One morning, when Harry Ormond was out shooting, and King Corny, who had
recovered tolerably from the gout, was reinstated in his arm-chair in
the parlour, listening to Father Jos reading “The Dublin Evening Post,”
a gossoon, one of the runners of the castle, opened the door, and
putting in his curly red head and bare feet, announced, _in all haste_,
that _he “just seen_ Sir Ulick O’Shane in the boat, crossing the lake
for the Black Islands.”
“Well, breathless blockhead! and what of that?” said King Corny--“did
you never see a man in a boat before?”
“I did, plase your honour.”
“Then what is there extraordinary?”
“Nothing at all, plase your honour, only--thought your honour might like
to know.”
“Then you thought wrong, for I neither like it, nor mislike it. I don’t
care a rush about the matter--so take yourself down stairs.”
“‘Tis a long time,” said the priest, as the gossoon closed the door
after him, “‘tis a longer time than he ought, since Sir Ulick O’Shane
paid his respects here, even in the shape of a morning visit.”
“Morning visit!” repeated Mrs. Betty Dunshaughlin, the housekeeper, who
entered the room, for she was a privileged person, and had _les grandes
et les petites entrées in this palace_”--Morning visit!--are you sure,
Father Jos--are you clear he isn’t come intending to stay dinner?”
“What, in the devil’s name, Betty, does it signify?” said the king.
“About the dinner!”
“What about it?” said Corny, proudly: “whether he comes, stays, or goes,
I’ll not have a scrap, or an iota of it changed,” added he in a despotic
tone.
“_Wheugh_.’” said Betty, “one would not like to have a dinner of
scraps--for there’s nothing else to-day for him.”
“Then if there _is_ nothing else, there _can_ be nothing else,” said the
priest, very philosophically.
“But when strangers come to dine, one would make a bit of an exertion,
if one could,” said Betty.
“It’s his own fault to be a stranger,” said Father Jos, watching his
majesty’s clouding countenance; then whispering to Betty, “that was a
faulty string you touched upon, Mrs. Betty; and can’t you make out your
dinner without saying any thing?”
“A person may speak in this house, I suppose, besides the clergy, Father
Jos,” said Mrs. Betty, under her breath.
Then looking out of the window, she added, “He’s half-way over the lake,
and he’ll make his own apologies good, I’ll engage, when he comes in;
for he knows how to speak for himself as well as any gentleman--and I
don’t doubt but he’ll get my Micky made an exciseman, as he promised
to; and sure he has a good right--Isn’t he a cousin of King Corny’s?
wherefore I’d wish to have all things proper. So I’ll step out and kill
a couple of chickens--won’t I?”
“Kill what you please,” said King Corny; “but without my warrant,
nothing killed or unkilled shall come up to my table this day--and
that’s enough. No more reasoning--quit the subject and the room, Betty.”
Betty quitted the room; but every stair, as she descended to the
kitchen, could bear witness that she did not quit the subject; and for
an hour afterwards, she reasoned against the obstinacy and folly of
man, and the chorus in the kitchen moralized, in conformity and
commiseration--in vain.
Meantime Father Jos, though he regretted the exertions which Mrs. Betty
might discreetly have made in favour of a good dinner, was by no means,
as he declared, a friend or _fauterer_ of Sir Ulick O’Shane--how could
he, when Sir Ulick had recanted?--The priest looked with horror upon the
apostasy--the King with contempt upon the desertion of his party. “Was
he sincere any way, I’d honour him,” said Cornelius, “or forgive him;
but, not to be ripping up old grievances when there’s no occasion, can’t
forgive the way he is at this present double-dealing with poor Harry
Ormond--cajoling the grateful heart, and shirking the orphan boy that
he took upon him to patronise. Why there I thought nobly of him, and
forgave him all his sins, for the generous protection he afforded the
son of his friend.”
“Had Captain Ormond, the father, no fortune?” asked the priest.
