Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “But where’s my son — where’s Marcus?” said Sir Ulick, drawing Lady O’Shane aside. “I don’t see him any where.”

  “No,” said Lady O’Shane; “you know that he would go to dine to-day with that strange cousin of yours, and neither he nor his companion have thought proper to return yet.”

  “I wish you had given me a hint,” said Sir Ulick, “and I would have waited; for Marcus ought to lead off with Miss Annaly.”

  “Ought — to be sure.” said Lady O’Shane; “but that is no rule for young gentlemen’s conduct. I told both the young gentlemen that we were to have a dance to-night. I mentioned the hour, and begged them to be punctual.”

  “Young men are never punctual,” said Sir Ulick; “but Marcus is inexcusable to-night on account of the Annalys.”

  Sir Ulick pondered for a moment with an air of vexation, then turning to the musicians, who were behind him, “You four-and-twenty fiddlers all in a row, you gentlemen musicians, scrape and tune on a little longer, if you please. Remember you are not ready till I draw on my gloves. Break a string or two, if necessary.”

  “We will — we shall — plase your honour.”

  “I wish, Lady O’Shane,” continued Sir Ulick in a lower tone, “I wish you had given me a hint of this.”

  “Truth to tell, Sir Ulick, I did, I own, conceive from your walk and way, that you were not in a condition to take any hint I could give.”

  “Pshaw, my dear, after having known me, I won’t say loved me, a calendar year, how can you be so deceived by outward appearances? Don’t you know that I hate drinking? But when I have these county electioneering friends, the worthy red noses, to entertain, I suit myself to the company, by acting spirits instead of swallowing them, for I should scorn to appear to flinch!”

  This was true. Sir Ulick could, and often did, to the utmost perfection, counterfeit every degree of intoxication. He could act the rise, decline, and fall of the drunken man, marking the whole progress, from the first incipient hesitation of reason to the glorious confusion of ideas in the highest state of elevation, thence through all the declining cases of stultified paralytic ineptitude, down to the horizontal condition of preterpluperfect ebriety.

  “Really, Sir Ulick, you are so good an actor that I don’t pretend to judge — I can seldom find out the truth from you.”

  “So much the better for you, my dear, if you knew but all,” said Sir Ulick, laughing.

  “If I knew but all!” repeated her ladyship, with an alarmed look.

  “But that’s not the matter in hand at present, my dear.”

  Sir Ulick protracted the interval before the opening of the ball as long as he possibly could — but in vain — the young gentlemen did not appear. Sir Ulick drew on his gloves. The broken strings of the violins were immediately found to be mended. Sir Ulick opened the ball himself with Miss Annaly, after making as handsome an apology for his son as the case would admit — an apology which was received by the young lady with the most graceful good-nature. She declined dancing more than one dance, and Sir Ulick sat down between her and Lady Annaly, exerting all his powers of humour to divert them, at the expense of his cousin, the King of the Black Islands, whose tedious ferry, or whose claret, or more likely whose whiskey-punch, he was sure, had been the cause of Marcus’s misdemeanour. It was now near twelve o’clock. Lady O’Shane, who had made many aggravating reflections upon the disrespectful conduct of the young gentlemen, grew restless on another count. The gates were left open for them — the gates ought to be locked! There were disturbances in the country. “Pshaw!” Sir Ulick said. Opposite directions were given at opposite doors to two servants.

  “Dempsey, tell them they need not lock the gates till the young gentlemen come home, or at least till one o’clock,” said Sir Ulick.

  “Stone,” said Lady O’Shane to her own man in a very low voice, “go down directly, and see that the gates are locked, and bring me the keys.”

  Dempsey, an Irishman, who was half drunk, forgot to see or say any thing about it. Stone, an Englishman, went directly to obey his lady’s commands, and the gates were locked, and the keys brought to her ladyship, who put them immediately into her work-table.

  Half an hour afterwards, as Lady O’Shane was sitting with her back to the glass-door of the green house, which opened into the ball-room, she was startled by a peremptory tap on the glass behind her; she turned, and saw young Ormond, pale as death, and stained with blood.

  “The keys of the gate instantly,” cried he, “for mercy’s sake!”

  CHAPTER II.

