Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “Think what you please of me,” said Ormond, rather haughtily; “what I think of myself is the chief point with me.”

  “You will lose this little brusquerie of manner,” said Connal, “when you have mixed more with mankind. Providentially, we are all made dependent on one another’s good opinion. Even I, you see, cannot live without yours.”

  Whether from vanity, from the habit of wishing to charm every body in every house he entered, especially any one who made resistance; or whether he was piqued and amused with Ormond’s frank and natural character, and determined to see how far he could urge him, Connal went on, though our young hero gave him no encouragement to hope that he should win his good opinion.

  “Candidly,” said he, “put yourself in my place for a moment: I was in England, following my own projects; I was not in love with the girl as you — well, pardon — as anybody might have been — but I was at a distance, that makes all the difference: I am sent for over by two fathers, and I am told that in consequence of my good or evil fortune in being born a twin, and of some inconceivable promise between two Irish fathers over a punch-bowl, I am to have the refusal, I should rather say the acceptance, of a very pretty girl with a very pretty fortune. Now, except just at the moment when the overture reached me, it could not have been listened to for a moment by such a man as I am.”

  “Insufferable coxcomb,” said Ormond to himself.

  “But, to answer a question, which I omitted to answer just now to my father-in-law, — what could induce me to come over and think of settling in the Black Islands? I answer — for I am determined to win your confidence by my candour — I answer in one word, un billard — a billiard-table. To tell you all, I confess—”

  “Confess nothing, I beg, Mr. Connal, to me, that you do not wish to be known to Mr. O’Shane: I am his friend — he is my benefactor.”

  “You would not repeat — you are a gentleman, and a man of honour.”

  “I am; and as such I desire, on this occasion, not to hear what I ought neither to repeat nor to keep secret. It is my duty not to leave my benefactor in the dark as to any point.”

  “Oh! come — come,” interrupted Connal, “we had better not take it on this serious tone, lest, if we begin to talk of duty, we should presently conceive it to be our duty to run one another through the body, which would be no pleasure.”

  “No pleasure,” said Ormond; “but if it became a duty, I hope, on all occasions, I should be able to do whatever I thought a duty. Therefore to avoid any misunderstanding, Mr. Connal, let me beg that you will not honour me farther with your confidence. I cannot undertake to be the confidant of any one, of whom I have never professed myself to be the friend.”

  “Ca suffit,” said Connal, lightly. “We understand one another now perfectly’ — you shall in future play the part of prince, and not of confidant. Pardon me, I forgot your highness’s pretensions;” so saying, he gaily turned on his heel, and left the room.

  From this time forward little conversation passed between Mr. Connal and Ormond — little indeed between Ormond and Dora. With Mademoiselle, Ormond had long ceased to be a favourite, and even her loquacity now seldom addressed itself to him. He was in a painful situation; — he spent as much of his time as he could at the farm his friend had given him. As soon as O’Shane found that there was no truth in the report of Black Connal’s intended marriage in England, that he claimed in earnest his promise of his daughter, and that Dora herself inclined to the new love, his kind heart felt for poor Harry.

  Though he did not know all that had passed, yet he saw the awkwardness and difficulty of Ormond’s present situation, and, whatever it might cost him to part with his young friend, with his adopted son, Corny determined not to detain him longer.

  “Harry Ormond, my boy,” said he to him one day, “time for you to see something of the world, also for the world to see something of you; I’ve kept you here for my own pleasure too long: as long as I had any hope of settling you as I wished ’twas a sufficient excuse to myself; but now I have none left — I must part with you: and so, by the blessing, God helping me to conquer my selfishness, and the yearnings of my heart towards you, I will. I mean,” continued he, “to send you far from me — to banish you for your good from the Black Islands entirely. Nay, don’t you interrupt me, nor say a word; for if you do, I shall be too soft to have the heart to do you justice. You know you said yourself, and I felt it for you, that it was best you should leave this. Well, I have been thinking of you ever since, and licking different projects into shape for you — listening too to every thing Connal threw out; but all he says that way is in the air — no substance, when you try to have and to hold — too full of himself, that youngster, to be a friend to another.”

