When Ormond returned, in obedience to Mrs. M’Crule’s summons, he
found in the room an unusual assemblage of persons--a party of morning
visitors, the unmuffled contents of the car. As he entered, he bowed as
courteously as possible to the whole circle, and advanced towards Mrs.
M’Crule, whose portentous visage he could not fail to recognize. That
visage was nearly half a yard long, thin out of all proportion, and
dismal beyond all imagination; the corners of the mouth drawn down, the
whites or yellows of the eyes upturned, while with hands outspread she
was declaiming, and in a lamentable tone deploring, as Ormond thought,
some great public calamity; for the concluding words were “The danger,
my dear Lady Annaly--the danger, my dear Miss Annaly--oh! the danger is
imminent. We shall all be positively undone, ma’am; and Ireland--oh!
I wish I was once safe in England again--Ireland positively will be
ruined!”
Ormond, looking to Lady Annaly and Miss Annaly for explanation, was
somewhat re-assured in this imminent danger, by seeing that Lady
Annaly’s countenance was perfectly tranquil, and that a slight smile
played on the lips of Florence.
“Mr. Ormond,” said Lady Annaly, “I am sorry to hear that Ireland is in
danger of being ruined by your means.”
“By my means!” said Ormond, in great surprise; “I beg your ladyship’s
pardon for repeating your words, but I really cannot understand them.”
“Nor I neither; but by the time you have lived as long as I have in the
world,” said Lady Annaly, “you will not be so much surprised as you now
seem, my good sir, at hearing people say what you do not understand. I
am told that Ireland will be undone by means of a _protégé_ of yours, of
the name of Tommy Dun--not Dun Scotus.”
“Dunshaughlin, perhaps,” said Ormond, laughing, “Tommy Dunshaughlin!
_that_ little urchin! What harm can little Tommy do to Ireland, or to
any mortal?”
Without condescending to turn her eyes upon Ormond, whose propensity to
laughter had of old been offensive to her nature, Mrs. M’Crule continued
to Lady Annaly, “It is not of this insignificant child as an individual
that I am speaking, Lady Annaly; but your ladyship, who has lived so
long in the world, must know that there is no person or thing, however
insignificant, that cannot, in the hands of a certain description of
people, be made an engine of mischief.”
“Very true, indeed,” said Lady Annaly.
“And there is no telling or conceiving,” pursued Mrs. M’Crule, “how in
the hands of a certain party, you know, ma’am, any thing now, even the
least and the most innocent child (not that I take upon me to say
that this child is so very innocent, though, to be sure, he is very
little)--but innocent or not, there is positively nothing, Lady Annaly,
ma’am, which a certain party, certain evil-disposed persons, cannot turn
to their purposes.”
“I cannot contradict that--I wish I could,” said Lady Annaly.
“But I see your ladyship and Miss Annaly do not consider this matter
as seriously as I could wish. ‘Tis an infatuation,” said Mrs. M’Crule,
uttering a sigh, almost a groan, for her ladyship’s and her daughter’s
infatuation. “But if people, ladies especially, knew but half as much
as I have learnt, since I married Mr. M’Crule, of the real state of
Ireland; or if they had but half a quarter as many means as I have
of obtaining information, Mr. M’Crule being one of his majesty’s very
active justices of the peace, riding about, and up and down, ma’am,
scouring the country, sir, you know, and having informers, high and
low, bringing us every sort of intelligence; I say, my dear Lady Annaly,
ma’am, you would, if you only heard a hundredth part of what I hear
daily, tremble--your ladyship would tremble from morning till night.”
“Then I am heartily glad I do not hear it; for I should dislike very
much to tremble from morning till night, especially as my trembling
could do nobody any good.”
“But, Lady Annaly, ma’am, you _can_ do good by exerting yourself to
prevent the danger in this emergency; you _can_ do good, and it becomes
your station and your character; you _can_ do good, my dear Lady Annaly,
ma’am, to thousands in existence, and thousands yet unborn.”
“My benevolence having but a limited appetite for thousands,” said Lady
Annaly, “I should rather, if it be equal to you, Mrs. M’Crule, begin
with the thousands already in existence; and of those thousands, why not
begin with little Tommy?”