  Lady O’Shane, extremely terrified, had scarcely power to rise. She opened the drawer of the table, and thrust her trembling hand down to the bottom of the silk bag, into which the keys had fallen. Impatient of delay, Ormond pushed open the door, snatched the keys, and disappeared. The whole passed in a few seconds. The music drowned the noise of the opening door, and of the two chairs, which Ormond had thrown down: those who sat near, thought a servant had pushed in and gone out; but, however rapid the movement, the full view of the figure had been seen by Miss Annaly, who was sitting on the opposite side of the room; Sir Ulick was sitting beside her, talking earnestly. Lady Annaly had just retired. “For Heaven’s sake, what’s the matter?” cried he, stopping in the middle of a sentence, on seeing Miss Annaly grow suddenly pale as death. Her eyes were fixed on the door of the green-house; his followed that direction. “Yes,” said he, “we can get out into the air that way — lean on me.” She did so — he pushed his way through the crowd at the bottom of the country dance; and, as he passed, was met by Lady O’Shane and Miss Black, both with faces of horror.

  “Sir Ulick, did you see,” pointing to the door, “did you see Mr. Ormond? — There’s blood!”

  “There’s mischief, certainly,” said Miss Black. “A quarrel — Mr. Marcus, perhaps.”

  “Nonsense! No such thing, you’ll find,” said Sir Ulick, pushing on, and purposely jostling the arm of a servant who was holding a salver of ices, overturning them all; and whilst the surrounding company were fully occupied about their clothes, and their fears, and apologies, he made his way onwards to the green-house — Lady O’Shane clinging to one arm — Miss Annaly supported by the other — Miss Black following, repeating, “Mischief! mischief! you’ll see, sir.”

  “Miss Black, open the door, and not another word.”

  He edged Miss Annaly on, the moment the door opened, dragged Lady O’Shane after him, pushed Miss Black back as she attempted to follow: but, recollecting that she might spread the report of mischief, if he left her behind, drew her into the green-house, locked the door, and led Miss Annaly out into the air.

  “Bring salts! water! something, Miss Black — follow me, Lady O’Shane.”

  “When I’m hardly able — your wife! Sir Ulick, you might,” said Lady O’Shane, as she tottered on, “you might, I should have thought—”

  “No time for such thoughts, my dear,” interrupted he. “Sit down on the steps — there, she is better now — now what is all this?”

  “I am not to speak,” said Miss Black.

  Lady O’Shane began to say how Mr. Ormond had burst in, covered with blood, and seized the keys of the gates.

  “The keys!” But he had no time for that thought. “Which way did he go?”

  “I don’t know; I gave him the keys of both gates.”

  The two entrances were a mile asunder. Sir Ulick looked for footsteps on the grass. It was a fine moonlight night. He saw footsteps on the path leading to the gardener’s house. “Stay here, ladies, and I will bring you intelligence as soon as possible.”

  “This way, Sir Ulick — they are coming,” said Miss Annaly, who had now recovered her presence of mind.

  Several persons appeared from a turn in the shrubbery, carrying some one on a hand-barrow — a gentleman on horseback, with a servant and many persons walking. Sir Ulick hastened towards them; the gentleman on horseback spurred his horse and met him.

  “Marcus! — is it you? �
�� thank God! But Ormond — where is he, and what has happened?”

  The first sound of Marcus’s voice, when he attempted to answer, showed that he was not in a condition to give a rational account of any thing. His servant followed, also much intoxicated. While Sir Ulick had been stopped by their ineffectual attempts to explain, the people who were carrying the man on the hand-barrow came up. Ormond appeared from the midst of them. “Carry him on to the gardener’s house,” cried he, pointing the way, and coming forward to Sir Ulick. “If he dies, I am a murderer!” cried he.

  “Who is he?” said Sir Ulick.

  “Moriarty Carroll, please your honour,” answered several voices at once.

  “And how happened it?” said Sir Ulick.

  “The long and the short of it, sir,” said Marcus, as well as he could articulate, “the fellow was insolent, and we cut him down — and if it were to do again, I’d do it again with pleasure.”

