Though Sir Ulick O’Shane contrived to laugh on most occasions
where other people would have wept, and though he had pretty well
_case-hardened_ his heart, yet he was shocked by the first news of the
death of Sir Herbert Annaly. He knew the man must die, he said--so must
we all, sooner or later--but for the manner of his death, Sir Ulick
could not help feeling a secret pang. He felt conscious of having
encouraged, or at least connived at, the practices of those wretches
who had roused the generous and just indignation of Sir Herbert, and in
pursuit of whom this fine young man had fallen a sacrifice.
Not only the “still small voice,” but the cry of the country, was
against Sir Ulick on this occasion. He saw that he must give up the
offenders, and show decidedly that he desired to have them punished.
Decidedly, then, and easily, as ever prince abandoned secretary or
chancellor to save his own popularity, quickly as ever grand seignior
gave up grand vizier or chief baker to appease the people, Sir Ulick
gave up his “_honest rascals_,” his “_rare rapparees_,” and even his
“_wrecker royal_.” Sir Ulick set his magistrate, Mr. M’Crule, at work
for once on the side both of justice and law; warrants, committals, and
constables, cleared the land. Many fled--a few were seized, escorted
ostentatiously by _a serjeant and twelve_ of Sir Ulick’s corps, and
lodged in the county jail to stand their trial, bereft of all _favour
and purtection_, bonâ fide delivered up to justice.
A considerable tract of Sir Ulick’s coast estate, in consequence of
this, remained untenanted. Some person in whom he could confide must be
selected to inhabit the fishing-lodge, and to take care of the cabins
and land till they should be relet. Sir Ulick pitched upon Moriarty
Carroll for this purpose, and promised him such liberal reward, that all
Moriarty’s friends congratulated him upon his “great luck in getting
the appointment, against the man, too, that Mr. Marcus had proposed and
favoured.”
Marcus, who was jealous in the extreme of power, and who made every
trifle a matter of party competition, was vexed at the preference
given against _an honest man_ and a _friend_ of his own, in favour of
Moriarty, a catholic; a fellow he had always disliked, and a protege
of Mr. Ormond. Ormond, though obliged to Sir Ulick for this kindness to
Moriarty, was too intent on other things to think much about the matter.
_When_ he should see Florence Annaly again, seemed to him the only
question in the universe of great importance.
Just at this time arrived letters for Mr. Ormond, from Paris, from M.
and Mad. de Connal; very kind letters, with pressing invitations to him
to pay them a visit. M. de Connal informed him, “that the five hundred
pounds, King Corny’s legacy, was ready waiting his orders. M. de Connal
hoped to put it into Mr. Ormond’s hands in Paris in his own hotel, where
he trusted that Mr. Ormond would do him the pleasure of soon occupying
the apartments which were preparing for him.” It did not clearly appear
whether they had or had not heard of his accession of fortune. Dora’s
letter was not from _Dora_--it was from _Mad. de Connal_. It was on
green paper, with a border of Cupids and roses, and store of sentimental
devices in the corners. The turn of every phrase, the style, as far
as Ormond could judge, was quite French--aiming evidently at being
perfectly Parisian. Yet it was a letter so flattering to the vanity of
man as might well incline him to excuse the vanity of woman. “Besides,”
as Sir Ulick O’Shane observed, “after making due deductions for French
sentiment, there remains enough to satisfy an honest English heart that
the lady really desires to see you, Ormond; and that now, in the midst
of her Parisian prosperity, she has the grace to wish to show kindness
to her father’s adopted son, and to the companion and friend of her
childhood.” Sir Ulick was of opinion that Ormond could not do
better than accept the invitation. Ormond was surprised, for he well
recollected the manner in which his guardian had formerly, and not many
months ago, written and spoken of Connal as a coxcomb and something
worse.
“That is true,” said Sir Ulick; “but that was when I was angry about
your legacy, which was of great consequence to us then, though of none
now--I certainly did suspect the man of a design to cheat you; but it
is clear that I was wrong--I am ready candidly to acknowledge that I did
him injustice. Your money is at your order--and I have nothing to say,
but to beg M. de Connal ten thousand French pardons. Observe, I do not
beg pardon for calling him a coxcomb, for a coxcomb he certainly is.”