“Only a trifle of three hundred a year, and no provision for the
education or maintenance of the boy. Ulick’s fondness for him, more than
all, showed him capable of the disinterested _touch_; but then to belie
his own heart--to abandon him he bred a favourite, just when the boy
wants him most--Oh! how could he? And all for what? To please the wife
he hates: that can’t be--that’s only the ostensible--but what the raal
rason is I can’t guess. No matter--he’ll soon tell us.”
“Tell us! Oh! no,” said the priest, “he’ll keep his own secret.”
“He’ll let it out, I’ll engage, trying to hide it,” said Corny: “like
all cunning people, he _woodcocks_--hides his head, and forgets his body
can be seen. But hark! he is coming up. Tommy!” said he, turning to
a little boy of five years old, Sheelah’s grandchild, who was playing
about in the room, “hand, me that whistle you’re whistling with, till I
see what’s the matter with it for you.”
King Corny seemed lost in examination of the whistle when Sir Ulick
entered the room; and after receiving and seating him with proud
courtesy, he again returned to the charge, blowing through the whistle,
earnestly dividing his observation between Sir Ulick and little Tommy,
and asking questions, by turns, about the whistle, and about all at
Castle Hermitage.
“Where’s my boy? Where’s Harry Ormond?” was the first leading question
Sir Ulick asked.
“Harry Ormond’s out shooting, I believe, somewhere or somehow, taking
his pleasure, as I hope he will long, and always as long as he likes it,
at the Black Islands; at least as long as I live.”
Sir Ulick branched off into hopes of his cousin Cornelius’s living long,
very long; and in general terms, that were intended to avoid committing
himself, or pinning himself to any thing, he protested that he must not
be robbed of his boy, that he had always, with good reason, been jealous
of Harry’s affection for King Corny, and that he could not consent to
let his term of stay at the Black Islands be either as long as Harry
himself should like, or during what he hoped would be the life of his
cousin, Cornelius O’Shane.
“There’s something wrong, still, in this whistle. Why, if you loved him
so, did you let him go when you had him?” said Corny.
“He thought it necessary, for domestic reasons,” replied Sir Ulick.
“_Continental policy_, that is; what I never understood, nor never
shall,” said Corny. “But I don’t inquire any farther. If you are
satisfied with yourself, we are all satisfied, I believe.”
“Pardon me, I cannot be satisfied without seeing Harry this morning, for
I’ve a little business with him--will you have the goodness to send for
him?”
Father Jos, who, from the window, saw Harry’s dog snuffing along the
path to the wood, thought he could not be far from the house, and went
to make inquiries; and now when Sir Ulick and King Corny were left alone
together, a dialogue--a sort of single combat, without any object but
to try each other’s powers and temper--ensued between them; in which the
one on the offensive came on with a tomahawk, and the other stood on
the defensive parrying with a polished blade of Damascus; and sometimes,
when the adversary was off his guard, making a sly cut at an exposed
part.
“What are you so busy about?” said Sir Ulick.
“Mending the child’s toy,” said Cornelius. “A man must be doing
something in this world.”
“But a man of your ingenuity! ‘tis a pity it should be wasted, as I have
often said, upon mere toys.”
“Toys of one sort or other we are all taken up with through life, from
the cradle to the grave. By-the-bye, I give you joy of your baronetage.
I hope they did not make you pay, now, too much in conscience for that
poor tag of nobility.”
“These things are not always matters of bargain and sale--mine was quite
an unsolicited honour, a mark of approbation and acceptance of my poor
services, and as such, gratifying;--as to the rest, believe me, it was
not, if I must use so coarse an expression, _paid_ for.”
“Not paid for--what, then, it’s owing for? To be paid for still? Well,
that’s too hard, after all you’ve done for them. But some men have no
manner of conscience. At least, I hope you paid the fees.”
“The fees, of course--but we shall never understand one another,” said
Sir Ulick.
“Now what will be the next title or string you look forward to, Ulysses,
may I ask? Is it to be Baron Castle Hermitage, or to get a riband, or a
garter, or a thistle, or what?--A thistle! What asses some men are!”