  “There is no reason why he should be my friend, sir,” said Ormond—”I do not pretend to be his; and I rejoice in not being under any obligations to him.”

  “Right! — and high! — just as I feel for you. After all, I approve of your own wish to go into the British service in preference to any foreign service, and you could not be of the Irish brigade — Harry.”

  “Indeed, sir, I infinitely prefer,” said Ormond, “the service of my own country — the service in which my father — I know nothing of my father, but I have always heard him spoken of as a good officer; I hope I shall not disgrace his name. The English service for me, sir, if you please.”

  “Why, then, I’m glad you see things as I do, and are not run away with by uniform, and all that. I have lodged the needful in the bank, to purchase a commission for you, my son. Now! no more go to thank me, if you love me, Harry, than you would your own father. I’ve written to a friend to choose a regiment in which there’d be as little danger as possible for you.”

  “As little danger as possible!” repeated Harry, surprised.

  “Phoo! you don’t think I mean as little danger of fighting. I would not wrong you so. No — but as little danger of gambling. Not that you’re inclined to it, or any thing else that’s bad — but there is no knowing what company might lead the best into; and it is my duty and inclination to look as close to all these things as if for my own son.”

  “My kind father — no father could be kinder,” cried Harry, quite overpowered.

  “So then you go as soon as the commission comes — that’s settled; and I hope I shall be able to bear it, Harry, old as I am. There may perhaps be a delay of a little time longer than you could wish.”

  “Oh! sir, as long as you wish me to stay with you—”

  “Not a minute beyond what’s necessary. I mention the cause of delay, that you may not think I’m dallying for my own sake. You remember General Albemarle, who came here one day last year — election time, canvassing — the general that had lost the arm.”

  “Perfectly, sir, I remember your answer—’I will give my interest to this empty sleeve.’”

  “Thank you — never a word lost upon you. Well, now I have hopes that this man — this general, will take you by the hand; for he has a hand left yet, and a powerful one to serve a friend; and I’ve requested him to keep his eye upon you, and I have asked his advice: so we can’t stir till we get it, and that will be eight days, or ten, say. My boy, you must bear on as you are — we have the comfort of the workshop to ourselves, and some rational recreation; good shooting we will have soon too, for the first time this season.”

  Among the various circumstances which endeared Harry to our singular monarch, his skill and keenness as a sportsman were not inconsiderable: he knew where all the game in the island was to be found; so that, when his good old patron was permitted by the gout to take the field, Harry’s assistance saved him a vast deal of unnecessary toil, and gratified him in his favourite amusement, whilst he, at the same time, sympathized in the sport. Corny, besides being a good shot, was an excellent mechanic: he beguiled the hours, when there was neither hunting nor shooting, in a workshop which was furnished with the best tools. Among the other occupations at the work-bench, he was particular
ly skilful in making and adjusting the locks of guns, and in boring and polishing the inside of their barrels to the utmost perfection: he had contrived and executed a tool for the enlarging the barrel of a gun in any particular part, so as to increase its effect in adding to the force of the discharge, and in preventing the shot from scattering too widely.

  The hope of the success of his contrivance, and the prospect of going out with Harry on the approaching first of September, solaced King Corny, and seemed to keep up his spirits, through all the vexation he felt concerning Connal and this marriage, which evidently was not to his taste. It was to Dora’s, however, and was becoming more evidently so every hour — and soon M. Connal pressed, and Mademoiselle urged, and Dora named — the happy day — and Mademoiselle, in transports, prepared to go to Dublin, with her niece, to choose the wedding-clothes, and, Connal to bespeak the equipages.