“It is no use!” cried Mrs. M’Crule, rising from her seat in the
indignation of disappointed zeal: “Jenny, pull the bell for the
car--Mrs. M’Greggor, if you’ve no objection, I’m at your service, for
‘tis no use I see for me to speak here--nor should I have done so, but
that I positively thought it my duty; and also a becoming attention
to your ladyship and Miss Annaly, as lady patronesses, to let you know
beforehand _our_ sentiments, as I have collected the opinions of so many
of the leading ladies, and apprehended your ladyship might, before it
came to a public push, like to have an inkling or inuendo of how matters
are likely to be carried at the general meeting of the patronesses on
Saturday next, when we are determined to put it to the vote and poll.
Jenny, do you see Jack, and the car? Good morning to your ladyship; good
day, Miss Annaly.”
Ormond put in a detainer: “I am here in obedience to your summons, Mrs.
M’Crule--you sent to inform me that you had a few words of consequence
to say to me.”
“True, sir, I did wrap myself up this winter morning, and came out, as
Mrs. M’Greggor can testify, in spite of my poor face, in hopes of doing
some little good, and giving a friendly hint, before an explosion should
publicly take place. But you will excuse me, since I find I gain so
little credit, and so waste my breath; I can only leave gentlemen and
ladies in this emergency, if they will be blind to the danger at this
crisis, to follow their own opinions.”
Ormond still remonstrating on the cruelty of leaving him in utter
darkness, and calling it blindness, and assuring Mrs. M’Crule that he
had not the slightest conception of what the danger or the emergency to
which she alluded might be, or what little Tommy could have to do with
it, the lady condescended, in compliance with Mrs. M’Greggor’s twitch
behind, to stay and recommence her statement. He could not forbear
smiling, even more than Lady Annaly had done, when he was made to
understand that the _emergency_ and _crisis_ meant nothing but this
child’s being admitted or not admitted into a charity school. While
Ormond was incapable of speaking in reply with becoming seriousness,
Florence, who saw his condition, had the kindness to draw off Mrs.
M’Crule’s attention, by asking her to partake of some excellent
goose-pie, which just then made its entrance. This promised, for a
time, to suspend the discussion, and to unite all parties in one common
sympathy. When Florence saw that the _consommé_, to which she delicately
helped her, was not thrown away upon Mrs. M’Crule, and that the union of
goose and turkey in this Christmas dainty was much admired by this
good lady, she attempted playfully to pass to a reflection on the happy
effect that might to some tastes result from unions in party matters.
But no--“too serious matters these to be jested with,” even with a glass
of Barsac at the lips. Mrs. M’Crule stopped to say so, and to sigh. Per
favour of the Barsac, however, Florence ventured to try what a little
raillery might do. It was possible, that, if Mrs. M’Greggor and the
chorus of young ladies could be made to laugh, Mrs. M’Crule might be
brought to see the whole thing in a less gloomy point of view; and might
perhaps be, just in time, made sensible of the ridicule to which she
would expose herself, by persisting in sounding so pompously a false
alarm.
“But can there really be so much danger,” said Florence, “in letting
little children, protestant and catholic, come together to the same
school--sit on the same bench--learn the same alphabet from the same
hornbook?”
“Oh, my dear Miss Annaly,” cried Mrs. M’Crule, “I do wonder to hear
you treat this matter so lightly--you, from whom I confess I did expect
better principles: ‘sit on the same bench!’ easily said; but, my dear
young lady, you do not consider that some errors of popery,--since
there is no catholic in the room, I suppose I may say it,--the errors of
popery are wonderfully infectious.”
“I remember,” said Lady Annaly, “when I was a child, being present once,
when an _honest man_, that is, a protestant (for in those days no man
but a protestant could be called an _honest man_), came to my uncle in
a great passion to complain of the priest: ‘My lord,’ said he, ‘what
do you think the priest is going to do? he is going to bury a catholic
corpse, not only in the churchyard, but, my lord, near to the grave of
my father, who died a stanch dissenter.’ ‘My dear sir,’ said my uncle,
to the angry _honest man_, ‘the clergyman of the parish is using me
worse still, for he is going to bury a man, who died last Wednesday of
the small-pox, near to my grandmother, who never had the small-pox in
her life.’”
