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.
“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
_politesse_, 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!”
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 _noble_, nor _comme il
faut_,” 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.
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.
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.
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
_finished_.
“Nor ever will be,” said Dora, looking from her father to her aunt with
a sort of ironical smile.
“Why, what has he been doing all this life?” said mademoiselle.
“Making a _shift_,” said Dora: “I will show you dozens of them as we go
over this house. He calls them substitutes--_I_ call them make-shifts.”
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
_oddities_, and he was often in pain for his good friend Corny.
His majesty was both proud and ashamed of his palace: proud of the
various instances it exhibited of his taste, originality, and _daring_;
ashamed of the deficiencies and want of comfort and finish.
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.
“As the Frenchman answered to the Queen of France,” said Corny, “if it
is possible, it _shall_ be done; and if it is impossible, it _must_ be
done.”
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.
“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.
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.
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 _word of honour_, 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 _remarkable elegant_.
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,
_succeeded_, 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 _politesse_; and a winter at Paris would make him quite another
person, quite a charming young man. He would have great _success_, she
could answer for it, in certain _circles_ and _salons_ that she could
name, only it might turn his head too much.” So far she said, and more
she thought.
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
_living_, what you call _living_, 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 _confidence_, 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
_talk_. 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 _danger_. 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 _the_ 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.