Harry Ormond thought it hard to bear unmerited reproach and suspicion;
found it painful to endure the altered eye of his once kind and always
generous, and to him always dear, friend and benefactor. But Ormond had
given a solemn promise to White Connal never to mention any thing that
had passed between them to O’Shane; and he could not therefore explain
these circumstances of the quarrel. Conscious that he was doing right,
he kept his promise to the person he hated and despised, at the hazard,
at the certainty, of displeasing the man he most loved in the world; and
to whom he was the most obliged. While his heart yearned with tenderness
towards his adopted father, he endured the reproach of ingratitude; and
while he knew he had acted perfectly honourably, he suffered under the
suspicion of equivocation and breach of confidence: he bore it all; and
in reward he had the conviction of his own firmness, and an experience,
upon trial, of his adherence to his word of honour. The trial may seem
but trivial, the promise but weak: still it was a great trial to him,
and he thought the promise as sacred as if it had been about an affair
of state.
It happened some days after the conversation had passed between him and
O’Shane, that Cornelius met O’Tara, the gentleman who had laid the
bets about the cock-fight with Connal; and chancing to ask him what had
prevented the intended battle, O’Tara told all he knew of the adventure.
Being a good-natured and good-humoured man, he stated the matter as
playfully as possible--acknowledged that they had all been foolish and
angry; but that Harry Ormond and Moriarty had at last pacified them by
proper apologies. Of what had passed afterwards, of the bullying, and
the challenge, and the submission, O’Tara knew nothing; but King Corny
having once been put on the right scent, soon made it all out. He sent
for Moriarty, and cross-questioning him, heard the whole; for Moriarty
had not been sworn to secrecy, and had very good ears. When he had been
turned out of the stable, he had retreated only to the harness-room,
and had heard all that had passed. King Corny was delighted with
Harry’s spirit--and now he was Prince Harry again, and the generous,
warm-hearted Cornelius went, in impatience, to seek him out, and to beg
his pardon for his suspicions. He embraced him, called him son, and
dear son--said he had now found out, no thanks to him, Connal’s cause of
complaint, and it had nothing to do with Dora.--“But why could not you
say so, man?”
He had said so repeatedly.
“Well, so I suppose it is to be made out clearly to be all my fault,
that was in a passion, and could not hear, understand, or believe.
Well, be it so; if I was unjust, I’ll make it up to you, for I’ll never
believe my own ears, or eyes, against you, Harry, while I live, depend
upon it:--if I heard you asking her to marry you, I would believe my
ears brought me the words wrong; if I saw you even leading her into the
church instead of the chapel, and the priest himself warning me of it,
I’d say and think, Father Jos, ‘tis a mistake--a vision--or a defect of
vision. In short, I love and trust you as my own soul, Harry Ormond, for
I did you injustice.”
This full return of kindness and confidence, besides the present delight
it gave him, left a permanent and beneficial impression upon our young
hero’s mind. The admiration he felt for O’Shane’s generous conduct, and
the self-approbation he enjoyed in consequence of his own honourable
firmness, had a great effect in strengthening and forming his character:
it also rendered him immediately more careful in his whole behaviour
towards Miss O’Shane. He was prudent till both aunt and niece felt
indignant astonishment. There was some young lady with whom Harry had
danced and walked, and of whom he had, without any design, spoken as
a pleasing _gentle_ girl. Dora recollected this praise, and joining it
with his present distant behaviour toward herself, she was piqued and
jealous; and then she became, what probably she would never otherwise
have been, quite decided in her partiality for Harry Ormond. The proofs
of this were soon so manifest, that many thought, and Miss O’Faley in
particular, that Harry was grown stupid, blind, and deaf. He was not
stupid, blind, or deaf--he had felt the full power of Dora’s personal
charms, and his vanity had been flattered by the preference which Dora
showed for him. Where vanity is the ruling passion, young men are easily
flattered into being in love with any pretty, perhaps with any ugly
girl, who is, or who affects to be, in love with them. But Harry Ormond
had more tenderness of heart than vanity: against the suggestions of
his vanity he had struggled successfully; but now his heart had a hard
trial. Dora’s spirits were failing, her cheek growing pale, her tone of
voice was quite softened; sighs would sometimes break forth--persuasive
sighs!--Dora was no longer the scornful lady in rude health, but the
interesting invalid--the victim going to be sacrificed. Dora’s aunt
talked of the necessity of _advice_ for her niece’s health. Great stress
was laid on air and exercise, and exercise on horseback. Dora rode every
day on the horse Harry Ormond broke in for her, the only horse she could
now ride; and Harry understood _its ways_, and managed it so much better
than any body else; and Dora was grown a coward, so that it was quite
necessary he should ride or walk beside her. Harry Ormond’s tenderness
of heart increased his idea of the danger. Her personal charms became
infinitely more attractive to him; her defects of temper and character
were forgotten and lost in his sense of pity and gratitude; and the
struggle of his feelings was now violent.