Mrs. M’Crule pursed up her mouth very close at this story. She thought
Lady Annaly and her uncle were equally wicked, but she did not choose
exactly to say so, as her ladyship’s uncle was a person of rank, and
of character too solidly established for Mrs. M’Crule to shake.
She therefore only gave one of her sighs for the sins of the whole
generation, and after a recording look at Mrs. M’Greggor, she returned
to the charge about the schools and the children.
“It can do no possible good,” she said, “to admit catholic children to
_our_ schools, because, do what you will, you can never make them good
protestants.”
“Well,” said Lady Annaly, “as my friend, the excellent Bishop of ----
said in parliament, ‘if you cannot make them good protestants, make them
good catholics, make them good any-things.’”
Giving up Lady Annaly all together, Mrs. M’Crule now desired to have Mr.
Ormond’s ultimatum--she wished to know whether he had made up his mind
as to the affair in question; but she begged leave to observe, “that
since the child had, to use the gentlest expression, the _misfortune_ to
be born and bred a catholic, it would be most prudent and gentlemanlike
in Mr. Ormond not to make him a bone of contention, but to withdraw the
poor child from the contest altogether, and strike his name out of the
list of candidates, till the general question of admittance to those of
his persuasion should have been decided by the lady patronesses.”
Ormond declared, with or without submission to Mrs. M’Crule, that he
could not think it becoming or gentlemanlike to desert a child whom he
had undertaken to befriend--that, whatever the child had the misfortune
to be born, he would abide by him; and would not add to his misfortunes
by depriving him of the reward of his own industry and application,
and of the only chance he had of continuing his good education, and of
getting forward in life.
Mrs. M’Crule sighed and groaned.
But Ormond persisted: “The child,” he said, “should have fair play--the
lady patronesses would decide as they thought proper.”
It had been said that the boy had Dr. Cambray’s certificate, which
Ormond was certain would not have been given undeservedly; he had also
the certificate of his own priest.
“Oh! what signifies the certificate of his priest,” interrupted Mrs.
M’Crule; “and as for Dr. Cambray’s, though he is a most respectable
man (too liberal, perhaps), yet without meaning to insinuate any thing
derogatory--but we all know how things are managed, and Dr. Cambray’s
great regard for Mr. Ormond might naturally influence him a little in
favour of this little protégé.”
Florence was very busy in replenishing Mrs. M’Greggor’s plate, and
Ormond haughtily told Mrs. M’Crule, “that as to Dr. Cambray’s character
for impartiality, he should leave that securely to speak for itself;
and that as to the rest, she was at liberty to say or hint whatever
she pleased, as far as he was concerned; but that, for her own sake, he
would recommend it to her to be sure of her facts--for that slander was
apt to hurt in the recoil.”
Alarmed by the tone of confident innocence and determination with which
Ormond spoke, Mrs. M’Crule, who like all other bullies was a coward,
lowered her voice, and protested she meant nothing--“certainly no
offence to Mr. Ormond; and as to slander there was nothing she detested
so much--she was quite glad to be set right--for people did talk--and
she had endeavoured to silence them, and now could from the best
authority.”
Ormond looked as if he wished that any authority could silence her--but
no hopes of that. “She was sorry to find, however, that Mr. Ormond was
positively determined to encourage the boy, whoever he was, to persist
as candidate on this occasion, because she should be concerned to do any
thing that looked like opposing him; yet she must, and she knew others
were determined, and in short, he would be mortified to no purpose.”
“Well,” Ormond said, “he could only do his best, and bear to be
mortified, if necessary, or when necessary.”
A smile of approbation from Florence made his heart beat, and for some
moments Mrs. M’Crule spoke without his knowing one syllable she said.
Mrs. M’Crule saw the smile, and perceived the effect. As she rose to
depart, she turned to Miss Annaly, and whispered, but loud enough for
all to hear, “Miss Annaly must excuse me if I warn her, that if she
takes the part I am inclined to fear she will on Saturday, people I know
_will_ draw inferences.”
