A few days afterwards, Sheelah, bursting into Dora’s room, exclaimed,
“Miss Dora! Miss Dora! for the love of God, they are coming! They’re
coming down the avenue, _powdering_ along! Black Connal himself flaming
away, with one in a gold hat, this big, galloping after, and all gold
over, he is entirely!--Oh! what will become of us, Master Harry, now!
Oh! it took the sight out of my eyes!--And yours as red as ferrets,
dear!--Oh! the _cratur_. But come to the window and look out--nobody
will mind--stretch out the body, and I’ll hold ye fast, never fear!--at
the turn of the big wood do you see them behind the trees, the fir
dales, glittering and flaming? Do you see them at all?”
“Too plainly,” said Dora, sighing; “but I did not expect he would come
in such a grand style. I wonder--”
“Oh! so do I, greatly--mostly at the carriage. Never saw the like with
the Connals, so grand--but the queer thing--”
“Ah! my dear Dore, un cabriolet!” cried Mademoiselle, entering in
ecstacy. “Here is Monsieur de Connal for you in a French cabriolet, and
a French servant riding on to advertise you and all. Oh! what are you
twisting your neck, child? I will have no toss at him now--he is all
the gentleman, you shall see: so let me set you all to rights while
your father is receive. I would not have him see you such a horrible
figure--not presentable! you look--”
“I do not care how I look--the worse the better,” said Dora: “I wish to
look a horrible figure to him--to Black Connal.”
“Oh! put your Black Connals out of your head--that is always in your
mouth: I tell you he is call M. de Connal. Now did I not hear him this
minute announced by his own valet?--Monsieur de Connal presents his
compliments--he beg permission to present himself--and there was I,
luckily, to answer for your father in French.”
“French! sure Black Connal’s Irish born!” said Sheelah: “that much I
know, any way.”
A servant knocked at the door with King Corny’s request that the ladies
would come down stairs, to see, as the footman added to his master’s
message, to see old Mr. Connal and the French gentleman.
“There! French, I told you,” said Mademoiselle, “and quite the
gentleman, depend upon it, my dear--come your ways.”
“No matter what he is,” said Dora, “I shall not go down to see him; so
you had better go by yourself, aunt.”
“Not one step! Oh! that would be the height of impolitesse and
disobedience--you could not do that, my dear Dore; consider, he is not
a man that nobody knows, like your old butor of a White Connal. Not
signify how bad you treat him--like the dog; but here is a man of a
certain quality, who knows the best people in Paris, who can talk, and
tell every where. Oh! in conscience, my dear Dore, I shall not suffer
these airs with a man who is somebody, and--”
“If he were the king of France,” cried Dora, “if he were Alexander
the Great himself, I would not be forced to see the man, or marry him
against my will!”
“Marry! Who talk of marry? Not come to that yet; ten to one he has no
thought of you, more than politeness require.”
“Oh! as to that,” said Dora, “aunt, you certainly are mistaken there.
What do you think he comes over to Ireland, what do you think he comes
here for?”
“Hark! then,” said Sheelah, “don’t I hear them out of the window?
Faith! there they are, walking and talking and laughing, as if there was
nothing at all in it.”
“Just Heavens! What a handsome uniform!” said Miss O’Faley; “and a very
proper-looking man,” said Sheelah.
“Well, who’d have thought Black Connal, if it’s him, would ever have
turned out so fine a presence of a man to look at?”
“Very cavalier, indeed, to go out to walk, without waiting to see us,”
said Dora.
“Oh! I will engage it was that dear father of yours hoisted him out.”
“Hoisted him out! Well, aunt, you do sometimes speak the oddest English.
But I do think it strange that he should be so very much at his
ease. Look at him--hear him--I wonder what he is saying--and Harry
Ormond!--Give me my bonnet, Sheelah--behind you, quick. Aunt, let us go
out of the garden door, and meet them out walking, by accident--that is
the best way--I long to see how _somebody_ will look.”
“Very good--now you look all life and spirit--perfectly charming! Look
that manner, and I’ll engage he will fall in love with you.”