One morning our young hero rose early, for he could no longer sleep,
and he walked out, or, more properly, he rambled, or he strolled, or
_streamed_ out, and he took his way--no, his steps were irresistibly
led--to his accustomed haunt by the water side, under the hawthorn bank,
and there he walked and picked daisies, and threw stones into the lake,
and he loitered on, still thinking of Dora and death, and of the
circles in the water, and again of the victim and of the sacrifice, when
suddenly he was roused from his reverie by a shrill whistle, that seemed
to come from the wood above, and an instant afterwards he heard some one
shouting, “Harry Ormond!--Harry Ormond!”
“Here!” answered Harry; and as the shouts were repeated he recognized
the voice of O’Tara, who now came, whip in hand, followed by his dogs,
running down the bank to him.
“Oh! Harry Ormond, I’ve brought great news with me for all at Corny
Castle; but the ladies are not out of their nests, and King Corny’s Lord
knows how far off. Not a soul or body to be had but yourself here, by
good luck, and you shall have the first of the news, and the telling of
it.”
“Thank you,” said Ormond; “and what is the news?”
“First and foremost,” said O’Tara, “you know birds of a feather flock
together. White Connal, though, except for the cock-fighting, I
never relished him, was mighty fond of me, and invited me down to
Connal’s-town, where I’ve been with him this week--you know that much, I
conclude.”
Harry owned he did not.
O’Tara wondered how he could help knowing it. “But so it was; we had a
great cock-fight, and White Connal, who knew none of my _secrets_ in the
feeding line, was bet out and out, and angry enough he was; and then I
offered to change birds with him, and beat him with his own Ginger by my
superiority o’ feeding, which he scoffed at, but lookup the bet.”
Ormond sighed with impatience in vain--he was forced to submit, and to
go through the whole detail of the cock-fight. “The end of it was, that
White Connal was _worsted_ by his own bird, and then mad angry was he.
So, then,” continued O’Tara, “to get the triumph again on his side, one
way or another, was the thing. I had the advantage of him in dogs,
too, for he kept no hounds--you know he is close, and hounds lead to a
gentlemanlike expense; but very fine horses he had, I’ll acknowledge,
and, Harry Ormond, you can’t but remember that one which he could not
manage the day he was out riding here with Miss Dora, and you changed
with him.”
“I remember it well,” said Ormond.
“Ay, and he has got reason to remember it now, sure enough.”
“Has he had a fall?” said Ormond, stopping.
“Walk on, can’t ye--keep up, and I’ll tell you all regular.”
“There is King Corny!” exclaimed Ormond, who just then saw him come in
view.
“Come on, then,” cried O’Tara, leaping over a ditch that was between
them, and running up to King Corny. “Great news for you, King Corny,
I’ve brought--your son-in-law elect, White Connal, is off.”
“Off--how?”
“Out of the world clean! Poor fellow, broke his neck with that horse
he could never manage--on Sunday last. I left him for dead Sunday
night--found him dead Monday morning--came off straight with the news to
you.”
“Dead!” repeated Corny and Harry, looking at one another. “Heaven
forbid!” said Corny, “that I should--”
“Heaven forbid!” repeated Harry; “but--”
“But good morning to you both, then,” said O’Tara: “shake hands either
way, and I’ll condole or congratulate to-morrow as the case may be, with
more particulars if required.”
