A boy passing by saw what had happened, and ran to the house, calling as
he went to some workmen, who hastened to the place, where they heard the
howling of the dogs. Ormond neither heard nor saw--till Moriarty said,
“He must be carried home;” and some one approaching to lift the
body, Ormond started up, pushed the man back, without uttering a
syllable--made a sign to Moriarty, and between them they carried the
body home. Sheelah and the women came out to meet them, wringing their
hands, and uttering loud lamentations. Ormond, bearing his burden as if
insensible of what he bore, walked onward, looking at no one, answering
none, but forcing his way straight into the house, and on--till they
came to O’Shane’s bedchamber, which was upon the ground-floor--there
laid him on his bed. The women had followed, and all those who had
gathered on the way rushed in to see and to bewail. Ormond looked up,
and saw the people about the bed, and made a sign to Moriarty to keep
them away, which he did, as well as he could. But they would not be
kept back--Sheelah, especially, pressed forward, crying loudly, till
Moriarty, with whom she was struggling, pointed to Harry. Struck with
his fixed look, she submitted at once. _“Best leave him!”_ said she. She
put every body out of the room before her, and turning to Ormond, said,
they would leave him “a little space of time till the priest should
come, who was at a clergy dinner, but was sent for.”
When Ormond was left alone he locked the door, and kneeling beside the
dead, offered up prayers for the friend he had lost, and there remained
some time in stillness and silence, till Sheelah knocked at the door,
to let him know that the priest was come. Then retiring, he went to the
other end of the house, to be out of the way. The room to which he went
was that in which they had been reading the letters just before they
went out that morning. There was the pen which Harry had taken from his
hand, and the answer just begun.
“Dear General, I hope my young friend, Harry Ormond--”
That hand could write no more!--that warm heart was cold! The certainty
was so astonishing, so stupifying, that Ormond, having never yet shed a
tear, stood with his eyes fixed on the paper, he knew not how long, till
he felt some one touch his hand. It was the child, little Tommy, of whom
O’Shane was so fond, and who was so fond of him. The child, with his
whistle in his hand, stood looking up at Harry, without speaking. Ormond
gazed on him for a few instants, then snatched him in his arms, and
burst into an agony of tears. Sheelah, who had let the child in, now
came and carried him away. “God be thanked for them tears,” said she,
“they will bring relief;” and so they did. The necessity for manly
exertion--the sense of duty--pressed upon Ormond’s recovered reason.
He began directly, and wrote all the letters that were necessary to his
guardian and to Miss O’Faley, to communicate the dreadful intelligence
to Dora. The letters were not finished till late in the evening. Sheelah
came for them, and leaving the door and the outer door to the hall open,
as she came in, Ormond saw the candles lighted, and smelt the smell of
tobacco and whiskey, and heard the sound of many voices.
“The wake, dear, which is beginning,” said she, hastening back to shut
the doors, as she saw him shudder. “Bear with it, Master Harry,” said
she: “hard for you!--but bear with us, dear; ‘tis the custom of the
country; and what else can we do but what the forefathers did?--how else
for us to show respect, only as it would be expected, and has always
been?--and great comfort to think we done our best for _him that is
gone_, and comfort to know his wake will be talked of long hereafter,
over the fires at night, of all the people that is there without--and
that’s all we have for it now: so bear with it, dear.”
This night, and for two succeeding nights, the doors of Corny Castle
remained open for all who chose to come.
Crowds, as many, and more, than the castle could hold, flocked to King
Corny’s wake, for he was greatly beloved.
There was, as Sheelah said, “plenty of cake, and wine, and tea, and
tobacco, and snuff--every thing handsome as possible, and honourable to
the deceased, who was always open-handed and open-hearted, and with open
house too.”
His praises, from time to time, were heard, and then the common business
of the country was talked of--and jesting and laughter went on--and all
night there were tea-drinkings for the women, and punch for the men.
Sheelah, who inwardly grieved most, went about incessantly among the
crowd, serving all, seeing that none, especially them who came from a
distance, should be neglected--and that none should have to complain
afterwards, “or to say that any thing at all was wanting or niggardly.”
Mrs. Betty, Sheelah’s daughter, sat presiding at the tea-table, giving
the keys to her mother when wanted, but never forgetting to ask for them
again. Little Tommy took his cake and hid himself under the table, close
by his mother, Mrs. Betty; and could not be tempted out but by Sheelah,
whom he followed, watching for her to go in to Mr. Harry: when the door
opened, he held by her gown, and squeezed in under her arm--and when
she brought Mr. Harry his meals, she would set the child up at the table
with him _for company_--and to tempt him to take something.