“He had better not, I can tell him, unless he has a particular pleasure
in being refused,” said Dora, with a toss of her head and neck, and at
the same time a glance at her looking-glass, as she passed quickly out
of the room.
Dora and her aunt walked out, and accidentally met the gentlemen in
their walk. As M. de Connal approached, he gave them full leisure to
form their opinions as to his personal appearance. He had the air of a
foreign officer--easy, fashionable, and upon uncommonly good terms with
himself--conscious, but with no vulgar consciousness, of possessing a
fine figure and a good face: his was the air of a French coxcomb, who
in unconstrained delight, was rather proud to display, than anxious to
conceal, his perfect self-satisfaction. Interrupting his conversation
only when he came within a few paces of the ladies, he advanced with an
air of happy confidence and Parisian gallantry, begging that Mr. O’Shane
would do him the honour and pleasure to present him. After a bow, that
said nothing, to Dora, he addressed his conversation entirely to
her aunt, walking beside Mademoiselle, and neither approaching nor
attempting to speak to Dora; he did not advert to her in the least, and
seemed scarcely to know she was present. This quite disconcerted the
young lady’s whole plan of proceedings--no opportunity was afforded
her of showing disdain. She withdrew her arm from her aunt’s, though
Mademoiselle held it as fast as she could--but Dora withdrew it
resolutely, and falling back a step or two, took Harry Ormond’s arm, and
walked with him, talking with as much unconcern, and as loudly as she
could, to mark her indifference. But whether she talked or was silent,
walked on with Harry Ormond, or stayed behind, whispered or laughed
aloud, it seemed to make no impression, no alteration whatever in
Monsieur de Connal: he went on conversing with Mademoiselle, and with
her father, alternately in French and English. In English he spoke
with a native Irish accent, which seemed to have been preserved from
childhood; but though the brogue was strong, yet there were no vulgar
expressions: he spoke good English, but generally with somewhat of
French idiom. Whether this was from habit or affectation it was not
easy to decide. It seemed as if the person who was speaking, thought in
French, and translated it into English as he went on. The peculiarity
of manner and accent--for there was French mixed with the Irish--fixed
attention; and besides Dora was really curious to hear what he was
saying, for he was very entertaining. Mademoiselle was in raptures while
he talked of Paris and Versailles, and various people of consequence and
fashion at the court. The Dauphiness!--she was then but just married--de
Connal had seen all the fêtes and the fireworks--but the beautiful
Dauphiness!--In answering a question of Mademoiselle’s about the colour
of her hair, he for the first time showed that he had taken notice of
Dora. “Nearly the colour, I think, of that young lady’s hair, as well
as one can judge; but powder prevents the possibility of judging
accurately.”
Dora was vexed to see that she was considered merely _as a young lady_:
she exerted herself to take a part in the conversation, but Mr.
Connal never joined in conversation with her--with the most scrupulous
deference he stopped short in the middle of his sentence, if she began
to speak. He stood aside, shrinking into himself with the utmost care,
if she was to pass; he held the boughs of the shrubs out of her way,
but continued his conversation with Mademoiselle all the time. When they
came in from their walk, the same sort of thing went on. “It really
is very extraordinary,” thought she: “he seems as if he was
spell-bound--obliged by his notions of politeness to let me pass
incognita.”
Mademoiselle was so fully engaged, chattering away, that she did not
perceive Dora’s mortification. The less notice Connal took of her,
the more Dora wished to attract his attention: not that she desired to
please him--no, she only longed to have the pleasure of refusing him.
For this purpose the offer must be made--and it was not at all clear
that any offer would be made.
When the ladies went to dress before dinner, Mademoiselle, while she was
presiding at Dora’s toilette, expressed how much she was delighted with
M. de Connal, and asked what her niece thought of him? Dora replied
that indeed she did not trouble herself to think of him at all--that she
thought him a monstrous coxcomb--and that she wondered what could bring
so prodigiously fine a gentleman to the Black Islands.