O’Tara ran off, saying he would be back again soon; but he had great
business to do. “I told the father last night.”
“I am no hypocrite,” said Corny. “Rest to the dead and all their
faults! White Connal is out of my poor Dora’s way, and I am free from
my accursed promise!” Then clasping his hands, “Praised be Heaven for
_that_!--Heaven is too good to me!--Oh, my child! how unworthy White
Connal of her!--Thank Heaven on my knees, with my whole heart, thank
Heaven that I am not forced to the sacrifice!--My child, my darling
Dora, she is free!--Harry Ormond, my dear boy, I’m free,” cried O’Shane,
embracing Harry with all the warmth of paternal affection.
Ormond returned that embrace with equal warmth, and with a strong sense
of gratitude: but was his joy equal to O’Shane’s? What were his feelings
at this moment? They were in such confusion, such contradiction, he
could scarcely tell. Before he heard of White Connal’s death, at the
time when he was throwing pebbles into the lake, he desired nothing so
much as to be able to save Dora from being sacrificed to that odious
marriage; he thought, that if he were not bound in honour to his
benefactor, he should instantly make that offer of his hand and heart
to Dora, which would at once restore her to health, and happiness,
and fulfil the wishes of her kind, generous father. But now, when
all obstacles seemed to vanish--when his rival was no more--when his
benefactor declared his joy at being freed from his promise--when he was
embraced as O’Shane’s _son_, he did not feel joy: he was surprised to
find it; but he could not. Now that he could marry Dora, now that her
father expected that he should, he was not clear that he wished it
himself. Quick as obstacles vanished, objections recurred: faults which
he had formerly seen so strongly, which of late compassion had veiled
from his view, reappeared; the softness of manner, the improvement
of temper, caused by love, might be transient as passion. Then her
coquetry--her frivolity. She was not that superior kind of woman which
his imagination had painted, or which his judgment could approve of in a
wife. How was he to explain this confusion of feeling to Corny? Leaning
on his arm, he walked on towards the house. He saw Corny, smiling at his
own meditations, was settling the match, and anticipating the joy to all
he loved. Harry sighed, and was painfully silent.
“Shoot across like an arrow to the house,” cried Corny, turning suddenly
to him, and giving him a kind push--“shoot off, Harry, and bring Dora to
meet me like lightning, and the poor aunt, too--‘twould be cruel else!
But what stops you, son of my heart?”
“Stay!” cried Corny, a sudden thought striking him, which accounted for
Harry Ormond’s hesitation; “Stop, Harry! You are right, and I am a fool.
There is Black Connal, the twin-brother--oh, mercy!--against us still.
May be Old Connal will keep me to it still--as he couldn’t, no more than
I could, foresee that when I promised Dora that was not then born, it
would be twins--and as I said son, and surely I meant the son that
would be born then--and twins is all as one as one, they say. Promise
fettering still! Bad off as ever, may be,” said Cornelius. His whole
countenance and voice changed; he sat down on a fallen tree, and
rested his hands on his knees. “What shall we do now, Harry, with Black
Connal?”
“He may be a very different man from White Connal--in every respect,”
said Ormond.
O’Shane looked up for a moment, and then interpreting his own way,
exclaimed, “That’s right, Harry--that thought is like yourself, and the
very thought I had myself. We must make no declarations till we have
cleared the point of honour. Not the most beautiful angel that ever
took woman’s beautiful form--and that’s the greatest temptation man can
meet--could tempt my Harry Ormond from the straight path of honour!”
Harry Ormond stood at this moment abashed by praise which he did not
quite deserve. “Indeed, sir,” said he, “you give me too much credit.” “I
cannot give you too much credit; you are an honourable young man, and I
understand you through and through.”