“An insufferable coxcomb!” cried Ormond.
“But a coxcomb _in fashion_,” said Sir Ulick; “and a coxcomb in fashion
is a useful connexion. He did not fable about Versailles--I have made
particular inquiries from our ambassador at Paris, and he writes me
word that Connal is often at court--_en bonne odeur_ at Versailles.
The ambassador says he meets the Connals every where in the first
circles--how they came there I don’t know.”
“I am glad to hear that, for Dora’s sake,” said Ormond.
“I always thought her a sweet, pretty little creature,” said Sir Ulick,
“and no doubt she has been polished up; and dress and fashion make such
a difference in a woman--I suppose she is now ten times better--that is,
prettier: she will introduce you at Paris, and your own _merit_--that
is, manners, and figure, and fortune--will make your way every where.
By-the-bye, I do not see a word about poor Mademoiselle--Oh, yes! here
is a Line squeezed in at the edge--‘Mille tendres souvenirs de la part
de Mdlle. O’Faley.’”
“Poor Mademoiselle!”
“Poor Mademoiselle!” repeated Sir Ulick.
“Do you mean _that thing half Irish, half French, half mud, half
tinsel?_” said Ormond.
“Very good memory! very sly, Harry! But still in the Irish half of her
I dare say there is a heart; and we must allow her the tinsel, in pure
gratitude, for having taught you to speak French so well--that will be a
real advantage to you in Paris.”
“Whenever I go there, sir,” said Ormond, coldly.
Sir Ulick was very much disappointed at perceiving that Ormond had
no mind to go to Paris; but dropping the subject, he turned the
conversation upon the Annalys: he praised Florence to the skies, hoped
that Ormond would be more fortunate than Marcus had been, for somehow
or other, he should never live or die in peace till Florence Annaly was
more nearly connected with him. He regretted, however, that poor Sir
Herbert was carried off before he had completed the levying of those
fines, which would have cut off the entail, and barred the heir-at-law
from the Herbert estates. Florence was not now the great heiress it was
once expected she should be; indeed she had but a moderate gentlewoman’s
fortune--not even what at Smithfield a man of Ormond’s fortune might
expect; but Sir Ulick knew, he said, that this would make no difference
to his ward, unless to make him in greater impatience to propose for
her.
It was impossible to be in greater impatience to propose for her than
Ormond was. Sir Ulick did not wonder at it; but he thought that Miss
Annaly would not, _could_ not, listen to him yet. _Time, the comforter_,
must come first; and while time was doing this business, love could not
decently be admitted.
“That was the reason,” said Ulick, returning by another road to the
charge, “why I advised a trip to Paris; but you know best.”
“I cannot bear this suspense--I must and will know my fate--I will write
instantly, and obtain an answer.”
“Do so; and to save time, I can tell what your fate and your answer will
be: from Florence Annaly, assurance of perfect esteem and regard, as far
as friendship, perhaps; but she will tell you that she cannot think of
love at present. Lady Annaly, prudent Lady Annaly, will say that she
hopes Mr. Ormond will not think of settling for life till he has seen
something more of the world. Well, you don’t believe me,” said Sir
Ulick, interrupting himself just at the moment when he saw that Ormond
began to think there was some sense in what he was saying.
“If you don’t believe me, Harry,” continued he, “consult your oracle,
Dr. Cambray: he has just returned from Annaly, and he can tell you how
the land lies.”
Dr. Cambray agreed with Sir Ulick that both Lady Annaly and her daughter
would desire that Ormond should see more of the world before he settled
for life; but as to going off to Paris, without waiting to see or write
to them, Dr. Cambray agreed with Ormond that it would be the worst thing
he could do--that so far from appearing a proof of his respect to
their grief, it would only seem a proof of indifference, or a sign
of impatience: they would conclude that he was in haste to leave his
friends in adversity, to go to those in prosperity, and to enjoy the
gaiety and dissipation of Paris. Dr. Cambray advised that he should
remain quietly where he was, and wait till Miss Annaly should be
disposed to see him. This was most prudent, Ormond allowed. “But
then the delay!” To conquer by delay we must begin by conquering our
impatience: now that was what our hero could not possibly do--therefore
he jumped hastily to this conclusion, that “in love affairs no man
should follow any mortal’s opinion but his own.”