“Ask your own sense what brought him here! or ask your own looking-glass
what shall keep him here!” said Miss O’Faley. “I can tell you he thinks
you very handsome already; and when he sees you dress!”
“Really! he does me honour; he did not seem as if he had even seen me,
more than any of the trees in the wood, or the chairs in the room.”
“Chairs!--Oh, now you fish for _complimens!_ But I shall not tell you
how like he thinks you, if you were mise à la Françoise, to la belle
Comtesse de Barnac.”
“But is not it very extraordinary, he absolutely never spoke to me,”
said Dora: “a very strange manner of paying his court!”
Mademoiselle assured Dora “that this was owing to M. de Connal’s French
habits. The young ladies in Paris passing for nothing, scarcely ever
appearing in society till they are married, the gentlemen have no
intercourse with them, and it would be considered as a breach of respect
due to a young lady or her mother, to address much conversation to
her. And you know, my dear Dore, their marriages are all make up by
the father, the mother, the friends--the young people themselves never
speak, never know nothing at all about each one another, till the
contract is sign: in fact, the young lady is the little round what you
call cipher, but has no value in société at all, till the figure of de
husband come to give it the value.”
“I have no notion of being a cipher,” said Dora: “I am not a French
young lady, Monsieur de Connal.”
“Ah, but my dear Dore, consider what is de French wife! Ah! then come
her great glory; then she reign over all hearts, and is in full liberté
to dress, to go, to come, to do what she like, with her own carriage,
her own box at de opera, and--You listen well, and I shall draw all that
out for you, from M. de Connal.”
Dora languidly, sullenly begged her aunt would not give herself the
trouble--she had no curiosity. But nevertheless she asked several
questions about la Comtesse de Barnac; and all the time saying she did
not in the least care what he thought or said of her, she drew from
her aunt every syllable that M. de Connal had uttered, and was secretly
mortified and surprised to find he had said so little. She could not
dress herself to her mind to-day, and protesting she did not care how
she looked, she resigned herself into her aunt’s hands. Whatever he
might think, she should take care to show him at dinner that young
ladies in this country were not ciphers.
At dinner, however, as before, all Dora’s preconcerted airs of disdain
and determination to show that she was somebody, gave way, she did not
know how, before M. de Connal’s easy assurance and polite indifference.
His knowledge of the world, and his talents for conversation, with the
variety of subjects he had flowing in from all parts of the world, gave
him advantages with which there was no possibility of contending.
He talked, and carved--all life, and gaiety, and fashion: he spoke of
battles, of princes, plays, operas, wine, women, cardinals, religion,
politics, poetry, and turkeys stuffed with truffles--and Paris for
ever!--Dash on! at every thing!--hit or miss--sure of the applause of
Mademoiselle--and, as he thought, secure of the admiration of the whole
company of natives, from _le beau-père_, at the foot of the table, to
the boy who waited, or who did not wait, opposite to him, but who stood
entranced with wonder at all that M. de Connal said, and all that he
did--even to the fashion in which he stowed trusses of salad into his
mouth with a fork, and talked--through it all.
And Dora, what did she think?--she thought she was very much mortified
that there was room for her to say so little. The question now was not
what she thought of M. de Connal, but what he thought of her. After
beginning with various little mock defences, avertings of the head,
and twists of the neck, of the shoulders and hips, compound motions
resolvable into _mauvaise honte_ and pride, as dinner proceeded, and
Monsieur de Connal’s _success_ was undoubted, she silently gave up her
resolution “not to admire.”
Before the first course was over, Connal perceived that he had her eye:
“Before the second is over,” thought he, “I shall have her ear; and
by the time we come to the dessert, I shall be in a fair way for the
heart.”
Though he seemed to have talked without any design, except to amuse
himself and the company in general, yet in all he had said there had
been a prospective view to his object. He chose his means well, and in
Mademoiselle he found, at once, a happy dupe and a confederate. Without
previous concert, they raised visions of Parisian glory which were to
prepare the young lady’s imagination for a French lover or a French
husband. M. de Connal was well aware that no matter who touched her
heart, if he could pique her vanity.