That was more than Harry himself did. Corny went on talking to himself
aloud, “Black Connal is abroad these great many years, ever since he was
a boy--never saw him since a child that high--an officer he is in the
Irish brigade now--black eyes and hair; that was why they called him
Black Connal--Captain Connal now; and I heard the father say he was come
to England, and there was some report of his going to be married, if I
don’t mistake,” cried Corny, turning again to Harry, pleasure rekindling
in his eye. “If that should be! there’s hope for us still; but I see you
are right not to yield to the hope till we are clear. My first step,
in honour, no doubt, must be across the lake this minute to the
father--Connal of Glynn; but the boat is on the other side. The horn is
with my fishing-tackle, Harry, down yonder--run, for you can run--horn
the boat, or if the horn be not there, sign to the boat with your
handkerchief--bring it up here, and I will put across before ten minutes
shall be over--my horse I will have down to the water’s edge by the time
you have got the boat up--when an honourable tough job is to be done,
the sooner the better.”
The horse was brought to the water’s edge, the boat came across, Corny
and his horse were in; and Corny, with his own hands on the oar, pushed
away from land: then calling to Harry, he bid him wait on the shore _by_
such an hour, and he should have the first news.
“Rest on your oars, you, while I speak to Prince Harry.
“That you may know all, Harry, sooner than I can tell you, if all be
safe, or as we wish it, see, I’ll hoist my neckcloth, _white_, to the
top of this oar; if not, the _black_ flag, or none at all, shall tell
you. Say nothing till then--God bless you, boy!” Harry was glad that he
had these orders, for he knew that as soon as Mademoiselle should be up,
and hear of O’Tara’s early visit, with the message he said he had left
at the house that he brought _great news_, Mademoiselle would soon sally
forth to learn what that news might be. In this conjecture Ormond was
not mistaken. He soon heard her voice “Mon-Dieu!-ing” at the top of the
bank: he ducked--he dived--he darted through nettles and brambles, and
escaped. Seen or unseen he escaped, nor stopped his flight even when
out of reach of the danger. As to trusting himself to meet Dora’s eyes,
“‘twas what he dared not.”
He hid, and wandered up and down, till near dinner-time. At last,
O’Shane’s boat was seen returning--but no white flag! The boat rowed
nearer and nearer, and reached the spot where Harry stood motionless.
“Ay, my poor boy, I knew I’d find you so,” said O’Shane, as he got
ashore. “There’s my hand, you have my heart--I wish I had another hand
to give you--but it’s all over with us, I fear. Oh! my poor Dora!--and
here she is coming down the bank, and the aunt!--Oh, Dora! you have
reason to hate me!”
“To hate you, sir? Impossible!” said Ormond, squeezing his hand
strongly, as he felt.
“Impossible!--true--for _her_ to hate, who is all love and
loveliness!--impossible too for _you_, Harry Ormond, who is all
goodness!”
“Bon Dieu!” cried Mademoiselle, who was now within exclamation distance.
“What a _course_ we have had after you, gentlemen! Ladies looking
for gentlemen!--C’est inouï!--What is it all? for I am dying with
curiosity.”
Without answering Mademoiselle, the father, and Harry’s eyes, at the
same moment, were fixed on one who was some steps behind, and who looked
as if dying with a softer passion. Harry made a step forward to offer
his arm, but stopped short; the father offered his, in silence.
“Can nobody speak to me?--Bien poli!” said Mademoiselle.
“If you please, Miss O’Faley, ma’am,” cried a hatless footman, who
had run after the ladies the wrong way from the house: “if you please,
ma’am, will _she_ send up dinner now?”
“Oui, qu’on serve!--Yes, she will. Let her dish--by that time she is
dished, we shall be in--and have satisfied our curiosity, I hope,” added
she, turning to her brother-in-law.
“Let us dine first,” said Cornelius, “and when the cloth is removed,
and the waiting-ears out of hearing, time enough to have our talk to
ourselves.”
“Bien singulier, ces Anglois!” muttered Mademoiselle to herself, as they
proceeded to the house. “Here is a young man, and the most polite of the
silent company, who may well be in some haste for his dinner; for to my
knowledge, he is without his breakfast.”
Harry had no appetite for dinner, but swallowed as much as Mademoiselle
O’Faley desired. A remarkably silent meal it would have been, but for
her happy volubility, equal to all occasions. At last came the long
expected words, “Take away.” When all was taken away, and all were gone,
but those who, as O’Shane said, would too soon wish unheard what they
were dying to hear, he drew his daughter’s chair close to him, placed
her so as “to save her blushes,” and began his story, by relating all
that O’Tara had told.
