The evening after the departure of the happy trio, who were gone to
Dublin to buy wedding-dresses, the party remaining at Castle Corny
consisted only of King Corny, Ormond, and Father Jos. When the candles
were lighted, his majesty gave a long and loud yawn, Harry set the
backgammon table for him, and Father Jos, as usual, settled himself in
the chimney corner; “And now Mademoiselle’s gone,” said he, “I shall
take leave to indulge myself in my pipe.”
“You were on the continent this morning, Father Jos,” said Cornelius.
“Did ye learn any news for us? Size ace! that secures two points.”
“News! I did,” said Father Jos.
“Why not tell it us, then?”
“I was not asked. You both seemed so wrapped up, I waited my time and
opportunity. There’s a new parson come to Castle Hermitage.”
“What new person?” said King Corny. “Doublets, aces, Harry.”
“A new parson I’m talking of,” said Father Jos, “that has just got the
living there; and they say Sir Ulick’s mad about it, in Dublin, where he
is still.”
“Mad!--Three men up--and you can’t enter, Harry. Well, what is he mad
about?”
“Because of the presentation to the living,” replied the priest, “which
government wouldn’t make him a compliment of, as he expected.”
“He is always expecting compliments from government,” said Corny, “and
always getting disappointments. Such throws as you have, Harry--Sixes!
again--Well, what luck!--all over with me--It is only a hit at any rate!
But what kind of man,” continued he, “is this new clergyman?”
“Oh! them parsons is all one kind,” said Father Jos.
“All one kind! No, no more than our own priests,” said Corny. “There’s
good and bad, and all the difference in life.”
“I don’t know any thing at all about it,” said Father Jos, sullenly;
“but this I know, that no doubt he’ll soon be over here, or his proctor,
looking for the tithes.”
“I hope we will have no quarrels,” said Corny.
“They ought to be abolished,” said Father Jos, “the tithes, that is, I
mean.”
“And the quarrels, too, I hope,” said Ormond.
“Oh! It’s not our fault if there’s quarrels,” said Father Jos.
“Faults on both sides generally in all quarrels,” said Corny.
“In lay quarrels, like enough,” said Father Jos. “In church quarrels, it
don’t become a good Catholic to say that.”
“What?” said Corny.
“_That_,” said the priest.
“Which?” said Corny.
“That which you said, that there’s faults on both sides; sure there’s
but one side, and that’s our own side, can be in the right there can’t
be two _right sides_, can there? and consequently there won’t be two
wrong sides, will there?--Ergo, there cannot, by a parity of rasoning,
be two sides in the wrong.”
“Well, Harry, I’ll take the black men now, and gammon you,” said Corny.
“Play away, man--what are you thinking of? is it of what Father Jos
said? ‘tis beyond the limits of the human understanding.”
Father Jos puffed away at his pipe for some time.
“I was tired and ashamed of all the wrangling for two-pence with the
last man,” said King Corny, “and I believe I was sometimes too hard and
too hot myself; but if this man’s a gentleman, I think we shall agree.
Did you hear his name, or any thing at all about him, Father?”
“He is one of them refugee families, the Huguenots, banished France by
the adict of Nantz, they say, and his name’s Cambray.”
“Cambray!” exclaimed Ormond.
“A very good name,” said O’Shane; “but what do you know of it, Harry?”
“Only, sir, I happened to meet with a Dr. Cambray the winter I was in
Dublin, whom I thought a very agreeable, respectable, amiable man--and I
wonder whether this is the same person.”
“There is something more now, Harry Ormond, I know by your face,” said
Corny: “there’s some story of or belonging to Dr. Cambray--what is it?”
“No story, only a slight circumstance--which, if you please, I’d rather
not tell you, sir,” said Ormond.
“That is something very extraordinary, and looks mysterious,” said
Father Jos.
“Nothing mysterious, I assure you,” said Ormond,--“a mere trifle, which,
if it concerned only myself, I would tell directly.”
“Let him alone, father,” said King Corny; “I am sure he has a good
reason--and I’m not curious: only let me whisper this in your ear
to show you my own penetration, Harry--I’d lay my life” (said he,
stretching over and whispering), “I’d lay my life Miss Annaly has
something to do with it.”
“Miss Annaly!--nothing in the world--only--yes, I recollect she was
present.”