After dinner, when the ladies retired, old Mr. Connal began to enter
upon the question of the intended union between the families--Ormond
left the room, and Corny suppressed a deep sigh. M. de Connal took an
early opportunity of declaring that there was no truth in the report of
his going to be married in England: he confessed that such a thing
had been in question--he must speak with delicacy--but the family and
connexions did not suit him; he had a strong prejudice, he owned, in
favour of ancient family--Irish family; he had always wished to marry
an Irish woman--for that reason he had avoided opportunities that might
have occurred of connecting himself, perhaps advantageously, in France;
he was really ambitious of the honour of an alliance with the O’Shanes.
Nothing could be more fortunate for him than the friendship which
had subsisted between his father and Mr. O’Shane.--And the
promise?--Relinquish it!--Oh! that, he assured Mr. O’Shane, was quite
impossible, provided the young lady herself should not make a decided
objection--he should abide by her decision--he could not possibly think
of pressing his suit, if there should appear any repugnance: in that
case, he should be infinitely mortified--he should be absolutely in
despair; but he should know how to submit--cost him what it would:
he should think, as a man of honour, it was his part to sacrifice his
wishes, to what the young lady might conceive to be for her happiness.
He added a profusion of compliments on the young lady’s charms, with a
declaration of the effect they had already produced on his heart.
This was all said with a sort of nonchalance, which Corny did not at
all like. But Mademoiselle, who was summoned to Corny’s private
council, gave it as her opinion, that M. de Connal was already quite in
love--quite as much as a French husband ever was. She was glad that her
brother-in-law was bound by his promise to a gentleman who would really
be a proper husband for her niece. Mademoiselle, in short, saw every
thing _couleur de rose_; and she urged, that, since M. de Connal had
come to Ireland for the express purpose of forwarding his present suit,
he ought to be invited to stay at Corny Castle, that he might endeavour
to make himself acceptable to Dora.
To this Corny acceded. He left Mademoiselle to make the invitation; for,
he said, she understood French politeness, and _all that_, better than
he did. The invitation was made and accepted, with all due expressions
of infinite delight.
“Well, my dear Harry Ormond,” said Corny, the first moment he had an
opportunity of speaking to Harry in private, “what do you think of this
man?”
“What Miss O’Shane thinks of him is the question,” said Harry, with some
embarrassment.
“That’s true--it was too hard to ask you. But I’ll tell you what I
think: between ourselves, Black Connal is better than White, inasmuch as
a puppy is better than a brute. We shall see what Dora will say or think
soon--the aunt is over head and ears already: women are mighty apt to
be taken, one way or other, with a bit of a coxcomb. Vanity--vanity! but
still I know--I suspect, Dora has a heart: from me, I hope, she has a
right to a heart. But I will say no more till I see which way the heart
turns and _settles_, after all the little tremblings and variations:
when it points steady, I shall know how to steer my course. I have a
scheme in my head, but I won’t mention it to you, Harry, because it
might end in disappointment: so go off to bed and to sleep, if you can;
you have had a hard day to go through, my poor honourable Harry.”
And poor honourable Harry had many hard days to go through. He had now
to see how Dora’s mind was gradually worked upon, not by a new passion,
for Mr. Connal never inspired or endeavoured to inspire passion, but by
her own and her aunt’s vanity. Mademoiselle with constant importunity
assailed her: and though Dora saw that her aunt’s only wish was to
settle in Paris, and to live in a fine hotel; and though Dora was
persuaded, that for this, her aunt would without scruple sacrifice
her happiness and that of Harry Ormond; yet she was so dazzled by
the splendid representation of a Parisian life, as not to see very
distinctly what object she had herself in view. Connal’s flattery, too,
though it had scarcely any pretence to the tone of truth or passion,
yet contrasting with his previous indifference, gratified her. She was
sensible that he was not attached to her as Harry Ormond was, but she
flattered herself that she should quite turn his head in time. She tried
all her power of charming for this purpose, at first chiefly with the
intention of exciting Harry’s jealousy, and forcing him to break his
honourable resolution. Harry continued her first object for some
little time, but soon the idea of piquing him was merely an excuse for
coquetry. She imagined that she could recede or advance with her new
admirer, just as she thought proper; but she was mistaken: she had now
to deal with a man practised in the game: he might let her appear to
win, but not for nothing would he let her win a single move; yet he
seemed to play so carelessly, as not in the least to alarm, or put
her on her guard. The bystanders began to guess how the game would
terminate: it was a game in which the whole happiness of Dora’s life
was at stake, to say nothing of his own, and Ormond could not look on
without anxiety--and, notwithstanding his outwardly calm appearance,
without strong conflicting emotions. “If,” said he to himself, “I were
convinced that this man would make her happy, I think I could be happy
myself.” But the more he saw of Connal, the less he thought him likely
to make Dora happy; unless, indeed, her vanity could quite extinguish
her sensibility: then, Monsieur de Connal would be just the husband to
suit her.