“It was a sudden death--shocking!” Mademoiselle repeated several
times; but both she and Dora recovered from the shock, or from the word
“shocking!” and felt the delight of Dora’s being no longer a sacrifice.
After a general thanksgiving having been offered for her escape from the
_butor_, Mademoiselle, in transports, was going on to say that now her
niece was free to make a suitable match, and she was just turning to
wonder that Harry Ormond was not that moment at her niece’s feet; and
Dora’s eyes, raised slowly towards him and suddenly retracted, abashed
and perplexed Harry indescribably; when Corny continued thus: “Dora is
not free, nor am I free in honour yet, nor can I give any body freedom
of tongue or heart until I know farther.”
Various exclamations of surprise and sorrow interrupted him.
“Am I never, never, to be free!” cried Dora: “Oh! am not I now at
liberty?”
“Hear me, my child,” said her father; “I feel it as you do.”
“And what is it next--Qu’est-ce que c’est--this new obstacle?--What can
it be?” said Mademoiselle.
The father then stated sorrowfully, that Old Connal of Glynn would by no
means relinquish the promise, but considered it equally binding for the
twin born with White Connal, considering both twins as coming under
the promise to his _son_ that was to be born. He said he would write
immediately to his son, who was now in England.
“And now tell me what kind of a person is this new pretender, this Mr.
Black Connal,” cried Mademoiselle.
“Of him we know nothing as yet,” said O’Shane; “but I hope, in Heaven,
that the man that is coming is as different from the man that’s gone as
black from white.”
Harry heard Dora breathe quick and quicker, but she said nothing.
“Then we shall get his answer to the father’s letter in eight days, I
count,” said Mademoiselle; “and I have great hopes we shall never be
troubled with him: we shall know if he will come or not, in eight days.”
“About that time,” said O’Shane: “but, sister O’Faley, do not nurse my
child or yourself up with deceitful hopes. There’s not a man alive--not
a Connal, surely, hearing what happiness he is heir to, but would
come flying over post-haste. So you may expect his answer, in eight
days--Dora, my darling, and God grant he may be--”
“No matter what he is, sir--I’ll die before I will see him,” cried Dora,
rising, and bursting into tears.
“Oh, my child, you won’t die!--you can’t--from me, your father!” Her
father threw his arms round her, and would have drawn her to him, but
she turned her face from him: Harry was on the other side--her eyes met
his, and her face became covered with blushes.
“Open the window, Harry!” said O’Shane, who saw the conflict; “open the
window!--we all want it.”
Harry opened the window, and hung out of it gasping for breath.
“She’s gone--the aunt has taken her off--it’s over for this fit,” said
O’Shane. “Oh, my child, I must go through with it! My boy, I honour as I
love you--I have a great deal to say about your own affairs, Harry.”
“My affairs--oh! what affairs have I? Never think of me, dear sir--”
“I will--but can’t now--I am spent for this day--leave out the bottle of
claret for Father Jos, and I’ll get to bed--I’ll see nobody, tell Father
Jos--I’m gone to my room.”
The next morning O’Tara came to breakfast. Every person had a different
question to ask him, except Dora, who was silent.
Corny asked what kind of man Black Connal was. Mademoiselle inquired
whether he was most French or English; Ormond, whether he was going to
be married.
To all these questions O’Tara pleaded ignorance: except with respect to
the sports of the field, he had very little curiosity or intelligence.
A ray of hope again darted across the mind of Corny. From his knowledge
of the world, he thought it very probable that a young officer in the
French brigade would be well contented to be heir to his brother’s
fortune, without encumbering himself with an Irish wife, taken from an
obscure part of the country. Corny, therefore, eagerly inquired from
O’Tara what became of White Connal’s property. O’Tara answered, that the
common cry of the country was, that all White Connal’s profitable farms
were leasehold property, and upon his own life. Poor Corny’s hopes were
thus frustrated: he had nothing left to do for some days but to pity
Harry Ormond, to bear with the curiosity and impatience of Mademoiselle,
and with the froward sullenness of Dora, till some intelligence should
arrive respecting the new claimant to her destined hand.