One morning when Ormond awoke, the first thing he heard was, that a
_person_ from Ireland was below, who was very impatient to see him. It
was Patrickson, Sir Ulick O’Shane’s confidential man of business.
“What news from Castle Hermitage?” cried Ormond, starting up in his bed,
surprised at the sight of Patrickson.
“The best that can be--never saw Sir Ulick in such heart--he has a share
of the loan, and--”
“And what news of the Annalys?” interrupted Ormond.
“I know nothing about them at all, sir,” said Patrickson, who was a
methodical man of business, and whose head was always intent upon what
he called the main chance. “I have been in Dublin, and heard no country
news.”
“But have you no letter for me? and what brings you over so suddenly to
Paris?”
“I have a letter for you somewhere here, sir--only I have so many ‘tis
hard to find,” said Patrickson, looking carefully over a parcel of
letters in his pocket-book, but with such a drawling slowness of manner
as put Ormond quite out of patience. Patrickson laid the letters on the
bed one by one. “That’s not it--and that’s not it; that’s for
Monsieur un tel, marchand, rue ----; that packet’s from the Hamburgh
merchants--What brings me over?--Why, sir, I have business enough,
Heaven knows!”
Patrickson was employed not only by Sir Ulick O’Shane, but by many
Dublin merchants and bankers, to settle business for them with different
houses on the continent. Ormond, without listening to the various
digressions he made concerning the persons of mercantile consequence to
whom the letters were addressed, or from whom they were answers, pounced
upon the letter in Sir Ulick’s handwriting directed to himself, and tore
it open eagerly, to see if there was any news of the Annalys. None--they
were in Devonshire. The letter was merely a few lines on business--Sir
Ulick had now the opportunity he had foreseen of laying out Ormond’s
money in the loan most advantageously for him; but there had been an
omission in the drawing up of his power of attorney, which had been done
in such a hurry on Ormond’s leaving home. It gave power only to sell out
of the Three per Cents.; whereas much of Ormond’s money was in the Four
per Cents. Another power, Patrickson said, was necessary, and he had
brought one for him to sign. Patrickson in his slow manner descanted
upon the folly of signing papers in a hurry, just when people were
getting into carriages, which was always the way with young gentlemen,
he said. He took care that Ormond should do nothing in a hurry now; for
he put on his spectacles, and read the power, sparing him not a syllable
of the law forms and repetitions. Ormond wrote a few kind lines to Sir
Ulick, and earnestly besought him to find out something more about
the Annalys. If Miss Annaly were married, it must have appeared in the
papers. What delayed the marriage? Was Colonel Albemarle dismissed or
accepted?--Where was he?--Ormond said he would be content if Sir Ulick
could obtain an answer to that single plain question.
All the time Ormond was writing, Patrickson never stirred his forefinger
from the spot where the signature was to be written at the bottom of the
power of attorney.
“Pray,” said Ormond, looking up from the paper he going to sign, “pray,
Patrickson, are you really and truly an Irishman?”
“By the father’s side, I apprehend, sir--but my mother was English.
Stay, sir, if you please--I must witness it.”
“Witness away,” said Ormond; and after having signed this paper,
empowering Sir Ulick to sell 30,000_l_. out of the Four per cents.,
Ormond lay down, and wishing him a good journey, settled himself to
sleep; while Patrickson, packing up his papers, deliberately said, “He
hoped to be in London _in short_; but that he should go by Havre de
Grace, and that he should be happy to execute any commands for Mr.
Ormond there or in Dublin.” More he would have said, but finding Ormond
by this time past reply, he left the room on tiptoe. The next morning
Madame de Connal returned from the country, and sent Ormond word that
she should expect him at her assembly that night.
Every body complimented Madame de Connal upon the improvement which the
country air had made in her beauty--even her husband was struck with it,
and paid her his compliments on the occasion; but she stood conversing
so long with Ormond, that the faro-players grew impatient: she led him
to the table, but evidently had little interest herself in the game. He
played at first with more than his usual success, but late at night his
fortune suddenly changed; he lost--lost--till at last he stopped, and
rising from table, said he had no more money, and he could play no
longer. Connal, who was not one of the players, but merely looking on,
offered to lend him any sum he pleased. “Here’s a rouleau--here are two
rouleaus--what will you have?” said Connal.