  Mademoiselle was quick in her operations when dress was in question: the preparations for the delightful journey were soon made — the morning for their departure came — the carriage and horses were sent over the water early — and O’Shane and Harry afterwards accompanied the party in the boat to the other side of the lake, where the carriage waited with the door open. Connal, after handing in Mademoiselle, turned to look for his destined bride — who was taking leave of her father — Harry Ormond standing by. The moment she quitted her father’s embrace, Father Jos poured with both his hands on her head the benedictions of all the saints. Released from Father Jos, Captain Connal hurried her on: Harry held out his hand to her as she passed. “Good bye, Dora — probably I shall never see you again.”

  “Oh, Harry!” said she, one touch of natural feeling stopping her short—”Oh, Harry! — Why?” Bursting into tears, she drew her hand from Connal, and gave it to Harry: Harry received the hand openly and cordially, shook it heartily, but took no advantage and no notice of the feelings by which he saw her at that moment agitated.

  “Forgive!” she began.

  “Good bye, dear Dora. God bless you — may you be as happy — half as happy, as I wish you to be!”

  “To be sure she will — happy as the day is long,” said Mademoiselle, leaning out of the carriage: “why will you make her cry, Mr. Ormond, spoiling her eyes at parting? Come in to me — Dora, M. de Connal is waiting to hand you, mon enfant.”

  “Is her dressing-box in, and all right?” asked Captain Connal, as he handed Dora into the carriage, who was still weeping.

  “Bad compliment to M. de Connal, mon amie. Vrai scandale!” said Mademoiselle, pulling up the glass, while Dora sunk back in the carriage, sobbing without restraint.

  “Good morning,” said Connal, who had now mounted his Mr. Ormond, “Adieu, Mr. Ormond — command me in any way you please. Drive on!”

  CHAPTER XVI.

  The evening after the departure of the happy trio, who were gone to Dublin to buy wedding-dresses, the party remaining at Castle Corny consisted only of King Corny, Ormond, and Father Jos. When the candles were lighted, his majesty gave a long and loud yawn, Harry set the backgammon table for him, and Father Jos, as usual, settled himself in the chimney corner; “And now Mademoiselle’s gone,” said he, “I shall take leave to indulge myself in my pipe.”

  “You were on the continent this morning, Father Jos,” said Cornelius. “Did ye learn any news for us? Size ace! that secures two points.”

  “News! I did,” said Father Jos.

  “Why not tell it us, then?”

  “I was not asked. You both seemed so wrapped up, I waited my time and opportunity. There’s a new parson come to Castle Hermitage.”

  “What new person?” said King Corny. “Doublets, aces, Harry.”

  “A new parson I’m talking of,” said Father Jos, “that has just got the living there; and they say Sir Ulick’s mad about it, in Dublin, where he is still.”

  “Mad! — Three men up — and you can’t enter, Harry. Well, what is he mad about?”

  “Because of the presentation to the living,” replied the priest, “which government wouldn’t make him a compliment of, as he expected.”

  “He is always expecting compliments from government,” said Corny, “and always getting disappointments. Such throws as you have, Harry — Sixes! again — Well, what luck! — all over with me — It is only a hit at any rate! But what kind of man,” continued he, “is this new clergyman?”

  “Oh! them parsons is all one kind,” said Father Jos.

  “All one kind! No, no more than our own priests,” said Corny. “There’s good and bad, and all the difference in life.”

  “I don’t know any thing at all about it,” said Father Jos, sullenly; “but this I know, that no doubt he’ll soon be over here, or his proctor, looking for the tithes.”

  “I hope we will have no quarrels,” said Corny.

  “They ought to be abolished,” said Father Jos, “the tithes, that is, I mean.”

  “And the quarrels, too, I hope,” said Ormond.

  “Oh! It’s not our fault if there’s quarrels,” said Father Jos.

  “Faults on both sides generally in all quarrels,” said Corny.

  “In lay quarrels, like enough,” said Father Jos. “In church quarrels, it don’t become a good Catholic to say that.”

  “What?” said Corny.

  “That,” said the priest.

  “Which?” said Corny.

