CHAPTER XXII.

Upon his arrival at Annaly, Ormond found that Dr. Cambray and all his family were there.

"Yes, all your friends," said Lady Annaly, as Ormond looked round with pleasure, "all your friends, Mr. Ormond—you must allow me an old right to be of that number—and here is my son, who is as well inclined, as I hope you feel, to pass over the intermediate formality of new acquaintanceship, and to become intimate with you as soon as possible."

Sir Herbert Annaly confirmed, by the polite cordiality of his manner, all that his mother promised; adding that their mutual friend Dr. Cambray had made him already so fully acquainted with Mr. Ormond, that though he had never had the pleasure of seeing him before, he could not consider him as a stranger.

Florence Annaly was beautiful, but not one of those beauties who strike at first sight. Hers was a face which neither challenged nor sued for admiration. There was no expression thrown into the eyes or the eyebrows, no habitual smile on the lips—the features were all in natural repose; the face never expressed any thing but what the mind really felt. But if any just observation was made in Miss Annaly's company, any stroke of genius, that countenance instantly kindled into light and life: and if any noble sentiment was expressed, if any generous action was related, then the soul within illumined the countenance with a ray divine. When once Ormond had seen this, his eye returned in hopes of seeing it again—he had an indescribable interest and pleasure in studying a countenance, which seemed so true an index to a noble and cultivated mind, to a heart of delicate, but not morbid sensibility. His manners and understanding had been formed and improved, beyond what could have been expected, from the few opportunities of improvement he had till lately enjoyed. He was timid, however, in conversation with those of whose information and abilities he had a high opinion, so that at first he did not do himself justice; but in his timidity there was no awkwardness; it was joined with such firmness of principle, and such a resolute, manly character, that he was peculiarly engaging to women.

During his first visit at Annaly he pleased much, and was so much pleased with every individual of the family, with their manners, their conversation, their affection for each other, and altogether with their mode of living, that he declared to Dr. Cambray he never had been so happy in his whole existence. It was a remarkable fact, however, that he spoke much more of Lady Annaly and Sir Herbert than of Miss Annaly.

He had never before felt so very unwilling to leave any place, or so exceedingly anxious to be invited to repeat his visit. He did receive the wished-for invitation; and it was given in such a manner as left him no doubt that he might indulge his own ardent desire to return, and to cultivate the friendship of this family. His ardour for foreign travel, his desire to see more of the world, greatly abated; and before he reached Castle Hermitage, and by the time he saw his guardian, he had almost forgotten that Sir Ulick had traced for him a course of travels through the British islands and the most polished parts of the Continent.

He now told Sir Ulick that it was so far advanced in the season, that he thought it better to spend the winter in Ireland.

"In Dublin instead of London?" said Sir Ulick, smiling; "very patriotic, and very kind to me, for I am sure I am your first object; and depend upon it few people, ladies always excepted, will ever like your company better than I do."

Then Sir Ulick went rapidly over every subject, and every person, that could lead his ward farther to explain his feelings; but now, as usual, he wasted his address, for the ingenuous young man directly opened his whole heart to him.

"I am impatient to tell you, sir," said he, "how very kindly I was received by Lady Annaly."

"She is very kind," said Sir Ulick: "I suppose, in general, you have found yourself pretty well received wherever you have gone—not to flatter you too much on your mental or personal qualifications, and, no disparagement to Dr. Cambray's letters of introduction or my own, five or six thousand a- year are, I have generally observed, a tolerably good passport into society, a sufficient passe-partout." "Passe-partout!—not partout—not quite sufficient at Annaly, you cannot mean, sir—"

"Oh! I cannot mean any thing, but that Annaly is altogether the eighth wonder of the world," said Sir Ulick, "and all the men and women in it absolutely angels—perfect angels."

"No, sir, if you please, not perfect; for I have heard—though I own I never saw it—that perfection is always stupid: now certainly that the Annalys are not."

"Well, well, they shall be as imperfect as you like—any thing to please you."

"But, sir, you used to be so fond of the Annalys. I remember."

"True, and did I tell you that I had changed my opinion?"

"Your manner, though not your words, tells me so."

"You mistake: the fact is—for I always treat you, Harry, with perfect candour—I was hurt and vexed by their refusal of my son. But, after all," added he, with a deep sigh, "it was Marcus's own fault—he has been very dissipated. Miss Annaly was right, and her mother quite right, I own. Lady Annaly is one of the most respectable women in Ireland—and Miss Annaly is a charming girl—I never saw any girl I should have liked so much for my daughter-in-law. But Marcus and I don't always agree in our tastes—I don't think the refusal there, was half as great a mortification and disappointment to him, as it was to me."

"You delight me, dear sir," cried Ormond; "for then I may feel secure that if ever in future—I don't mean in the least that I have any present thought—it would be absurd—it would be ridiculous—it would be quite improper—you know I was only there ten days; but I mean if, in future, I should ever have any thoughts—any serious thoughts—"

"Well, well," said Sir Ulick, laughing at Ormond's hesitation and embarrassment, "I can suppose that you will have thoughts of some kind or other, and serious thoughts in due course; but, as you justly observe, it would be quite ridiculous at present."