What savages some men are, thought Sir Ulick: he walked to the window,
and looking out, hoped that Harry Ormond would soon make his appearance.
“You are doing, or undoing, a great deal here, cousin Cornelius, I see,
as usual.”
“Yes, but what I am doing, stand or fall, will never be my undoing--I am
no speculator. How do your silver mines go on, Sir Ulick? I hear all the
silver mines in Ireland turn out to be lead.”
“I wish they did,” said Sir Ulick, “for then we could turn all our lead
to gold. Those silver mines certainly did not pay--I’ve a notion
you found the same with your reclaimed bog here, cousin Cornelius--I
understand that after a short time it relapses, and is worse than ever,
like most things pretending to be reclaimed.”
“Speak for yourself, there, Sir Ulick,” said Cornelius; “you ought to
know, certainly, for some thirty years ago, I think you pretended to be
a reclaimed rake.”
“I don’t remember it,” said Sir Ulick.
“I do, and so would poor Emmy Annaly, if she was alive, which it’s
fortunate for her she is not (broken-hearted angel, if ever there was
one, by wedlock! and the only one of the Annalys I ever liked),” said
Cornelius to himself, in a low leisurely voice of soliloquy. Then
resuming his conversation tone, and continuing his speech to Sir Ulick,
“I say you pretended thirty years ago, I remember, to be a reformed
rake, and looked mighty smooth and plausible--and promised fair that
the improvement was solid, and was to last for ever and a day. But six
months after marriage comes a relapse, and the reclaimed rake’s worse
than ever. Well, to be sure, that’s in favour of your opinion against
all things pretending to be reclaimed. But see, my poor bog, without
promising so well, performs better; for it’s six years, instead of six
months, that I’ve seen no tendency to relapse. See, the _cattle_ upon it
speak for themselves; an honest calf won’t lie for any man.”
“I give you joy of the success of your improvements. I admire, too, your
ploughing team and ploughing tackle,” said Sir Ulick, with an ironical
smile. “You don’t go into any indiscreet expense for farming implements
or prize cattle.”
“No,” said Cornelius, “I don’t prize the prize cattle; the best prize a
man can get, and the only one worth having, is that which he must give
himself, or not get, and of which he is the best judge at all sasons.”
“What prize, may I ask?”
“You may ask, and I’ll answer--the prize of _success_; and, success to
myself, I have, it.”
“And succeeding in all your ends by such noble means must be doubly
gratifying--and is doubly commendable and surprising,” said Sir Ulick.
“May I ask--for it’s my turn now to play ignoramus--may I ask, what
noble means excites this gratuitous commendation and surprise?”
“I commend, in the first place, the economy of your ploughing
tackle--hay ropes, hay traces, and hay halters--doubly useful and
convenient for harness and food.”
Corny replied, “Some people I know, think the most expensive harness and
tackle, and the most expensive ways of doing every thing, the best; but
I don’t know if that is the way for the poor to grow rich--it may be
the way for the rich to grow poor: we are all poor people in the Black
Islands, and I can’t afford, or think it good policy, to give the
example of extravagant new ways of doing old things.”
“‘Tis a pity you don’t continue the old Irish style of ploughing by the
tail,” said Sir Ulick.
“That is against humanity to brute _bastes_, which, without any
sickening palaver of sentiment, I practise. Also, it’s against an act of
parliament, which I regard sometimes--that is, when I understand them;
which, the way you parliament gentlemen draw them up, is not always
particularly intelligible to plain common sense; and I have no lawyers
here, thank Heaven! to consult: I am forced to be legislator, and
lawyer, and ploughman, and all, you see, the best I can for myself.”
He opened the window, and called to give some orders to the man, or, as
he called him, the boy--a boy of sixty--who was ploughing.
“Your team, I see, is worthy of your tackle,” pursued Sir Ulick--“A
mule, a bull, and two lean horses. I pity the foremost poor devil of a
horse, who must starve in the midst of plenty, while the horse, bull,
and even mule, in a string behind him, are all plucking and _munging_
away at their hay ropes.”