Accordingly he sat down and wrote to Miss Annaly a most passionate
letter, enclosed in a most dutiful one to Lady Annaly, as full of
respectful attachment and entire obedience, as a son-in-law expectant
could devise--beginning very properly and very sincerely, with anxiety
and hopes about her ladyship’s health, and ending, as properly, and as
sincerely, with hopes that her ladyship would permit him, as soon as
possible, to take from her the greatest, the only remaining source of
happiness she had in life--her daughter.
Having worded this very plausibly--for he had now learned how to write
a letter--our hero despatched a servant of Sir Ulick’s with his epistle;
ordering him to wait certainly for an answer, but above all things to
make haste back. Accordingly the man took a cross road--a short cut, and
coming to a bridge, which he did not know was broken down till he was
_close upon it_, he was obliged to return and to go round, and did not
get home till long after dark--and the only answer he brought was, that
there was no answer--only Lady Annaly’s compliments.
Ormond could scarcely believe that no answer had been sent; but the man
took all the saints in heaven, or in the calendar, to witness, that he
would not tell his honour, or any _jantleman_, a lie.
Upon a cross-examination, the man gave proof that he had actually seen
both the ladies. They were sitting so and so, and dressed so and so, in
mourning. Farther, he gave undeniable proof that he had delivered the
letters, and that they had been opened and read; for--_by the same
token_--he was summoned up to my lady on account of one of Mr. Ormond’s
letters, he did not know _which_, or to _who_, being dated Monday,
whereas it was Wednesday; and he had to clear himself of having been
three days on the road.
Ormond, inordinately impatient, could not rest a moment. The next
morning he set off at full speed for Annaly, determined to find out what
was the matter.
Arrived there, a new footman came to the door with “_Not at home_,
sir.” Ormond could have knocked him down, but he contented himself
with striking his own forehead--however, in a genteel proper voice, he
desired to see Sir Herbert’s own man, O’Reilly.
“Mr. O’Reilly is not here, sir--absent on business.”
Every thing was adverse. Ormond had one hope, that this new fellow,
not knowing him, might by mistake have included him in a general order
against morning visitors.
“My name is Ormond, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I beg you will let Lady Annaly and Miss Annaly know that Mr. Ormond
is come to pay his respects to them.”
The man seemed very unwilling to carry any message to his ladies. “He
was sure,” he said, “that the ladies would not see anybody.”
“Was Lady Annaly ill?”
“Her ladyship had been but poorly, but was better within the last two
days.”
“And Miss Annaly?”
“Wonderful better, too, sir; has got up her spirits greatly to-day.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said Ormond. “Pray, sir, can you tell me
whether a servant from Mr. Ormond brought a letter here yesterday?”
“He did, sir.”
“And was there any answer sent?”
“I really can’t say, sir.”
“Be so good to take my name to your lady,” repeated Ormond.
“Indeed, sir, I don’t like to go in, for I know my lady--both my ladies
is engaged, very particularly engaged--however, if you very positively
desire it, sir--”
Ormond did very positively desire it, and the footman obeyed. While
Ormond was waiting impatiently for the answer, his horse, as impatient
as himself, would not stand still. A groom, who was sauntering about,
saw the uneasiness of the horse, and observing that it was occasioned by
a peacock, who, with spread tail, was strutting in the sunshine, he
ran and chased the bird away. Ormond thanked the groom, and threw him a
_luck token_; but not recollecting his face, asked how long he had
been at Annaly. “I think you were not here when I was here last?” said
Ormond.
“No, sir.” said the man, looking a little puzzled; “I never was here
till the day before yesterday in my born days. We _bees_ from England.”
