.” Moreover
the door was locked--so that there was no escape or retreat.
The next morning when he wakened with an aching head, he recollected
with disgust the figure of Father Jos, and all the noisy mirth of the
preceding night. Not without some self-contempt, he asked himself what
had become of his resolution.
“The wounded boy was axing for you, Master Harry,” said the girl, who
came in to open the shutters.
“How is he?” cried Harry, starting up.
“He is _but soberly_; [Footnote: But soberly--not very well, or in good
spirits.] he got the night but middling; he concaits he could not sleep
becaase he did not get a sight of your honour afore he’d settle--I tell
him ‘tis the change of beds, which always hinders a body to sleep the
first night.”
The sense of having totally forgotten the poor fellow--the contrast
between this forgetfulness and the anxiety and contrition of the two
preceding nights, actually surprised Ormond: he could hardly believe
that he was one and the same person. Then came excuses to himself:
“Gratitude--common civility--the peremptoriness of King Corny--his
passionate temper, when opposed on this tender point--the locked
door--and two to one: in short, there was an impossibility in the
circumstances of doing otherwise than what he had done. But then the
same impossibility--the same circumstances--might recur the next night,
and the next, and so on: the peremptory temper of King Corny was not
likely to alter, and the moral obligation of gratitude would continue
the same; so that at nineteen was he to become, from complaisance, what
his soul and body abhorred--an habitual drunkard? And what would become
of Lady Annaly’s interest in his fate or his improvement?”
The two questions were not of equal importance, but our hero was at this
time far from having any just proportion in his reasoning: it was well
he reasoned at all. The argument as to the obligation of gratitude--the
view he had taken of the never-ending nature of the evil, which must
be the consequence of beginning with weak complaisance--above all, the
_feeling_ that he had so lost his reason as not only to forget Moriarty,
but to have been again incapable of commanding his passions, if any
thing had occurred to cross his temper, determined Ormond to make a firm
resistance on the next occasion that should occur: it did occur the very
next night. After a dinner given to his chief tenants and the _genteel_
people of the islands--a dinner in honour and in introduction of his
_adopted son_, King Corny gave a toast “to the Prince presumptive,”
as he now styled him--a bumper toast. Soon afterwards he detected
_daylight_ in Harry’s glass, and cursing it properly, he insisted on
flowing bowls and full glasses. “What! are you Prince _presumptuous_?”
cried he, with a half angry and astonished look. “Would you resist and
contradict your father and king at his own table after dinner? Down with
the glass!”
Farther and steady resistance changed the jesting tone and half angry
look of King Corny into sullen silence, and a black portentous brow of
serious displeasure. After a decent time of sitting, the bottle passing
him without farther importunity, Ormond rose--it was a hard struggle;
for in the face of his benefactor he saw reproach and rage bursting from
every feature: still he moved on towards the door. He heard the words
“sneaking off sober!--let him sneak!”
Ormond had his hand on the lock of the door--it was a bad lock, and
opened with difficulty.
“There’s gratitude for you! No heart, after all--I mistook him.”
Ormond turned back, and firmly standing and firmly speaking, he
said, “You did not mistake me formerly, sir; but you mistake me
now!--Sneaking!--Is there any man here, sober or drunk,” continued
be, impetuously approaching the table, and looking round full in every
face,--“is there any man here dares to say so but yourself?--You, _you_,
my benefactor, my friend; you have said it--think it you did not--you
could not, but say it you may--_You_ may say what you will to Harry
Ormond, bound to you as he is--bound hand and foot and heart I--Trample
on him as you will--_you_ may. _No heart_! Oblige me, gentlemen, some
of you,” cried he, his anger rising and his eyes kindling as he spoke,
“some of you gentlemen, if any of you think so, oblige me by saying so.
No gratitude, sir!” turning from them, and addressing himself to the old
man, who held an untasted glass of claret as he listened--“No gratitude!
Have not I?--Try me, try me to the death--you have tried me to the quick
of the heart, and I have borne it.”
He could bear it no longer: he threw himself into the vacant chair,
flung out his arms on the table, and laying his face down upon them,
wept aloud. Cornelius O’Shane pushed the wine away. “I’ve wronged the
boy grievously,” said he; and forgetting the gout, he rose from his
chair, hobbled to him, and leaning over him, “Harry, ‘tis I--look up,
my own boy, and say you forgive me, or I’ll never forgive myself. That’s
well,” continued he, as Harry looked up and gave him his hand; “that’s
well!--you’ve taken the twinge out of my heart worse than the gout: not
a drop of gall or malice in your nature, nor ever was, more than in
the child unborn. But see, I’ll tell you what you’ll do now, Harry, to
settle all things--and lest the fit should take me ever to be mad
with you on this score again. You don’t choose to drink more than’s
becoming?--Well, you’se right, and I’m wrong. ‘Twould be a burning shame
of me to make of you what I have made of myself. We must do only as well
as we can. But I will ensure you against the future; and before we take
another glass--there’s the priest--and you, Tom Ferrally there, step
you for my swearing book. Harry Ormond, you shall take an oath against
drinking more glasses than you please evermore, and then you’re safe
from me. But stay--you are a heretic. Phoo! what am I saying? ‘twas
seeing the priest put that word _heretic_ in my head--you’re not
a catholic, I mean. But an oath’s an oath, taken before priest or
parson--an oath, taken how you will, will operate. But stay, to make all
easy, ‘tis I’ll take it.”
“Against drinking, you! King Corny!” said Father Jos, stopping his hand,
“and in case of the gout in your stomach?”
“Against drinking! do you think I’d perjure myself? No! But against
pressing _him_ to it--I’ll take my oath I’ll never ask him to drink
another glass more than he likes.”
The oath was taken, and King Corny concluded the ceremony by observing
that, after all, there was no character he despised more than that of
a sot. But every gentleman knew that there was a wide and material
difference betwixt a gentleman who was fond of his bottle, and that
unfortunate being, an habitual drunkard. For his own part, it was his
established rule never to go to bed without a proper quantity of liquor
under his belt; but he defied the universe to say he was ever known to
be drunk.
At a court where such ingenious casuistry prevailed, it was happy for
our hero that an unqualifying oath now protected his resolution.