Connal was exactly what he appeared to be--a gay young officer, who had
made his own way up in the world--a petit-maître, who had really lived
in good company at Paris, and had made himself agreeable to women of
rank and fortune. He might, perhaps, as he said, with his figure, and
fashion, and connexions, have made his fortune in Paris by marriage, had
he had time to look about him--but a sudden run of ill-fortune at play
had obliged him to quit Paris for a season. It was necessary to make
his fortune by marriage in England or Ireland, and as expeditiously as
possible. In this situation, Dora, with her own and her aunt’s property,
was, as he considered it, an offer not to be rashly slighted; nor yet
was he very eager about the matter--if he failed here, he should succeed
elsewhere. This real indifference gave him advantages with Dora, which
a man of feeling would perhaps never have obtained, or never have kept.
Her father, though he believed in the mutable nature of woman, yet
could scarcely think that his daughter Dora was of this nature. He could
scarcely conceive that her passion for Harry Ormond--that passion which
had, but a short time before, certainly affected her spirits, and put
him in fear for her health--could have been conquered by a coxcomb, who
cared very little whether he conquered or not.
How was this possible? Good Corny invented many solutions of the
problem: he fancied one hour that his daughter was sacrificing herself
from duty to him, or complaisance to her aunt; the next hour, he
settled, and with more probability, that she was piqued by Harry
Ormond’s not showing more passion. King Corny was resolved to know
distinctly how the matter really was: he therefore summoned his daughter
and aunt into his presence, and the person he sent to summon them was
Harry Ormond.
“Come back with them, yourself, Harry--I shall want you also.”
Harry returned with both the ladies. By the countenance of Cornelius
O’Shane, they all three augured that he had something of importance
to say, and they stood in anxious expectation. He went to the point
immediately.
“Dora, I know it is the custom on some occasions for ladies never to
tell the truth--therefore I shall not ask any question that I think will
put your truth to the test. I shall tell you my mind, and leave you to
judge for yourself. Take as long or as short a time to know your own
mind as you please--only know it clearly, and send me your answer by
your aunt. All I beg is, that when the answer shall be delivered to
me, this young man may be by. Don’t interrupt me, Dora--I have a high
opinion of him,” said he, keeping his eye upon Dora’s face.
“I have a great esteem, affection, love for him:” he pronounced the
words deliberately, that he might see the effect on Dora; but her
countenance was as undecided as her mind--no judgment could be formed
from its changes. “I wish Harry Ormond,” continued he, “to know all my
conduct: he knows that, long ago, I made a foolish promise to give my
daughter to a man I knew nothing about.”
Mademoiselle was going to interrupt, but Cornelius O’Shane silenced her.
“Mademoiselle--sister O’Faley, I will do the best I can to repair that
folly--and to leave you at liberty, Dora, to follow the choice of your
heart.”
He paused, and again studied her countenance, which was agitated.
“Her choice is your choice--her father’s choice is always the choice of
the good daughter,” said Mademoiselle.
“I believe she is a good daughter, and that is the particular reason I
am determined to be as good a father as I can to her.”