  “No, no! you won’t say so, Marcus, when you are yourself,” said Ormond. “Oh! how dreadful to come to one’s senses all at once, as I did — the moment after I had fired that fatal shot — the moment I saw the poor fellow stagger and fall—”

  “It was you, then, that fired at him,” interrupted Sir Ulick.

  “Yes, oh! yes!” said he, striking his forehead: “I did it in the fury of passion.”

  Then Ormond, taking all the blame upon himself, and stating what had passed in the strongest light against himself, gave this account of the matter. After having drunk too much at Mr. Cornelius O’Shane’s, they were returning from the Black Islands, and afraid of being late, they were galloping hard, when at a narrow part of the road they were stopped by some cars. Impatient of the delay, they abused the men who were driving them, insisting upon their getting out of the way faster than they could. Moriarty Carroll made some answer, which Marcus said was insolent; and inquiring the man’s name, and hearing it was Carroll, said all the Carrolls were bad people — rebels. Moriarty defied him to prove that — and added some expressions about tyranny, which enraged Ormond. This part of the provocation Ormond did not state, but merely said he was thrown into a passion by some observation of Moriarty’s; and first he lifted his whip to give the fellow a horsewhipping. Moriarty seized hold of the whip, and struggled to wrest it from his hand; Ormond then snatched a pistol from his holster, telling Moriarty he would shoot him, if he did not let the whip go. Moriarty, who was in a passion himself, struggled, still holding the whip. Ormond cocked the pistol, and before he was aware he had done so, the pistol accidentally went off — the ball entered Moriarty’s breast. This happened within a quarter of a mile of Castle Hermitage. The poor fellow bled profusely; and, in assisting to lift him upon the hand-barrow, Ormond was covered with blood, as has been already described.

  “Have you sent for a surgeon?” said Sir Ulick, coolly.

  “Certainly — sent off a fellow on my own horse directly. Sir, will you come on to the gardener’s house; I want you to see him, to know what you’ll think. If he die, I am a murderer,” repeated Ormond.

  This horrible idea so possessed his imagination, that he could not answer or hear any of the farther questions that were asked by Lady O’Shane and Miss Black; but after gazing upon them with unmeaning eyes for a moment in silence, walked rapidly on: as he was passing by the steps of the green-house, he stopped short at the sight of Miss Annaly, who was still sitting there. “What’s the matter?” said he, in a tone of great compassion, going close up to her. Then, recollecting himself, he hurried forward again.

  “As I can be of no use — unless I can be of any use,” said Miss Annaly, “I will, now that I am well enough, return — my mother will wonder what has become of me.”

  “Sir Ulick, give me the key of the conservatory, to let Miss Annaly into the ball-room.”

  “Miss Annaly does not wish to dance any more to-night, I believe,” said Sir Ulick.

  “Dance — oh! no.”

  “Then, without exciting observation, you can all get in better at the back door of the house, and Miss Annaly can go up the back stairs to Lady Annaly’s room, without meeting any one; and you, Lady O’Shane,” added he, in a low voice, “order up supper, and say nothing of what has passed. Miss Black, you hear what I desire — no gossiping.”

  To get to the back door they had to walk round the house, and in their way they passed the gardener’s. The surgeon had just arrived.

  “Go on, ladies, pray,” said Sir Ulick; “what stops you?”

  “’Tis I stop the way, Sir Ulick,” said Lady O’Shane, “to speak a word to the surgeon. If you find the man in any dangerous way, for pity’s sake don’t let him die at our gardener’s — indeed, the bringing him here at all I think a very strange step and encroachment of Mr. Ormond’s. It will make the whole thing so public — and the people hereabouts are so revengeful — if any thing should happen to him, it will be revenged on our whole family — on Sir Ulick in particular.”

  “No danger — nonsense, my dear.”

  But now this idea had seized Lady O’Shane, it appeared to her a sufficient reason for desiring to remove the man even this night. She asked why he could not be taken to his own home and his own people; she repeated, that it was very strange of Mr. Ormond to take such liberties, as if every thing about Castle Hermitage was quite at his disposal. One of the men who had carried the hand-barrow, and who was now standing at the gardener’s door, observed, that Moriarty’s people lived five miles off. Ormond, who had gone into the house to the wounded man, being told what Lady O’Shane was saying, came out; she repeated her words as he re-appeared. Naturally of sudden violent temper, and being now in the highest state of suspense and irritation, he broke out, forgetful of all proper respect. Miss Black, who was saying something in corroboration of Lady O’Shane’s opinion, he first attacked, pronouncing her to be an unfeeling, canting hypocrite: then, turning to Lady O’Shane, he said that she might send the dying man away, if she pleased; but that if she did, he would go too, and that never while he existed would he enter her ladyship’s doors again.