Ormond declined playing any more: he said that he had lost the sum he
had resolved to lose, and there he would stop. Connal did not urge him,
but laughing said, that a resolution to _lose_ at play was the most
extraordinary he had ever heard.
“And yet you see I have kept it,” said Ormond.
“Then I hope you will next make a resolution to win,” said Connal, “and
no doubt you will keep that as well--I prophesy that you will; and you
will give fortune fair play to-morrow night.” Ormond simply repeated
that he should play no more. Madame de Connal soon afterwards rose from
the table, and went to talk to Mr. Ormond. She said she was concerned
for his loss at play this night. He answered, as he felt, that it was
a matter of no consequence to him--that he had done exactly what he had
determined; that in the course of the whole time he had been losing this
money he had had a great deal of amusement in society, had seen a vast
deal of human nature and manners, which he could not otherwise have
seen, and that he thought his money exceedingly well employed.
“But you shall not lose your money,” said Dora; “when next you play it
shall be on my account as well as your own--you know this is not only a
compliment, but a solid advantage. The bank has certain advantages--and
it is fair that you should share them. I must explain to you,” continued
Madame de Connal--“they are all busy about their own affairs, and we may
speak in English at our ease--I must explain to you, that a good portion
of my fortune has been settled, so as to be at my own disposal--my
aunt, you know, has also a good fortune--we are partners, and put a
considerable sum into the faro bank. We find it answers well. You see
how handsomely we live. M. de Connal has his own share. We have nothing
to do with _that_. If you would take my advice,” continued she, speaking
in a very persuasive tone, “instead of forswearing play, as you seem
inclined to do at the first reverse of fortune, you would join forces
with us; you cannot imagine that _I_ would advise you to any thing which
I was not persuaded would be advantageous to you--you little know how
much I am interested.” She checked herself, blushed, hesitated, and
hurried on--“you have no ties in Ireland--you seem to like Paris--where
can you spend your time more agreeably?”
“More agreeably--nowhere upon earth!” cried Ormond. Her manner, tone,
and look, at this moment were so flattering, so bewitching, that he was
scarcely master of himself. They went to the boudoir--the company had
risen from the faro-table, and, one after another, had most of them
departed. Connal was gone--only a few remained in a distant apartment,
listening to some music. It was late. Ormond had never till this evening
stayed later than the generality of the company, but he had now
an excuse to himself, something that he had long wished to have an
opportunity of saying to Dora, when she should be quite alone; it was a
word of advice about le Comte de Belle Chasse--her intimacy with him
was beginning to be talked of. She had been invited to a bal paré at the
Spanish ambassador’s for the ensuing night--but she had more inclination
to go to a bal masqué, as Ormond had heard her declare. Now certain
persons had whispered that it was to meet the Comte de Belle Chasse that
she intended to go to this ball; and Ormond feared that such whispers
might be injurious to her reputation. It was difficult to him to speak,
because the counsels of the friend might be mistaken for the jealous
fears of a lover. With some embarrassment he delicately, timidly, hinted
his apprehensions.
Dora, though naturally of a temper apt to take alarm at the touch of
blame, and offence at the tone of advice, now in the most graceful
manner thanked her friend for his counsel; said she was flattered,
gratified, by the interest it showed in her happiness--and she
immediately yielded her will, her _fantaisie_, to his better judgment.
This compliance, and the look with which it was accompanied, convinced
him of the absolute power he possessed over her heart. He was enchanted
with Dora--she never looked so beautiful; never before, not even in the
first days of his early youth, had he felt her beauty so attractive.
“Dear Madame de Connal, dear Dora!” he exclaimed.
“Call me Dora,” said she: “I wish ever to be Dora to Harry Ormond. Oh!
Harry, my first, my best, my only friend, I have enjoyed but little real
happiness since we parted.”
Tears filled her fine eyes--no longer knowing where he was, Harry Ormond
found himself at her feet. But while he held and kissed in transport the
beautiful hand, which was but feebly withdrawn, he seemed to be suddenly
shocked by the sight of one of the rings on her finger.
“My wedding-ring,” said Dora, with a sigh. “Unfortunate marriage!”
That was not the ring on which Ormond’s eyes were fixed.