Ormond had once promised his deceased friend, that if he was in the
country when he died, he would put him into his coffin. He kept his
promise. The child hearing a noise, and knowing that Mr. Harry had gone
into the room, could not be kept out; the crowd had left that room, and
the child looked at the bed with the curtains looped up with black--and
at the table at the foot of the bed, with the white cloth spread over
it, and the seven candlesticks placed upon it. But the coffin fixed
his attention, and he threw himself upon it, clinging to it, and crying
bitterly upon King Corny, his dear King Corny, to come back to him.
It was all Sheelah could do to drag him away: Ormond, who had always
liked this boy, felt now more fond of him than ever, and resolved that
he should never want a friend.
“You are in the mind to attend the funeral, sir, I think you told me?”
said Sheelah.
“Certainly,” replied Ormond.
“Excuse me, then,” said Sheelah, “if I mention--for you can’t know what
to do without. There will be high mass, may be you know, in the chapel.
And as it’s a great funeral, thirteen priests will be there, attending.
And when the mass will be finished, it will be expected of you, as first
of kin considered, to walk up first with your offering--whatsoever you
think fit, for the priests--and to lay it down on the altar; and then
each and all will follow, laying down their offerings, according as they
can. I hope I’m not too bold or troublesome, sir.”
Ormond thanked her for her kindness--and felt it was real kindness. He,
consequently, did all that was expected from him _handsomely_. After the
masses were over, the priests, who could not eat any thing before they
said mass, had breakfast and dinner joined. Sheelah took care “the
clergy was well served.” Then the priests--though it was not essential
that all should go, did all, to Sheelah’s satisfaction, accompany the
funeral the _whole way_, three long miles, to the burying-place of
the O’Shanes; a remote old abbey-ground, marked only by some scattered
trees, and a few sloping grave-stones. King Corny’s funeral was followed
by an immense concourse of people, on horseback and on foot; men, women,
and children: when they passed by the doors of cabins, a set of the
women raised the funeral cry--not a savage howl, as is the custom in
some parts of Ireland, but chanting a melancholy kind of lament, not
without harmony, simple and pathetic. Ormond was convinced, that in
spite of all the festivity at the wake, which had so disgusted him, the
poor people mourned sincerely for the friend they had lost.
We forgot to mention that Dr. Cambray went to the Black Islands the day
after O’Shane’s death, and did all he could to prevail upon Ormond to go
to his house while the wake was going on, and till the funeral should be
over. But Ormond thought it right to stay where he was, as none of the
family were there, and there was no way in which he could so strongly
mark, as Sheelah said, his respect for the dead. Now that it was all
over, he had at least the consolation of thinking that he had not shrunk
from any thing that was, or that he conceived to be, his duty. Dr.
Cambray was pleased with his conduct, and at every moment he could spare
went to see him, doing all he could to console him, by strengthening
in Ormond’s mind the feelings of religious submission to the will of
Heaven, and of pious hope and confidence. Ormond had no time left him
for the indulgence of sorrow--business pressed upon him.
Cornelius O’Shane’s will, which Sir Ulick blamed Harry for not
mentioning in the first letter, was found to be at his banker’s in
Dublin. All his property was left to his daughter, except the farm,
which he had given to Ormond; this was specially excepted, with legal
care: also a legacy of five hundred pounds was left to Harry; a trifling
bequest to Sir Ulick, being his cousin; and legacies to servants. Miss
O’Faley was appointed sole executrix--this gave great umbrage to Sir
Ulick O’Shane, and appeared extraordinary to many people; but the will
was in due form, and nothing could be done against it, however much
might be said.
Miss O’Faley, without taking notice of any thing Ormond said of the
money, which had been lodged in the bank to pay for his commission,
wrote as executrix to beg of him to do various business for her--all
which he did; and fresh letters came with new requests, inventories to
be taken, things to be sent to Dublin, money to be received and paid,
stewards’ and agents’ accounts to be settled, business of all kinds, in
short, came pouring in--upon him, a young man unused to it, and with a
mind peculiarly averse from it at this moment. But when he found that
he could be of service to any one belonging to his benefactor, he felt
bound in gratitude to exert himself to the utmost. These circumstances,
however disagreeable, had an excellent effect upon his character, giving
him habits of business which were ever afterwards of use to him. It was
remarkable that the only point in his letters which had concerned his
own affairs still continued unanswered. Another circumstance hurt his
feelings--instead of Miss O’Faley’s writing to make her own requests,
Mr. Connal was soon deputed by Mademoiselle to write for her. He spoke
of the shock the ladies had felt, and the distressing circumstances in
which they were; all in commonplace phrases, which Ormond despised, and
from which he could judge nothing of Dora’s real feelings.
“The marriage must, of course,” Mr. Connal said, “be put off for some
time; and as it would be painful to the ladies to return to Corny
Castle, he had advised their staying in Dublin; and they and he feeling
assured that, from Mr. Ormond’s regard for the family, they might
take the liberty of troubling him, they requested so and so, and the
_executrix_ begged he would see this settled and that settled”--at last,
with gradually forgotten apologies, falling very much into the style
of a person writing to an humble friend or dependent, bound to consider
requests as commands.