"I beg your pardon, sir," interrupted Harry, "but it would even at present be an inexpressible satisfaction to me to know, that if in future such a thing should occur, I should be secure, in the first place, of your approbation."

"As to that, my dear boy," said Sir Ulick, "you know in a few days you will be at years of discretion—then my control ceases."

"Yes, sir; but not my anxiety for your approbation, and my deference for your opinion."

"Then," said Sir Ulick, "and without circumlocution or nonsense, I tell you at once, Harry Ormond, that Florence Annaly is the woman in the world I should like best to see your wife."

"Thank you, sir, for this explicit answer—I am sure towards me nothing can have been more candid and kind than your whole conduct has ever been."

"That's true, Harry," exclaimed Sir Ulick. "Tell me about this duel—you have fought a duel in defence of my conduct and character, I understand, since I saw you. But, my dear fellow, though I am excessively obliged to you, I am exceedingly angry with you: how could you possibly be so hot-heated and silly as to take up any man for relishing the Ulysseana? Bless ye! I relish it myself—I only laugh at such things: believe me, 'tis The best way."

"I am sure of it, sir, if one can; and, indeed, I have had pretty good proof that one should despise reports and scandal of all kinds—easier for oneself sometimes than for one's friends."

"Yes, my dear Ormond, by the time you have been half as long living in the great and the political world as I have been, you will be quite case-hardened, and will hear your friends abused, without feeling it in the least. Believe me, I once was troubled with a great deal of susceptibility like yours—but after all, 'tis no bad thing for you to have fought a duel —a feather in your cap with the ladies, and a warning to all impertinent fellows to let you alone—but you were wounded, the newspaper said—I asked you where, three times in my letters—you never condescended to answer me— answer me now, I insist upon it."

"In my arm, sir—a slight scratch."

"Slight scratch or not, I must hear all about it—come, tell me exactly how the thing began and ended—tell me all the rascals said of me.—You won't? —then I'll tell you: they said, 'I am the greatest jobber in Ireland—that I do not mind how I throw away the public money—in short, that I am a sad political profligate.'—Well! well! I am sure, after all, they did me the justice to acknowledge, that in private life no man's honour is more to be depended on."

"They did do you that justice, sir," said Ormond; "but pray ask me no farther questions—for, frankly, it is disagreeable to me—and I will tell you no more."

"That's frank," said Sir Ulick, "and I as frankly assure you I am perfectly satisfied."

"Then, to return to the Annalys," said Ormond, "I never saw Sir Herbert till now—I like him—I like his principles—his love of his country—and his attachment to his family."

"He's a very fine fellow—no better fellow than Herbert Annaly. But as for his attachment to his family, who thanks him for that? Who could help it, with such a family? And his love for his country—every body loves his country."

"More or less, I suppose," said Ormond.

"But, upon my word, I entirely agree with you about Sir Herbert, though I know he is prejudiced against me to the last degree"

"If he be, I don't know it, sir—I never found it out."

"He will let it out by and by—I only hope he will not prejudice you against me."

"That is not very easily done, sir."

"As you have given some proof, my dear boy, and I thank you for it. But the Annalys would go more cautiously to work—I only put you on your guard— Marcus and Sir Herbert never could hit it off together; and I am afraid the breach between us and the Annalys must he widened, for Marcus must stand against Sir Herbert at the next election, if he live—Pray how is he?"

"Not strong, sir—he has a hectic colour—as I was very sorry to see."

"Ay, poor fellow—he broke some blood-vessel, I think Marcus told me, when they were in England."

"Yes, sir—so Lady Annaly told me—it was in over-exerting himself to extinguish a fire."

"A very fine spirited fellow he is, no doubt," said Sir Ulick; "but, after all, that was rather a foolish thing, in his state of health. By-the-by, as your guardian, it is my duty to explain the circumstances of this family— in case you should hereafter have any serious thoughts; as you say, you should know what comforted Marcus in his disappointment there. There is, then, some confounded flaw in that old father's will, through which the great Herbert estate slips to an heir-at-law, who has started up within this twelvemonth. Miss Annaly, who was to have been a nonpareil of an heiress in case of the brother's death, will have but a moderate fortune; and the poor dowager will be but scantily provided for, after all the magnificence which she has been used to, unless he lives to make up something handsome for them. I don't know the particulars, but I know that a vast deal depends on his living till he has levied certain fines, which he ought to have levied, instead of amusing himself putting out other people's fires. But I am excessively anxious about it, and now on your account as well as theirs; for it would make a great difference to you, if you seriously have any thoughts of Miss Annaly."