“Dora, whose gray hair is this?”
“My father’s,” said Dora, in a tremulous voice.
“Your father!” cried Ormond, starting up. The full recollection of that
fond father, that generous benefactor, that confiding friend, rushed
upon his heart.
“And is this the return I make!--Oh, if he could see us at this
instant!”
“And if he could,” cried Dora, “oh! how he would admire and love you,
Ormond, and how he would--”
Her voice failed, and with a sudden motion she hid her face with both
her hands.
“He would see you, Dora, without a guide, protector, or friend;
surrounded with admirers, among profligate men, and women still more
profligate, yet he would see that you have preserved a reputation of
which your father would be proud.”
“My father! oh, my poor father!” cried Dora: “Oh! generous, dear, ever
generous Ormond!”
Bursting into tears--alternate passions seizing her--at one moment
the thoughts of her father, the next of her lover, possessed her
imagination.
At this instant the noise of some one approaching recalled them both to
their senses. They were found in earnest conversation about a party of
pleasure that was to be arranged for the next day. Madame de Connal made
Ormond promise that he would come the next morning, and settle every
thing with M. de Connal for their intended expedition into the country.
The next day, as Ormond was returning to Madame de Connal’s, with the
firm intention of adhering to the honourable line of conduct he had
traced out for himself, just as he was crossing the Pont Neuf, some one
ran full against him. Surprised at what happens so seldom in the
streets of Paris, where all meet, pass, or cross, in crowds with magical
celerity and address, he looked back, and at the same instant the person
who had passed looked back also. An apparition in broad daylight could
not have surprised Ormond more than the sight of this person. “Could it
be--could it possibly be Moriarty Carroll, on the Pont Neuf in Paris?”
“By the blessing, then, it’s the man himself--Master Harry!--though I
didn’t know him through the French disguise. Oh! master, then, I’ve been
tried and cast, and all but hanged--sentenced to Botany--transported
any way--for a robbery I didn’t commit--since I saw you last. But your
honour’s uneasy, and it’s not proper, I know, to be stopping a jantleman
in the street; but I have a word to say that will bear no delay, not a
minute.”
Ormond’s surprise and curiosity increased--he desired Moriarty to follow
him.
“And now, Moriarty, what is it you have to say?”
“It is a long story, then, please your honour. I was transported to
Botany, though innocent. But first and foremost for what consarns your
honour first.”
“First,” said Ormond, “if you were transported, how came you here?”
“Because I was not transported, plase your honour--only sentenced--for I
escaped from Kilmainham, where I was sent to be put on board the tender;
but I got on board of an American ship, by the help of a friend--and
this ship being knocked against the rocks, I came safe ashore in this
country on one of the _sticks_ of the vessel: so when I knowed it was
France I was in, and recollected Miss Dora that was married in Paris, I
thought if I could just make my way any hows to Paris, she’d befriend me
in case of need.
“But, dear master,” said Moriarty, interrupting, “it’s a folly to
talk--I’ll not tell you a word more of myself till you hear the news I
have for you. The worst news I have to tell you is, there is great fear
of the breaking of Sir Ulick’s bank!”
“The breaking of Sir Ulick’s bank? I heard from him the day before
yesterday.”
“May be you did; but the captain of the American ship in which I came
was complaining of his having been kept two hours at that bank, where
they were paying large sums in small notes, and where there was the
greatest run upon the house that ever was seen.”
Ormond instantly saw his danger--he recollected the power of attorney
he had signed two days before. But Patrickson was to go by Havre de
Grace--that would delay him. It was possible that Ormond by setting out
instantly might get to London time enough to save his property. He went
directly and ordered post horses. He had no debts in Paris, nothing to
pay, but for his stables and lodging. He had a faithful servant, whom he
could leave behind, to make all necessary arrangements.
“You are right, jewel, to be in a hurry,” said Carroll. “But sure you
won’t leave poor Moriarty behind ye here in distress, when he has no
friend in the wide world but yourself?”
“Tell me, in the first place, Moriarty, are you innocent?”
“Upon my conscience, master, I am perfectly innocent as the child
unborn, both of the murder and the robbery. If your honour will give me
leave, I’ll tell you the whole story.”