  “That which you said, that there’s faults on both sides; sure there’s but one side, and that’s our own side, can be in the right there can’t be two right sides, can there? and consequently I there won’t be two wrong sides, will there? — Ergo, there cannot, by a parity of rasoning, be two sides in the wrong.”

  “Well, Harry, I’ll take the black men now, and gammon you,” said Corny. “Play away, man — what are you thinking of? is it of what Father Jos said? ’tis beyond the limits of the human understanding.”

  Father Jos puffed away at his pipe for some time.

  “I was tired and ashamed of all the wrangling for two-pence with the last man,” said King Corny, “and I believe I was sometimes too hard and too hot myself; but if this man’s a gentleman, I think we shall agree. Did you hear his name, or any thing at all about him, Father?”

  “He is one of them refugee families, the Huguenots, banished France by the adict of Nantz, they say, and his name’s Cambray.”

  “Cambray!” exclaimed Ormond.

  “A very good name,” said O’Shane; “but what do you know of it, Harry?”

  “Only, sir, I happened to meet with a Dr. Cambray the winter I was in Dublin, whom I thought a very agreeable, respectable, amiable man — and I wonder whether this is the same person.”

  “There is something more now, Harry Ormond, I know by your face,” said Corny: “there’s some story of or belonging to Dr. Cambray — what is it?”

  “No story, only a slight circumstance — which, if you please, I’d rather not tell you, sir,” said Ormond.

  “That is something very extraordinary, and looks mysterious,” said Father Jos.

  “Nothing mysterious, I assure you,” said Ormond,—”a mere trifle, which, if it concerned only myself, I would tell directly.”

  “Let him alone, father,” said King Corny; “I am sure he has a good reason — and I’m not curious: only let me whisper this in your ear to show you my own penetration, Harry — I’d lay my life” (said he, stretching over and whispering), “I’d lay my life Miss Annaly has something to do with it.”

  “Miss Annaly! — nothing in the world — only — yes, I recollect she was present.”

  “There now — would not any body think I’m a conjuror? a physiognomist is cousin to (and not twice removed from) a conjuror.”

  “But I assure you, though you happened to guess right partly as to her being present, you are totally mistaken, sir, as to the rest.”

  “My dear Harry, totally means wholly: if I’m right in a part, I can’t be mistaken in the whole. I am glad to make you smile, any way — and I wish I was
right altogether, and that you was as rich as Croesus into the bargain; but stay a bit, if you come home a hero from the wars — that may do — ladies are mighty fond of heroes.”

  It was in vain that Ormond assured his good old imaginative friend that he was upon a wrong scent. Cornelius stopped to humour him; but was convinced that he was right: then turned to the still smoking Father Jos, and went on asking questions about Dr. Cambray.

  “I know nothing at all about him,” said Father Jos, “but this, that Father M’Cormuck has dined with him, if I’m not misinformed, oftener than I think becoming in these times — making too free! And in the chapel last Sunday, I hear he made a very extraordinary address to his flock — there was one took down the words, and handed them to me: after remarking on the great distress of the season — first and foremost about the keeping of fast days the year — he allowed the poor of his flock, which is almost all, to eat meat whenever offered to them, because, said he, many would starve — now mark the obnoxious word—’if it was not for their benevolent Protestant neighbours, who make soup and broth for them.’”

  “What is there obnoxious in that?” said Cornelius.

  “Wait till you hear the end—’and feed and clothe the distressed.’”

  “That is not obnoxious either, I hope,” said Ormond, laughing.

  “Young gentleman, you belong to the establishment, and are no judge in this case, permit me to remark,” said Father Jos; “and I could wish Mr. O’Shane would hear to the end, before he joins in a Protestant laugh.”

  “I’ve heard of a ‘Protestant wind’ before,” said Harry, “but not of a Protestant laugh.”

  “Well, I’m serious, Father Jos,” said Corny; “let me hear to the end what makes your face so long.”

  “‘And, I am sorry to say, show more charity to them than their own people, the rich Catholics, sometimes do.’ If that is not downright slander, I don’t know what is,” said Father Jos.