Our young hero’s pride was piqued on the one side, as much as his
gratitude was alive on the other.
Sir Ulick O’Shane wrote to Harry that he was at this time _peculiarly_
engaged with affairs of his own. He said, that as to the material point
of the money lodged for the commission, he would see the executrix, and
do what he could to have that settled; but as to all lesser points, Sir
Ulick said, he really had not leisure to answer letters at present. He
enclosed a note to Dr. Cambray, whom he recommended it to his ward to
consult, and whose advice and assistance he now requested for him in
pressing terms.
In consequence of this direct application from the young gentleman’s
guardian, Dr. Cambray felt himself authorized and called upon to
interfere, where, otherwise, delicacy might have prevented him. It was
fortunate for Ormond that he had Dr. Cambray’s counsel to guide him, or
else he would, in the first moments of feeling, have yielded too much to
the suggestions of both gratitude and pride.
In the first impulse of generous pride, Ormond wanted to give up the
farm which his benefactor had left him, because he wished that
no possible suspicion of interested motives having influenced his
attachment to Cornelius O’Shane should exist, especially with Mr.
Connal, who, as the husband of Dora, would soon be the lord of all in
the Black Islands.
On the other hand, when Mr. Connal wrote to him, that the executrix,
having no written order from the deceased to that effect, could not pay
the five hundred pounds, lodged in the bank, for his commission, Ormond
was on the point of flying out with intemperate indignation. “Was
not his own word sufficient? Was not the intention of his benefactor
apparent from the letters? Would not this justify any executor, any
person of common sense or honour?”
Dr. Cambray, his experienced and placid counsellor, brought all these
sentiments to due measure by mildly showing what was law and justice,
and what was fit and proper in each case; putting jealous honour,
and romantic generosity, as they must be put, out of the question in
business.
He prevented Ormond from embroiling himself with Connal about the
legacy, and from giving up his farm. He persuaded him to decline having
any thing to do with the affairs of the Black Islands.
A proper agent was appointed, who saw Ormond’s accounts settled and
signed, so that no blame or suspicion could rest upon him.
“There seems no probability, Mr. Ormond,” said Dr. Cambray, “of your
commission being immediately purchased. Your guardian, Sir Ulick
O’Shane, will be detained some time longer, I understand, in Dublin. You
are in a desolate situation here--you have now done all that you ought
to do--leave these Black Islands, and come to Vicar’s Dale: you will
find there a cheerful family, and means of spending your time more
agreeably, perhaps more profitably, than you can have here. I am
sensible that no new friends _can_ supply to you the place of him you
have lost; but you will find pleasure in the perception, that you have,
by your own merit, attached to you one friend in me, who will do all in
his power to soothe and serve you.--Will you _trust_ yourself to me?”
added he, smiling, “You have already found that I do not flatter. Will
you come to us?--The sooner the better--to-morrow, if you can.”
It scarcely need be said, that this invitation was most cordially
accepted. Next day Ormond was to leave the Black Islands. Sheelah was in
despair when she found he was going: the child hung upon him so that he
could hardly get out of the house, till Moriarty promised to return
for the boy, and carry him over in the boat often, to see Mr. Ormond.
Moriarty would not stay in the islands himself, he said, after Harry
went: he let the cabin and little tenement which O’Shane had given him,
and the rent was to be paid him by the agent. Ormond went, for the last
time, that morning, to Ormond’s Vale, to settle his own affairs there:
he and Moriarty took an unusual path across this part of the island to
the waterside, that they might avoid that which they had followed
the last time they were out, on the day of Corny’s death. They went,
therefore, across a lone tract of heath-bog, where, for a considerable
time, they saw no living being.
On this bog, of which Cornelius O’Shane had given Moriarty a share, the
grateful poor fellow had, the year before, amused himself with cutting
in large letters of about a yard long the words
“LONG LIVE KING CORNY.”
He had sowed the letters with broom-seed in the spring, and had since
forgotten ever to look at them; but they were now green, and struck the
eye.
“Think then of this being all the trace that’s left of him on the face
of the earth!” said Moriarty. “I’m glad that I did even that same.”
After crossing this lone bog, when they came to the waterside, they
found a great crowd of people, seemingly all the inhabitants of the
islands, assembled there, waiting to take leave of Master Harry; and
each of them was cheered by a kind word and a look, before they would
let him step into the boat.
“Ay, go _to the continent_,” said Sheelah, “ay, go to fifty continents,
and in all Ireland you’ll not find hearts warmer to you than those of
the Black Islands, that knows you best from a child, Master Harry dear.”