“That will be a long affair, Moriarty, _if you talk out of the face_,
as you used to do. I will, however, find an opportunity to hear it all.
But, in the meantime, stay where you are till I return.”
Ormond went instantly to Connal’s, to inform him of what had happened.
His astonishment was obviously mixed with disappointment. But to do him
justice, besides the interest which he really had in the preservation of
the fortune, he felt some personal regard for Ormond himself.
“What shall we do without you?” said he. “I assure you, Madame and
I have never been so happy together since the first month after our
marriage as we have been since you came to Paris.”
Connal was somewhat consoled by hearing Ormond say, that if he were time
enough in London to save his fortune, he proposed returning immediately
to Paris, intending to make the tour of Switzerland and Italy.
Connal had no doubt that they should yet be able to fix him at Paris.
Madame de Connal and Mademoiselle were out--Connal did not know where
they were gone. Ormond was glad to tear himself away with as few adieus
as possible. He got into his travelling carriage, put his servant on the
box, and took Moriarty with him in the carriage, that he might relate
his history at leisure.
“Plase your honour,” said Moriarty, “Mr. Marcus never missed any
opportunity of showing me ill-will. The supercargo of the ship that was
cast away, when you were with Sir Herbert Annaly, God rest his soul!
came down to the sea-side to look for some of the things that he had
lost: the day after he came, early in the morning, his horse, and
bridle, and saddle, and a surtout coat, was found in a lane, near the
place where we lived, and the supercargo was never heard any more of.
Suspicion fell upon many--the country rung with the noise that was made
about this murder--and at last I was taken up for it, because people had
seen me buy cattle at the fair, and the people would not believe it was
with money your honour sent me by the good parson--for the parson was
gone out of the country, and I had nobody to stand my friend; for Mr.
Marcus was on the grand jury, and the sheriff was his friend, and Sir
Ulick was in Dublin, at the bank. Howsomdever, after a long trial, which
lasted the whole day, a ‘cute lawyer on my side found out that there was
no proof that any body had been murdered, and that a man might lose his
horse, his saddle, and his bridle, and his big coat, without being kilt:
so that the judge ordered the jury to let me off for the murder. They
then tried me for the robbery; and sure enough that went again me: for a
pair of silver-mounted pistols, with the man’s name engraved upon them,
was found in my house. They knew the man’s name by the letters in the
big coat. The judge asked me what I had to say for myself: ‘My lard,’
says I, ‘those pistols were brought into my house about a fortnight
ago, by a little boy, one little Tommy Dunshaughlin, who found them in a
punk-horn, at the edge of a bog-hole.’
“The jidge favoured me more than the jury--for he asked how old the boy
was, and whether I could produce him? The little fellow was brought
into court, and it was surprising how clear he told his story. The jidge
listened to the child, young as he was. But M’Crule was on the jury, and
said that he knew the child to be as cunning as any in Ireland, and that
he would not believe a word that came out of his mouth. So the short and
the long of it was, I was condemned to be transported.
“It would have done you good, if you’d heard the cry in the court when
sentence was given, for I was loved in the country. Poor Peggy and
Sheelah!--But I’ll not be troubling your honour’s tender heart with our
parting. I was transmuted to Dublin, to be put on board the tender, and
lodged in Kilmainham, waiting for the ship that was to go to Botany. I
had not been long there, when another prisoner was brought to the same
room with me. He was a handsome-looking man, about thirty years of age,
of the most penetrating eye and determined countenance that I ever saw.
He appeared to be worn down with ill-health, and his limbs much swelled:
notwithstanding which, he had strong handcuffs on his wrists, and he
seemed to be guarded with uncommon care. He begged the turnkey to lay
him down upon the miserable iron bed that was in the cell; and he begged
him, for God’s sake, to let him have a jug of water by his bedside, and
to leave him to his fate.