Cornelius joined in Sir Ulick’s laugh, which shortened its duration.
“‘Tis comical ploughing, I grant,” said he, “but still, to my fancy, any
thing’s better and more profitable _nor_ the tragi-comic ploughing you
practise every sason in Dublin.”
“I?” said Sir Ulick.
“Ay, you and all your courtiers, ploughing the half acre [Footnote:
Ploughing the half acre. The English reader will please to inquire the
meaning of this phrase from any Irish courtier.] continually, pacing
up and down that Castle-yard, while you’re waiting in attendance there.
Every one to his taste, but--
‘If there’s a man on earth I hate,
Attendance and dependence be his fate.’”
“After all, I have very good prospects in life,” said Sir Ulick.
“Ay, you’ve been always living on prospects; for my part, I’d rather
have a mole-hill in possession than a mountain in prospect.”
“Cornelius, what are you doing here to the roof of your house?” said Sir
Ulick, striking off to another subject. “What a vast deal of work you do
contrive to cut out for yourself.”
“I’d rather cut it out for myself than have any body to cut it out for
me,” said Cornelius.
“Upon my word, this will require all your extraordinary ingenuity,
cousin.”
“Oh, I’ll engage I’ll make a good job of it, in my sense of the word,
though not in yours; for I know, in your vocabulary, that’s only a good
job where you pocket money and do nothing; now my good jobs never bring
me in a farthing, and give me a great deal to do into the bargain.”
“I don’t envy you such jobs, indeed,” said Sir Ulick; “and are you sure
that at last you make them good jobs in any acceptation of the term?”
“Sure! a man’s never sure of any thing in this world, but of being
abused. But one comfort, my own conscience, for which I’ve a trifling
respect, can’t reproach me; since my jobs, good or bad, have cost my
poor country nothing.”
On this point Sir Ulick was particularly sore, for he had the character
of being one of the greatest _jobbers_ in Ireland. With a face of
much political prudery, which he well knew how to assume, he began
to exculpate himself. He confessed that much public money had passed
through his hands; but he protested that none of it had stayed with him.
No man, who had done so much for different administrations, had been so
ill paid.
“Why the deuce do you work for them, then? You won’t tell me it’s for
love--Have you got any character by it?--if you haven’t profit, what
have you? I would not let them make me a dupe, or may be something
worse, if I was you,” said Cornelius, looking him full in the face.
“Savage!” said Sir Ulick again to himself. The tomahawk was too much for
him--Sir Ulick felt that it was fearful odds to stand fencing according
to rule with one who would not scruple to gouge or scalp, if provoked.
Sir Ulick now stood silent, smiling forced smiles, and looking on while
Cornelius played quite at his ease with little Tommy, blew shrill blasts
through the whistle, and boasted that he had made a good job of that
whistle any way.
Harry Ormond, to Sir Ulick’s great relief, now appeared. Sir Ulick
advanced to meet him with an air of cordial friendship, which brought
the honest flush of pleasure and gratitude into the young man’s face,
who darted a quick look at Cornelius, as much as to say, “You see you
were wrong--he is glad to see me--he is come to see me.”
Cornelius said nothing, but stroked the child’s head, and seemed taken
up entirely with him; Sir Ulick spoke of Lady O’Shane, and of his hopes
that prepossessions were wearing off. “If Miss Black were out of the
way, things would all go right; but she is one of the mighty good--too
good ladies, who are always meddling with other people’s business, and
making mischief.”
Harry, who hated her, that is, as much as he could hate any body,
railed at her vehemently, saying more against her than he thought, and
concluded by joining in Sir Ulick’s wish for her departure from Castle
Hermitage, but not with any view to his own return thither: on that
point he was quite resolute and steady. He would never, he said, be the
cause of mischief. Lady O’Shane did not like him--why, he did not know,
and had no right to inquire--and was too proud to inquire, if he had a
right. It was enough that her ladyship had proved to him her dislike,
and refused him protection at his utmost need: he should never again
sue for her hospitality. He declared that Sir Ulick should no more be
disquieted by his being an inmate at Castle Hermitage.