“There now--would not any body think I’m a conjuror? a physiognomist is
cousin to (and not twice removed from) a conjuror.”
“But I assure you, though you happened to guess right partly as to her
being present, you are totally mistaken, sir, as to the rest.”
“My dear Harry, _totally_ means _wholly_: if I’m right in a part,
I can’t be mistaken in the whole. I am glad to make you smile, any
way--and I wish I was right altogether, and that you was as rich as
Croesus into the bargain; but stay a bit, if you come home a hero from
the wars--that may do--ladies are mighty fond of heroes.”
It was in vain that Ormond assured his good old imaginative friend that
he was upon a wrong scent. Cornelius stopped to humour him; but was
convinced that he was right: then turned to the still smoking Father
Jos, and went on asking questions about Dr. Cambray.
“I know nothing at all about him,” said Father Jos, “but this, that
Father M’Cormuck has dined with him, if I’m not misinformed, oftener
than I think becoming in these times--making too free! And in the
chapel last Sunday, I hear he made a very extraordinary address to his
flock--there was one took down the words, and handed them to me: after
remarking on the great distress of the season--first and foremost about
the keeping of fast days the year--he allowed the poor of his flock,
which is almost all, to eat meat whenever offered to them, because, said
he, many would starve--now mark the obnoxious word--‘if it was not for
their benevolent Protestant neighbours, who make soup and broth for
them.’”
“What is there obnoxious in that?” said Cornelius.
“Wait till you hear the end--‘and feed and clothe the distressed.’”
“That is not obnoxious either, I hope,” said Ormond, laughing.
“Young gentleman, you belong to the establishment, and are no judge in
this case, permit me to remark,” said Father Jos; “and I could wish Mr.
O’Shane would hear to the end, before he joins in a Protestant laugh.”
“I’ve heard of a ‘Protestant wind’ before,” said Harry, “but not of a
Protestant laugh.”
“Well, I’m serious, Father Jos,” said Corny; “let me hear to the end
what makes your face so long.”
“‘And, I am sorry to say, show more charity to them than their own
people, the rich Catholics, sometimes do.’ If that is not downright
slander, I don’t know what is,” said Father Jos.
“Are you sure it is not truth, Father?” said Corny.
“And if it was, even, so much the worse, to be telling it in the
chapel, and to his flock--very improper in a priest, very extraordinary
conduct!”
Father Jos worked himself up to a high pitch of indignation, and railed
and smoked for some time, while O’Shane and Ormond joined in defending
M’Cormuck, and his address to his flock--and even his dining with the
new clergyman of the parish. Father Jos gave up and had his punch. The
result of the--whole was, that Ormond proposed to pay his respects the
next morning to Dr. Cambray.
“Very proper,” said O’Shane: “do so--fit you should--you are of his
people, and you are acquainted with the gentleman--and I’d have you go
and show yourself safe to him, that we’ve made no tampering with you.”
Father Jos could not say so much, therefore he said nothing.
O’Shane continued, “A very exact church-goer at the little church there
you’ve always been, at the other side of the lake--never hindered--make
what compliment you will proper for me--say I’m too old and clumsy for
morning visitings, and never go out of my islands. But still I can love
my neighbour in or out of them, and hope, in the name of peace, to be on
good terms. Sha’n’t be my fault if them tithes come across. Then I wish
that bone of contention was from between the two churches. Meantime, I’m
not snarling, if others is not craving: and I’d wish for the look of it,
for your sake, Harry, that it should be all smooth; so say any thing you
will for me to this Dr. Cambray,--though we are of a different faith, I
should do any thing in rason.”
“Rason! what’s that about rason?” said Father Jos: “I hope faith comes
before rason.”
“And after it, too, I hope, Father,” said Corny.
Father Jos finished his punch, and went to sleep upon it.
Ormond, next morning, paid his visit--Dr. Cambray was not at home; but
Harry was charmed with the neatness of his house, and with the amiable
and happy appearance of his family. He had never before seen Mrs.