Florence coloured, but with calm dignity and spirit, which Mrs. M’Crule
did not expect from her usual gentleness and softness of manners, she
replied, that “no inference which might be drawn from her conduct by any
persons should prevent her from acting as she thought right, and taking
that part which she believed to be just.”
So ended the visit, or the visitation. The next day Lady Annaly, Miss
Annaly, Sir Herbert, and Ormond, went to Vicar’s Dale, and thence with
the good doctor to the village school, on purpose that they might see
and form an impartial judgment of the little boy. On one day in the
week, the parents and friends of the children were admitted if they
chose it, to the school-room, to hear the lessons, and to witness the
adjudging of the week’s premiums. This was _prize day_ as they called
it, and Sheelah and Moriarty were among the spectators. Their presence,
and the presence of Mr. Ormond, so excited--so over-excited Tommy, that
when he first stood up to read, his face flushed, his voice faltered,
his little hands trembled so much that he could hardly hold the book;
he could by no means turn over the leaf, and he was upon the point of
disgracing himself by bursting into tears.
“Oh! ho!” cried an ill-natured voice of triumph from one of the
spectators. Ormond and the Annalys turned, and saw behind them Mrs.
M’Crule.
“Murder!” whispered Sheelah to Moriarty, “if she fixes him with that
_evil eye_, and he gets the stroke of it, Moriarty, ‘tis all over with
him for life.”
“Tut, woman, dear--what can hurt him? is not the good doctor in person
standing betwixt him and harm? and see! he is recovering upon it
fast--quite come to!--Hark!--he is himself again--Tommy, voice and
all!--success to him!”
He had success, and he deserved it--the prizes were his; and when they
were given to him, the congratulating smiles of his companions showed
that Dr. Cambray’s justice was unimpeached by those whom it most
concerned; that notwithstanding all that had been said and done directly
and indirectly, to counteract his benevolent efforts, he had succeeded
in preventing envy and party-spirit from spreading discord among these
innocent children.
Mrs. M’Crule withdrew, and nobody saw when or how.
“It is clear,” said Lady Annaly, “that this boy is no favourite, for he
has friends.”
“Or, if he be a favourite, and have friends, it is a proof that he has
extraordinary merit,” said Sir Herbert.
“He is coming to us,” said Florence, who had been excessively interested
for the child, and whose eyes had followed him wherever he went:
“Brother,” whispered she, “will you let him pass you? he wants to say
something to Mr. Ormond.”
The boy brought to Ormond all the prizes which he had won since the time
he first came to school: his grandame, Sheelah, had kept them safe in a
little basket, which he now put into Ormond’s hands, with honest pride
and pleasure.
“I got ‘em, and Granny said you’d like to see them, so she did--and
here’s what will please you--see my certificates--see, signed by the
doctor himself’s own hand, and Father M’Cormuck, that’s his name, with
his blessing by the same token he gave me.”
Ormond looked with great satisfaction on Tommy’s treasures, and Miss
Annaly looked at them too with no small delight.
“Well, my boy, have you any thing more to say?” said Ormond to the
child, who looked as if he was anxious to say something more.
“I have, sir; it’s what I’d be glad to speak a word with you, Mr.
Harry.”
“Speak it then--you are not afraid of this lady?” “Oh, no--that I am
not,” said the boy, with a very expressive smile and emphasis.
But as the child seemed to wish that no one else should hear, Ormond
retired a step or two with him behind the crowd. Tommy would not let go
Miss Annaly’s hand, so she heard all that passed.
“I am afeard I am too troublesome to you, sir,” said the boy.
“To me--not the least,” said Ormond: “speak on--say all you have in your
mind.”
“Why, then,” said the child, “I _have_ something greatly on my mind,
because I heard Granny talking to Moriarty about it last night, over the
fire, and I in the bed. Then I know all about Mrs. M’Crule, and how,
if I don’t give out, and wouldn’t give up about the grand school, on
Saturday, I should, may be, be bringing you, Mr. Harry, into great
trouble: so that being the case, I’ll give up entirely--and I’ll go back
to the Black Islands to-morrow,” said Tommy, stoutly; yet swelling so in
the chest that he could not say another word. He turned away.