  Ormond made this threat with the air of a superior to an inferior, totally forgetting his own dependent situation, and the dreadful circumstances in which he now stood.

  “You are drunk, young man! My dear Ormond, you don’t know what you are saying,” interposed Sir Ulick.

  At his voice, and the kindness of his tone, Ormond recollected himself. “Forgive me,” said he, in a very gentle tone. “My head certainly is not — Oh! may you never feel what I have felt this last hour! If this man die — Oh! consider.”

  “He will not die — he will not die, I hope — at any rate, don’t talk so loud within hearing of these people. My dear Lady O’Shane, this foolish boy — this Harry Ormond is, I grant, a sad scapegrace, but you must bear with him for my sake. Let this poor wounded fellow remain here — I won’t have him stirred to-night — we shall see what ought to be done in the morning. Ormond, you forgot yourself strangely towards Lady O’Shane — as to this fellow, don’t make such a rout about the business; I dare say he will do very well: we shall hear what the surgeon says. At first I was horribly frightened — I thought you and Marcus had been quarrelling. Miss Annaly, are not you afraid of staying out? Lady O’Shane, why do you keep Miss Annaly? Let supper go up directly.”

  “Supper! ay, every thing goes on as usual,” said Ormond, “and I—”

  “I must follow them in, and see how things are going on, and prevent gossiping, for your sake, my boy,” resumed Sir Ulick, after a moment’s pause. “You have got into an ugly scrape. I pity you from my soul — I’m rash myself. Send the surgeon to me when he has seen the fellow. Depend upon me, if the worst come to the worst, there’s nothing in the world I would not do to serve you,” said Sir Ulick: “so keep up your spirits, my boy — we’ll contrive to bring you through — at the worst, it will only be manslaughter.”

  Ormond wrung Sir Ulick’s hand — thanked him for his kindness; but repeated, “it will be murder — it will be m
urder — my own conscience tells me so! If he die, give me up to justice.”

  “You’ll think better of it before morning,” said Sir Ulick, as he left Ormond.

  The surgeon gave Ormond little comfort. After extracting the bullet, and examining the wound, he shook his head — he had but a bad opinion of the case; and when Ormond took him aside, and questioned him more closely, he confessed that he thought the man would not live — he should not be surprised if he died before morning. The surgeon was obliged to leave him to attend another patient; and Ormond, turning all the other people out of the room, declared he would sit up with Moriarty himself. A terrible night it was to him. To his alarmed and inexperienced eyes the danger seemed even greater than it really was, and several times he thought his patient expiring, when he was faint from loss of blood. The moments in which Ormond was occupied in assisting him were the least painful. It was when he had nothing left to do, when he had leisure to think, that he was most miserable; then the agony of suspense, and the horror of remorse, were felt, till feeling was exhausted; and he would sit motionless and stupified, till he was wakened again from this suspension of thought and feeling by some moan of the poor man, or some delirious startings. Toward morning the wounded man lay easier; and as Ormond was stooping over his bed to see whether he was asleep, Moriarty opened his eyes, and fixing them on Ormond, said, in broken sentences, but so as very distinctly to be understood, “Don’t be in such trouble about the likes of me — I’ll do very well, you’ll see — and even suppose I wouldn’t — not a friend I have shall ever prosecute — I’ll charge ’em not — so be easy — for you’re a good heart — and the pistol went off unknownst to you — I’m sure there was no malice — let that be your comfort. It might happen to any man, let alone gentleman — don’t take on so. Only think of young Mr. Harry sitting up the night with me! — Oh! if you’d go now and settle yourself yonder on t’other bed, sir — I’d be a grate dale asier, and I don’t doubt but I’d get a taste of sleep myself — while now wid you standing over or forenent me, I can’t close an eye for thinking of you, Mr. Harry.”