Cambray or her daughters, though he had met the doctor in Dublin. The
circumstance which Harry had declined mentioning, when Corny questioned
him about his acquaintance with Dr. Cambray, was very slight, though
Father Jos had imagined it to be of mysterious importance. It had
happened, that among the dissipated set of young men with whom Marcus
O’Shane and Harry had passed that winter in Dublin, a party had one
Sunday gone to hear the singing at the Asylum, and had behaved in a very
unbecoming manner during the service. Dr. Cambray preached--he spoke
to the young gentlemen afterwards with mild but becoming dignity. Harry
Ormond instantly, sensible of his error, made proper apologies,
and erred no farther. But Marcus O’Shane in particular, who was not
accustomed to endure anything, much less any person, that crossed his
humour, spoke of Dr. Cambray afterwards with vindictive bitterness,
and with all his talents of mimicry endeavoured to make him ridiculous.
Harry defended him with a warmth of ingenuous eloquence which did him
honour; and with truth, courage, and candour, that did him still more,
corrected some of Marcus’s mis-statements, declaring that they had all
been much to blame. Lady Annaly and her daughter were present, and this
was one of the circumstances to which her ladyship had alluded, when
she said that some things had occurred that had prepossessed her with
a favourable opinion of Ormond’s character. Dr. Cambray knew nothing of
the attack or the defence till some time afterwards; and it was now so
long ago, and Harry was so much altered since that time, that it was
scarcely to be expected the doctor should recollect even his person.
However, when Dr. Cambray came to the Black Islands to return his visit,
he did immediately recognize Ormond, and seemed so much pleased with
meeting him again, and so much interested about him, that Corny’s
warm heart was immediately won. Independently of this, the doctor’s
persuasive benevolent politeness could not have failed to operate, as it
usually did, even on a first acquaintance, in pleasing and conciliating
even those who were of opposite opinions.
“There, now,” said Corny, when the doctor was gone, “there, now, is a
sincere minister of the Gospel for you, and a polite gentleman into the
bargain. Now that’s politeness that does not trouble me--that’s not for
show--that’s for _us_, not _himself_, mark!--and conversation! Why that
man has conversation for the prince and the peasant--the courtier and
the anchorite. Did not he find plenty for me, and got more out of me
than I thought was in me--and the same if I’d been a monk of La Trappe,
he would have made me talk like a pie. Now there’s a man of the high
world that the low world can like, very different from--”
Poor Corny paused, checked himself, and then resumed--“Principles,
religion, and all no hinderance!--liberal and sincere too! Well, I only
wish--Father Jos, no offence--I only wish, for Dr. Cambray’s sake,
and the Catholic church’s sake, I was, for one day, Archbishop of
Canterbury, or Primate of all Ireland, or whatever else makes the
bishops in your church, and I’d skip over dean and archdeacon, and all,
and make that man--clean a bishop before night.”
Harry smiled, and wished he had the power as well as the good-will.
Father Jos said, “A man ought to be ashamed not to think of his _own_
first.”
“Now, Harry, don’t think I’d make a bishop lightly,” continued King
Corny; “I would not--I’ve been a king too long for that; and though only
a king of my own fashion, I know what’s fit for governing a country,
observe me!--Cousin Ulick would make a job of a bishop, but I would
not--nor I wouldn’t to please my fancy. Now don’t think I’d make that
man a bishop just because he noticed and praised my gimcracks and
inventions, and _substitutes_.”
Father Jos smiled, and demurely abased his eye.
“Oh! then you don’t know me as well as you think you do, father,” said
O’Shane. “Nor what’s more, Harry, not his noting down the two regiments
to make inquiry for friends for you, Harry, shouldn’t have bribed me to
partiality--though I could have kissed his shoe-ties for it.”
“Mercy on you!” said Father Jos: “this doctor has bewitched you.”
“But did you mind, then,” persisted Corny, “the way he spoke of that
cousin of mine, Sir Ulick, who he saw I did not like, and who has been,
as you tell us, bitter against him, and even against his getting the
living. Well, the way this Doctor Cambray spoke then pleased me--good
morals without preaching--there’s _do good to your enemies_--the true
Christian doctrine--and the hardest point. Oh! let Father Jos say what
he will, there’s the man will be in heaven before many--heretic or no
heretic, Harry!”
Father Jos shrugged up his shoulders, and then fixing the glass in his
spectacles, replied, “We shall see better when we come to the tithes.”
“That’s true,” said Corny.