“We!”
“That is, I and master--that is, master and I.” Ormond grew pale; but
the groom saw nothing of it--his eyes had fixed upon Ormond’s horse.
“A very fine horse this of yours, sir, for sartain, if he could but
_stand_, sir; he’s main restless at a door. My master’s horse is just
his match for that.”
“And pray who is your master, sir?” said Ormond, in a voice which he
forced to be calm.
“My master, sir, is one Colonel Albemarle, son of the famous General
Albemarle, as lost his arm, sir, you might have heard talk of, time
back,” said the groom.
At this moment a window-blind was flapped aside, and before the wind
blew it back to its place again, Ormond saw Florence Annaly sitting on a
sofa, and a gentleman, in regimentals, kneeling at her feet.
“Bless my eyes!” cried the groom, “what made you let go his bridle, sir?
Only you sat him well, sir, he would ha’ thrown you that minute--Curse
the blind! that flapped in his eyes.”
The footman re-appeared on the steps. “Sir, it is just as I said--I
could not be let in. Mrs. Spencer, my lady’s woman, says the ladies is
engaged--you can’t see them.”
Ormond had seen enough.
“Very well, sir,” said he--“Mr. Ormond’s compliments--he called, that’s
all.”
Ormond put spurs to his horse, and galloped off; and, fast as he went,
he urged his horse still faster.
In the agony of disappointed love and jealousy, he railed bitterly
against the whole sex, and against Florence Annaly in particular. Many
were the rash vows he made that he would never think of her more--that
he would tear her from his heart--that he would show her that he was no
whining lover, no easy dupe, to be whiffled off and on, the sport of a
coquette.
“A coquette!--is it possible, Florence Annaly?--_You_--and after all!”
Certain tender recollections obtruded; but he repelled them--he would
not allow one of them to mitigate his rage. His naturally violent
passion of anger, now that it broke again from the control of his
reason, seemed the more ungovernable from the sense of past and the
dread of future restraint.
So, when a horse naturally violent, and half trained to the curb, takes
fright, or takes offence, and, starting, throws his master, away he
gallops; enraged the more by the falling bridle, he rears, plunges,
curvets, and lashes out behind at broken girth or imaginary pursuer.
“Good Heavens! what is the matter with you, my dear boy?--what has
happened?” cried Sir Ulick, the moment he saw him; for the disorder of
Ormond’s mind appeared strongly in his face and gestures--still more
strongly in his words.
When he attempted to give an account of what had happened, it was so
broken, so exclamatory, that it was wonderful how Sir Ulick made out the
plain fact. Sir Ulick, however, well understood the short-hand language
of the passions: he listened with eager interest--he sympathized
so fully with Ormond’s feelings--expressed such astonishment, such
indignation, that Harry, feeling him to be his warm friend, loved him as
heartily as in the days of his childhood.
Sir Ulick saw and seized the advantage: he had almost despaired of
accomplishing his purpose--now was the critical instant.
“Harry Ormond,” said he, “would you make Florence Annaly feel to the
quick--would you make her repent in sackcloth and ashes--would you make
her pine for you, ay! till her very heart is sick?”
“Would I? to be sure--show me how!--only show me how!” cried Ormond.
“Look ye, Harry! to have and to hold a woman--trust me, for I have had
and held many--to have and to hold a woman, you must first show her that
you can, if you will, fling her from you--ay! and leave her there: set
off for Paris to-morrow morning--my life upon it, the moment she hears
you are gone, she will wish you back again!”
“I’ll set off to-night,” said Ormond, ringing the bell to give orders to
his servant to prepare immediately for his departure.
Thus Sir Ulick, seizing precisely the moment when Ormond’s mind was at
the right heat, aiming with dexterity and striking with force, bent and
moulded him to his purpose.
While preparations for Ormond’s journey were making, Sir Ulick said
that there was one thing he must insist upon his doing before he
quitted Castle Hermitage--he must look over and settle his guardianship
accounts.