Sir Ulick became more warm and eloquent in dissuading him from this
resolution, the more he perceived that Ormond was positively fixed in
his determination.
The cool looker-on all the time remarked this, and Cornelius was
convinced that he had from the first been right in his own opinion, that
Sir Ulick was “_shirking the boy_.”
“And where’s Marcus, sir? would not he come with you to see us?” said
Ormond.
“Marcus is gone off to England. He bid me give you his kindest love: he
was hurried, and regretted he could not come to take leave of you; but
he was obliged to go off with the Annalys, to escort her ladyship to
England, where he will remain this year, I dare say. I am much concerned
to say, that poor Lady Annaly and Miss Annaly--” Sir Ulick cleared his
throat, and gave a suspicious look at Ormond.
This glance at Harry, the moment Sir Ulick pronounced the words _Miss
Annaly_, first directed aright the attention of Cornelius.
“Lady Annaly and Miss Annaly! are they ill? What’s the matter, for
Heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Harry with great anxiety; but pronouncing both
the ladies’ names precisely in the same tone, and with the same freedom
of expression.
Sir Ulick took breath. “Neither of the ladies are ill--absolutely ill;
but they have both been greatly shocked by accounts of young Annaly’s
sudden illness. It is feared an inflammation upon his lungs, brought on
by violent cold--his mother and sister left us this morning--set off
for England to him immediately. Lady Annaly thought of you, Harry,
my boy--you must be a prodigious favourite--in the midst of all her
affliction, and the hurry of this sudden departure, this morning: she
gave me a letter for you, which I determined to deliver with my own
hands.”
While he spoke, Sir Ulick, affecting to search for the letter among
many in his pocket, studied with careless intermitting glances our young
hero’s countenance, and Cornelius O’Shane studied Sir Ulick’s: Harry
tore open the letter eagerly, and coloured a good deal when he saw the
inside.
“I have no business here reading that boy’s secrets in his face,” cried
Cornelius O’Shane, raising himself on his crutches--“I’ll step out and
look at my roof. Will you come, Sir Ulick, and see how the job goes on?”
His crutch slipped as he stepped across the hearth--Harry ran to him:
“Oh, sir, what are you doing? You are not able to walk yet without
me--why are you going? Secrets did you say?” (The words recurred to
his ear.) “I have no secrets--there’s no secrets in this letter--it’s
only--the reason I looked foolish was that here’s a list of my own
faults, which I made like a fool, and dropped like a fool--but they
could not have fallen into better or kinder hands than Lady Annaly’s.”
He offered the letter and its enclosure to Cornelius and Sir Ulick.
Cornelius drew back. “I don’t want to see the list of your faults, man,”
said he: “do you think I haven’t them all by heart already? and as to
the lady’s letter, while you live never show a lady’s letter.”
Sir Ulick, without ceremony, took the letter, and in a moment satisfying
his curiosity that it was merely a friendly note, returned it and the
list of his faults to Harry, saying. “If it had been a young lady’s
letter, I am sure you would not have shown it to me, Harry, nor, of
course, would I have looked at it. But I presumed that a letter from old
Lady Annaly could only be, what I see it is, very edifying.”
“Old Lady Annaly, is it?” cried Cornelius: “oh! then there’s no
indiscretion, young man, in the case. You might as well scruple about
your mother’s letter, if you had one; or your mother’s-in-law, which, to
be sure, you’ll have, I hope, in due course of nature.”
At the sound of the words mother-in-law, a cloud passed over Sir Ulick’s
brow, not unnoticed by the shrewd Cornelius; but the cloud passed away
quickly, after Sir Ulick had darted another reconnoitring glance on
Harry’s open unconscious countenance.
“All’s safe,” said Sir Ulick to himself, as he took leave.
“_Woodcocked_! that he has--as I foresaw he would,” cried King Corny,
the moment his guest had departed. “_Woodcocked_! if ever man did, by
all that’s cunning!”