As they were walking home together from the school, Moriarty said to
Sheelah, “I’ll engage, Sheelah, you did not see all that passed the
day.”
“I’ll engage I did, though,” said Sheelah.
“Why, then, Sheelah, you’ve quick eyes still.”
“Oh! I’m not so blind but what I could see _that_ with half an eye--ay,
and saw how it was with them before you did, Moriarty. From the first
minute they comed into the room together, said I to myself, ‘there’s a
pair of angels well matched, if ever there was a pair on earth.’ These
things is all laid out above, unknownst to us, from the first minute we
are born, _who_ we are to have in marriage,” added Sheelah.
“No; not _fixed_ from the first minute we are born, Sheelah: it is
_not_,” said Moriarty.
“And how should you know, Moriarty,” said Sheelah, “whether or not?”
“And why not as well as you, Sheelah, dear,” replied Moriarty, “if you
go to that?”
“Well, in the name of fortune, have it your own way,” said Sheelah; “and
how do you think it is then?”
“Why it is partly fixed for us,” said Moriarty; “but the choice is still
in us, always--”
“Oh! burn me if I understand that,” said Sheelah.
“Then you are mighty hard of understanding this morning, Sheelah. See,
now, with regard to Master Harry and Peggy Sheridan: it’s my opinion,
‘twas laid out from the first, that in case he did not do _that_ wrong
about Peggy--_then_ see, Heaven had this lady, this angel, from that
time forward in view for him, by way of _compensation_ for not doing the
wrong he might have chose to do. Now, don’t you think, Sheelah, that’s
the way it was?--be a rasonable woman.”
The rasonable woman was puzzled and silent, Sheelah and Moriarty having
got, without knowing it, to the dark depths of metaphysics. There was
some danger of their knocking their heads against each other there, as
wiser heads have done on similar occasions.
It was an auspicious circumstance for Ormond’s love that Florence had
now a daily object of thought and feeling in common with him. Mrs.
M’Crule’s having piqued Florence was in Ormond’s favour: it awakened
her pride, and conquered her timidity; she ventured to trust her own
motives. To be sure, the interest she felt for this child was uncommonly
vivid; but she might safely avow this interest--it was in the cause of
one who was innocent, and who had been oppressed.
As Mrs. M’Crule was so vindictively busy, going about, daily, among the
lady patronesses, preparing for the great battle that was to be decided
on the famous Saturday, it was necessary that Lady and Miss Annaly
should exert themselves at least to make the truth known to their
friends, to take them to see Dr. Cambray’s school, and to judge of the
little candidate impartially. The day for decision came, and Florence
felt an anxiety, an eagerness, which made her infinitely more amiable,
and more interesting in Ormond’s eyes. The election was decided in
favour of humanity and justice. Florence was deputed to tell the
decision to the successful little candidate, who was waiting, with his
companions, to hear his fate. Radiant with benevolent pleasure, she went
to announce the glad tidings.
“Oh! if she is not beautiful!” cried Sheelah, clasping her hands.
Ormond felt it so warmly, and his looks expressed his feelings so
strongly, that Florence, suddenly abashed, could scarcely finish her
speech.
If Mrs. M’Crule had been present, she might again have cried “Oh! ho!”
but she had retreated, too much discomfited, by the disappointments of
hatred, to stay even to embarrass the progress of love. Love had made
of late rapid progress. Joining in the cause of justice and humanity,
mixing with all the virtues, he had taken possession of the heart
happily, safely--unconsciously at first, yet triumphantly at last. Where
was Colonel Albemarle all this time? Ormond neither knew nor cared; he
thought but little of him at this moment. However, said he to himself,
Colonel Albemarle will be here in a few days--it is better for me to see
how things are there, before I speak--I am sure Florence could not give
me a decisive answer, till her brother has disentangled that business
for her. Lady Annaly said as much to me the other day, if I understood
her rightly--and I am sure this is the state of the case, from the pains
Florence takes now to avoid giving me an opportunity of speaking to her
alone, which I have been watching for so anxiously. So reasoned Ormond;
but his reasonings, whether wise or foolish, were set at nought by
unforeseen events.