He walked off to his workshop, and took down his fowling-piece to put
the finishing stroke to his work for the next day, which was to be
the first day of partridge-shooting: he looked forward with
delight--anticipating the gratification he should have in going out
shooting with Harry, and trying his new fowling-piece. “But I won’t go
out to-morrow till the post has come in; for my mind couldn’t enjoy
the sport till I was satisfied whether the answer could come about your
commission, Harry: my mind misgives me--that is, my calculation tells
me, that it will come to-morrow.”
Good Corny’s calculations were just: the next morning the little
post-boy brought answers to various letters which he had written about
Ormond--one to Ormond from Sir Ulick O’Shane, repeating his approbation
of his ward’s going into the army, approving of all the steps Cornelius
had taken--especially of his intention of paying for the commission.
“All’s well,” Cornelius said. The next letter was from Cornelius’s
banker, saying that the five hundred pound was lodged, ready. “All
well.” The army-agent wrote, “that he had commissions in two different
regiments, waiting Mr. O’Shane’s choice and orders per return of post,
to purchase _in conformity_.”--“That’s all well.” General Albemarle’s
answer to Mr. O’Shane’s letter was most satisfactory: in terms that were
not merely _officially_ polite, but kind, “he assured Mr. O’Shane that
he should, as far as it was in his power, pay attention to the young
gentleman, whom Mr. O’Shane had so strongly recommended to his care,
and by whose appearance and manner the general said he had been
prepossessed, when he saw him some months ago at Corny Castle. There was
a commission vacant in his son’s regiment, which he recommended to Mr.
Ormond.”
“The very thing I could have wished for you, my dear boy--you shall
go off the day after to-morrow--not a moment’s delay--I’ll answer the
letters this minute.”
But Harry reminded him that the post did not go out till the next day,
and urged him not to lose this fine day--this first day of the season
for partridge shooting.
“Time enough for my business after we come home--the post does not go
out till morning.”
“That’s true: come off, then--let’s enjoy the fine day sent us; and my
gun, too--I forgot; for I do believe, Harry, I love you better even than
my gun,” said the warm-hearted Corny. “Call _Ormond_. Moriarty; let
us have him with us--he’ll enjoy it beyond all: one of the last day’s
shooting with his own Prince Harry!--but, poor fellow, we’ll not tell
him that.”
Moriarty and the dogs were summoned, and the fineness of the day, and
the promise of good sport, put Moriarty in remarkably good spirits. By
degrees King Corny’s own spirits rose, and he forgot that it was the
last day with Prince Harry, and he enjoyed the sport. After various
trials of his new fowling-piece, both the king and the prince agreed
that it succeeded to admiration. But even in the midst of his pride in
his success, and his joy in the sport, his superior fondness for Harry
prevailed, and showed itself in little, almost delicate instances of
kindness, which could hardly have been expected from his unpolished
mind. As they crossed a bog, he stooped every now and then, and plucked
different kinds of bog-plants and heaths.
“Here, Harry,” said he, “mind these for Dr. Cambray. Remember yesterday
his mentioning that a daughter of his was making a botanical collection,
and there’s Sheelah can tell you all the Irish names and uses. Some I
can note for you myself; and here, this minute--by great luck! the very
thing he wanted!--the andromeda, I’ll swear to it: throw away all and
keep this--carry it to her to-morrow--for I will have you make a friend
of that Dr. Cambray; and no way so sure or fair to the father’s heart as
by proper attention to the daughter--I know that by myself. Hush, now,
till I have that partridge!--Whirr!--Shot him clean, my dear gun!--Was
not that good, Harry?”
Thus they continued their sport till late; and returning, loaded with
game, had nearly reached the palace, when Corny, who had marked a covey,
quitted Harry, and sent his dog to spring it, at a distance much greater
than the usual reach of a common fowling-piece. Harry heard a shot, and
a moment afterwards a violent shout of despair;--he knew the voice to be
that of Moriarty, and running to the spot from whence it came, he found
his friend, his benefactor, weltering in his blood. The fowling-piece,
overloaded, had burst, and a large splinter of the barrel had fractured
the skull, and had sunk into the brain. As Moriarty was trying to raise
his head, O’Shane uttered some words, of which all that was intelligible
was the name of Harry Ormond. His eye was fixed on Harry, but the
meaning of the eye was gone. He squeezed Harry’s hand, and an instant
afterwards O’Shane’s hand was powerless. The dearest, the only real
friend Harry Ormond had upon earth was gone for ever!