Dora wept in silence--and Mademoiselle, a good deal alarmed, wanted to
remove Harry Ormond out of the young lady’s sight: she requested him to
go to her apartment for a smelling-bottle for her niece.
“No, no,” said King Corny, “go yourself, sister O’Faley, if you like it,
but I’ll not let Harry Ormond stir--he is my witness present. Dora is
not fainting--if you would only let her alone, she would do well. Dora,
listen to me: if you don’t really prefer this Black Connal for a husband
to all other men, as you are to swear at the altar you do, if you marry
him--”
Dora was strongly affected by the solemn manner of her father’s appeal
to her.
“If,” continued her father, “you are not quite clear, my dear child,
that you prefer him to other men, do not marry him. I have a notion I
can bring you off without breaking my word: listen. I would willingly
give half my fortune to secure your happiness, my darling. If I do not
mistake him, Mr. Connal would, for a less sum, give me back my promise,
and give you up altogether, my dear Dora.”
Dora’s tears stopped, Mademoiselle’s exclamations poured forth, and they
both declared they were certain that Mr. Connal would not, for any thing
upon earth that could be offered to him, give up the match.
Corny said he was willing to make the trial, if they pleased.
Mademoiselle seemed to hesitate; but Dora eagerly accepted the proposal,
thanked her father for his kindness, and declared that she should be
happy to have, and to abide by, this test of Mr. Connal’s love. If he
were so base as to prefer half her fortune to herself, she should, she
said, think herself happy in having escaped from such a traitor.
Dora’s pride was wakened, and she now spoke in a high tone: she always,
even in the midst of her weaknesses, had an ambition to show spirit.
“I will put the test to him myself, within this hour,” said Corny; “and
before you go to bed this night, when the clock strikes twelve, all
three of you be on this spot, and I will give you his answer. But stay,
Harry Ormond, we have not had your opinion--would you advise me to make
this trial?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“But if I should lose half of Dora’s fortune?”
“You would think it well bestowed, I am sure, sir, in securing her from
an unhappy marriage.”
“But then she might not, perhaps, so easily find another lover with half
a fortune--that might make a difference, hey, Harry?”
“Impossible, I should think, sir, that it could make the least
difference in the affection of any one who really--who was really worthy
of Miss O’Shane.”
The agitation into which Harry Ormond was thrown, flattered and touched
Dora for the moment; her aunt hurried her out of the room.
Cornelius O’Shane rang, and inquired where Mr. Connal was? In his own
apartment, writing letters, his servant believed. O’Shane sent to beg to
see him, as soon as he was at leisure.
At twelve o’clock Dora, Mademoiselle, and Ormond, were all in the study,
punctually as the clock was striking.
“Well, what is M. de Connal’s answer?” cried Mademoiselle.
“If he hesitate, my dear Dore, give him up dat minute.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Dora: “I have too much spirit to do otherwise.
What’s his answer, father?”
“His answer, my dear child, has proved that you knew him better than I
did--he scorns the offer of half your fortune--for your whole fortune he
would not give you up.”
“I thought so,” cried Dora, triumphantly.
“I thought so,” echoed Mademoiselle.
“I did him injustice,” cried Ormond. “I am glad that M. de Connal has
proved himself worthy of you, Dora, since you really approve of him--you
have not a friend in the world, next to your father, who wishes your
happiness more sincerely than I do.”
He hurried out of the room.
“There’s a heart for you!” said Corny.
“Not for me,” said Mademoiselle: “he has no passion in him.”
“I give you joy, Dora,” said her father. “I own I misjudged the man--on
account of his being a bit of a coxcomb. But if you can put up with
that, so will I--when I have done a man injustice, I will make it up
to him every way I can. Now let him, he has my consent, be as great a
coxcomb as ever wore red heels. I’ll put up with it all, since he really
loves my child. I did not think he would have stood the test.”
Nor would he, had not he been properly prepared by Mademoiselle--she
had, before M. de Connal went to Corny, sent him a little billet,
which told him the test that would be proposed, and thus prevented all
possibility of her dear niece’s being disappointed in her lover or her
husband.