“I could not help pitying this poor cratur; I went to him, and offered
him any assistance in my power. He answered me shortly, ‘What are you
here for?’--I told him. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘whether you are guilty or
not, is your affair, not mine; but answer me at once--are you a _good
man_?--Can you go through with a thing?--and are you steel to the
back-bone?’--‘I am,’ said I. ‘Then,’ said he, ‘you are a lucky man--for
he that is talking to you is Michael Dunne, who knows how to make his
way out of any jail in Ireland.’ Saying this, he sprung with great
activity from the bed. ‘It is my cue,’ said he, ‘to be sick and weak,
whenever the turnkey comes in, to put him off his guard--for they have
all orders to watch me strictly; because as how, do you see, I broke out
of the jail of Trim; and when they catched me, they took me before his
honour the police magistrate, who did all he could to get out of me the
way which I made my escape.’ ‘Well,’ says the magistrate, ‘I’ll put you
in a place where you can’t get out--till you’re sent to ‘Botany.’ ‘Plase
your worship,’ says I, ‘if there’s no offence in saying it, there’s no
such place in Ireland.’--‘No such place as what?’ ‘No such place as will
hold Michael Dunne.’--‘What do you think of Kilmainbam?’ says he. ‘I
think it’s a fine jail--and it will be no asy matter to get out of
it--but it is not impossible.’--‘Well, Mr. Dunne,’ said the magistrate,
‘I have heard of your fame, and that you have secrets of your own for
getting out. Now, if you’ll tell me how you got out of the jail of Trim,
I’ll make your confinement at Kilmainham as asy as may be, so as to
keep you safe; and if you do not, you must be ironed, and I will have
sentinels from an English regiment, who shall be continually changed: so
that you can’t get any of them to help you.’--‘Plase your worship,’ said
Dunne, ‘that’s very hard usage; but I know as how that you are going
to build new jails all over Ireland, and that you’d be glad to know the
best way to make them secure. If your worship will promise me that if I
get out of Kilmainham, and if I tell you how I do it, then you’ll get me
a free pardon, I’ll try hard but what before three months are over I’ll
be a prisoner at large.’--‘That’s more than I can promise you,’ said the
magistrate; ‘but if you will disclose to me the best means of keeping
other people in, I will endeavour to keep you from Botany Bay.’--‘Now,
sir,’ says Dunne, ‘I know your worship to be a man of honour, and that
your own honour regards yourself, and not me; so that if I was ten times
as bad as I am, you’d keep your promise with me, as well as if I was the
best gentleman in Ireland. So that now, Mr. Moriarty,’ said Dunne, ‘do
you see, if I get out, I shall be safe; and if you get out along with
me, you have nothing to do but to go over to America. And if you are a
married man, and tired of your wife, you’ll get rid of her. If you are
not tired of her, and you have any substance, she may sell it and follow
you.’
“There was something, Master Harry, about the man that made me have
great confidence in him--and I was ready to follow his advice. Whenever
the turnkey was coming he was groaning and moaning on the bed. At other
times he made me keep bathing his wrists with cold water, so that in
three or four days they were not half the size they were at first. This
change he kept carefully from the jailor. I observed that he frequently
asked what day of the month it was, but that he never made any attempt
to speak to the sentinels; nor did he seem to make any preparation,
or to lay any scheme for getting out. I held my tongue, and waited
qui’tely. At last, he took out of his pocket a little flageolet, and
began to play upon it. He asked me if I could play: I said I could a
little, but very badly. ‘I don’t care how bad it is, if you can play at
all.’ He got off the bed where he was lying, and with the utmost ease
pulled his hands out of his handcuffs. Besides the swelling of his
wrists having gone down, he had some method of getting rid of his thumb
that I never could understand. Says I, ‘Mr. Dunne, the jailor will miss
the fetters,’--‘No,’ said he, ‘for I will put them on again;’ and so he
did, with great ease. ‘Now,’ said he, ‘it is time to begin our work.’
“He took off one of his shoes, and taking out the in-sole, he showed
me a hole, that was cut where the heel was, in which there was a little
small flat bottle, which he told me was the most precious thing in life.
And under the rest of the sole there were a number of saws, made of
watch spring, that lay quite flat and snug under his foot. The next time
the turnkey came in, he begged, for the love of God, to have a pipe and
some tobacco, which was accordingly granted to him. What the pipes and
tobacco were for, I could not then guess, but they were found to be
useful. He now made a paste of some of the bread of his allowance, with
which he made a cup round the bottom of one of the bars of the window;
into this cup he poured some of the contents of the little bottle, which
was, I believe, oil of vitriol: in a little time, this made a bad smell,
and it was then I found the use of the pipe and tobacco, for the smell
of the tobacco quite bothered the smell of the vitriol. When he thought
he had softened the iron bar sufficiently, he began to work away with
the saws, and he soon taught me how to use them; so that we kept working
on continually, no matter how little we did at a time; but as we were
constantly at it, what I thought never could be done was finished in
three or four days. The use of the flageolet was to drown the noise of
the filing; for when one filed, the other piped.