Ormond, whose head was far from business at this moment, was very
reluctant: he said that the accounts could wait till he should return
from France; but Sir Ulick observed that if he, or if Ormond were to
die, leaving the thing unsettled, it would be loss of property to
the one, and loss of credit to the other. Ormond then begged that the
accounts might be sent after him to Paris; he would look over them there
at leisure, and sign them. No, Sir Ulick said, they ought to be signed
by some forthcoming witness in this country. He urged it so much, and
put it upon the footing of his own credit and honour in such a manner,
that Ormond could not refuse. He seized the papers, and took a pen to
sign them; but Sir Ulick snatched the pen from his hand, and absolutely
insisted upon his first knowing what he was going to sign.
“The whole account could have been looked over while we have been
talking about it,” said Sir Ulick.
Ormond sat down and looked it over, examined all the vouchers, saw
that every thing was perfectly right and fair, signed the accounts,
and esteemed Sir Ulick the more for having insisted upon showing, and
proving that all was exact.
Sir Ulick offered to manage his affairs for him while he was away,
particularly a large sum which Ormond had in the English funds. Sir
Ulick had a banker and a broker in London, on whom he could depend,
and he had, from his place and connexions, means of obtaining good
information in public affairs; he had made a great deal himself by
speculations in the funds, and he could buy in and sell out to great
advantage, he said, for Ormond. But for this purpose a _power of
attorney_ was necessary to be given by Ormond to Sir Ulick.
There was scarcely time to draw one up, nor was Sir Ulick sure that
there was a printed form in the house. Luckily, however, a proper
_power_ was found, and filled up, and Ormond had just time to sign
it before he stepped into the carriage: he embraced his guardian, and
thanked him heartily for his care of the interests of his purse, and
still more for the sympathy he had shown in the interests of his heart.
Sir Ulick was moved at parting with him, and this struck Harry the more,
because he certainly struggled to suppress his feelings. Ormond stopped
at Vicar’s Dale to tell Dr. Cambray all that had happened, to thank him
and his family for their kindness, and to take leave of them.
They were indeed astonished when he entered, saying, “Any commands, my
good friends, for London or Paris? I am on my way there--carriage at the
door.”
At first they could not believe him to be serious; but when they
heard his story, and saw by the agitation of his manner that he was
in earnest, they were still more surprised at the suddenness of his
determination. They all believed and represented to him that there must
be some mistake, and that he was not cool enough to judge sanely at this
moment.
Dr. Cambray observed that Miss Annaly could not prevent any man from
kneeling to her. Ormond haughtily said, “He did not know what she could
prevent, he only knew what she did. She had not vouchsafed an answer to
his letter--she had not admitted him. These he thought were sufficient
indications that the person at her feet was accepted. Whether he were or
not, Ormond would inquire no further. She might now accept or refuse, as
she pleased--he would go to Paris.”
His friends had nothing more to say or to do, but to sigh, and to wish
him a good journey, and much pleasure at Paris.
Ormond now requested that Dr. Cambray would have the goodness to write
to him from time to time, to inform him of whatever he might wish to
know during his absence. He was much mortified to hear from the doctor
that he was obliged to proceed, with his family, for some months, to a
distant part of the north of England; and that, as to the Annalys,
they were immediately removing to the sea-coast of Devonshire, for the
benefit of a mild climate and of sea-bathing. Ormond, therefore, had no
resource but in his guardian. Sir Ulick’s affairs, however, were to
take him over to London, from whence Ormond could not expect much
satisfactory intelligence with respect to Ireland.
Ormond flew to Dublin, crossed the channel in an express boat, travelled
night and day in the mail to London, from thence to Dover--crossed the
water in a storm, and travelled with the utmost expedition to Paris,
though there was no one reason why he should be in haste; and for so
much, his travelling was as little profitable or amusing as possible. He
saw, heard, and understood nothing, till he reached Paris.
It has been said that the traveller without sensibility may travel from
Dan to Beersheba, without finding any thing worth seeing. The traveller
who has too much sensibility often observes as little--of this all
persons must be sensible, who have ever travelled when their minds were
engrossed with painful feelings, or possessed by any strong passion.