“When the bar was cut through, he fitted the parts nicely together, and
covered them over with rust. He proceeded in the same manner to cut out
another bar; so that we had a free opening out of the window. Our cell
was at the very top of the jail, so that even to look down to the ground
was terrible.
“Under various pretences, we had got an unusual quantity of blankets on
our beds; these he examined with the utmost care, as upon their strength
our lives were to depend. We calculated with great coolness the breadth
of the strips into which he might cut the blankets, so as to reach from
the window to the ground; allowing for the knots by which they were to
be joined, and for other knots that were to hinder the hands and feet
from slipping.
“‘Now,’ said he, ‘Mr. Moriarty, all this is quite asy, and requires
nothing but a determined heart and a sound head: but the difficulty is
to baffle the sentinel that is below, and who is walking backward and
forward continually, day and night, under the window; and there is
another, you see, in a sentry-box, at the door of the yard: and, for all
I know, there may be another sentinel at the other side of the wall. Now
these men are never twice on the same duty: I have friends enough out of
doors, who have money enough, and would have talked reason to them; but
as these sentinels are changed every day, no good can be got of _them_:
but stay till to-morrow night, and we’ll try what we can do.’
“I was determined to follow him. The next night, the moment that we were
locked in for the night, we set to work to cut the blankets into slips,
and tied them together with great care. We put this rope round one of
the fixed bars of the window; and, pulling at each knot, we satisfied
ourselves that every part was sufficiently strong. Dunne looked
frequently out of the window with the utmost anxiety--it was a moonlight
night.
“‘The moon,’ said he, ‘will be down in an hour and a half.’
“In a little while we heard the noise of several girls singing at a
distance from the windows, and we could see, as they approached, that
they were dancing, and making free with the sentinels: I saw that they
were provided with bottles of spirits, with which they pledged the
deluded soldiers. By degrees the sentinels forgot their duty; and, by
the assistance of some laudanum contained in some of the spirits, they
were left senseless on the ground. The whole of this plan, and the very
night and hour, had been arranged by Dunne with his associates, before
he was put into Kilmainham. The success of this scheme, which was
totally unexpected by me, gave me, I suppose, plase your honour, fresh
courage. He, very honourably, gave me the choice to go down first or to
follow him. I was ashamed not to go first: after I had got out of the
window, and had fairly hold of the rope, my fear diminished, and I went
cautiously down to the bottom. Here I waited for Dunne, and we both of
us silently stole along in the dark, for the moon had gone in, and we
did not meet with the least obstruction. Our out of door’s assistants
had the prudence to get entirely out of sight. Dunne led me to a
hiding-place in a safe part of the town, and committed me to the care of
a seafaring man, who promised to get me on board an American ship.
“‘As for my part,’ said Dunne, ‘I will go in the morning, boldly, to the
magistrate, and claim his promise.’
“He did so--and the magistrate with good sense, and good faith, kept his
promise, and obtained a pardon for Dunne.
“I wrote to Peggy, to get aboard an American ship. I was cast away on
the coast of France--made my way to the first religious house that I
could hear of, where I luckily found an Irishman, who saved me from
starvation, and who sent me on from convent to convent, till I got to
Paris, where your honour met me on that bridge, just when I was looking
for Miss Dora’s house. And that’s all I’ve got to tell,” concluded
Moriarty, “and all true.”
No adventures of any sort happened to our hero in the course of his
journey. The wind was fair for England when he reached Calais: he had a
good passage; and with all the expedition that good horses, good roads,
good money, and civil words, ensure in England, he pursued his way; and
arrived in the shortest time possible in London.
He reached town in the morning, before the usual hour when the banks
are open. Leaving orders with his servant, on whose punctuality he could
depend, to awaken him at the proper hour, he lay down, overcome with
fatigue, and slept--yes--slept soundly.