Ormond declared this could make no difference to him, since his own fortune would be sufficient for all the wishes of such a woman as he supposed Miss Annaly to be. The next day Marcus O'Shane arrived from England. This was the first time that Ormond and he had met since the affair of Moriarty, and the banishment from Castle Hermitage. The meeting was awkward enough, notwithstanding Sir Ulick's attempts to make it otherwise: Marcus laboured under the double consciousness of having deserted Harry in past adversity, and of being jealous of his present prosperity. Ormond at first went forward to meet him more than half way with great cordiality, but the cold politeness of Marcus chilled him; and the heartless congratulations, and frequent allusions in the course of the first hour, to Ormond's new fortune and consequence, offended our young hero's pride. He grew more reserved, the more complimentary Marcus became, especially as in all his compliments there was a mixture of persiflage, which Marcus supposed, erroneously, that Ormond's untutored, unpractised ear would not perceive.

Harry sat silent, proudly indignant. He valued himself on being something, and somebody, independently of his fortune—he had worked hard to become so—he had the consciousness about him of tried integrity, resolution, and virtue; and was it to be implied that he was somebody, only in consequence of his having chanced to become heir to so many thousands a year? Sir Ulick, whose address was equal to most occasions, was not able to manage so as to make these young men like one another. Marcus had an old jealousy of Harry's favour with his father, of his father's affection for Harry: and at the present moment, he was conscious that his father was with just cause much displeased with him. Of this Harry knew nothing, but Marcus suspected that his father had told Ormond every thing, and this increased the awkwardness and ill-humour that Marcus felt; and notwithstanding all his knowledge of the world, and conventional politeness, he showed his vexation in no very well-bred manner. He was now in particularly bad humour, in consequence of a scrape, as he called it, which he had got into, during his last winter in London, respecting an intrigue with a married lady of rank. Marcus, by some intemperate expressions, had brought on the discovery, of which, when it was too late, he repented. A public trial was likely to be the consequence—the damages would doubtless be laid at the least at ten thousand pounds. Marcus, however, counting, as sons sometimes do in calculating their father's fortune, all the credit, and knowing nothing of the debtor side of the account, conceived his father's wealth to be inexhaustible. Lady O'Shane's large fortune had cleared off all debts, and had set Sir Ulick up in a bank, which was in high credit; then he had shares in a canal and in a silver mine—he held two lucrative sinecure places—and had bought estates in three counties: but the son did not know, that for the borrowed purchase-money of two of the estates Sir Ulick was now paying high and accumulating interest; so that the prospect of being called upon for ten thousand pounds was most alarming. In this exigency Sir Ulick, who had long foreseen how the affair was likely to terminate, had his eye upon his ward's ready money. It was for this he had been at such peculiar pains to ingratiate himself with Ormond. Affection, nevertheless, made him hesitate; he was unwilling to injure or to hazard his property—very unwilling to prey upon his generosity—still more so after the late handsome manner in which Ormond had hazarded his life in defence of his guardian's honour.

Sir Ulick, who perceived the first evening that Marcus and Ormond met, that the former was not going the way to assist these views, pointed out to him how much it was for his interest to conciliate Ormond, and to establish himself in his good opinion; but Marcus, though he saw and acknowledged this, could not submit his pride and temper to the necessary restraint. For a few hours he would display his hereditary talents, and all his acquired graces; but the next hour his ill-humour would break out towards his inferiors, his father's tenants and dependents, in a way which Ormond's generous spirit could not bear. Before he went to England, even from his boyish days, his manners had been habitually haughty and tyrannical to the lower class of people. Ormond and he had always differed and often quarrelled on this subject. Ormond hoped to find his manners altered in this respect by his residence in a more polished country. But the external polish he had acquired had not reached the mind: high-bred society had taught him only to be polite to his equals; he was now still more disposed to be insolent to his inferiors, especially to his Irish inferiors. He affected to consider himself as more than half an Englishman; and returning from London in all the distress and disgrace to which he had reduced himself by criminal indulgence in the vices of fashionable, and what he called refined, society, he vented his ill-humour on the poor Irish peasants—the natives, as he termed them in derision. He spoke to them as if they were slaves—he considered them as savages. Marcus had, early in life, almost before he knew the real distinctions, or more than the names of the different parties in Ireland, been a strong party man. He called himself a government man; but he was one of those partisans, whom every wise and good administration in Ireland has discountenanced and disclaimed. He was, in short, one of those who make their politics an excuse to their conscience for the indulgence of a violent temper.

Ormond was indignant at the inveterate prejudice that Marcus showed against a poor man, whom he had injured, but who had never injured him. The moment Marcus saw Moriarty Carroll again, and heard his name mentioned, he exclaimed and reiterated, "That's a bad fellow—I know him of old—all those Carrolls are rascals and rebels."

Marcus looked with a sort of disdainful spleen at the house which Ormond had fitted up for Moriarty.

"So, you stick to this fellow still!—What a dupe, Ormond, this Moriarty has made of you!" said Marcus; "but that's not my affair. I only wonder how you wheedled my father out of the ground for the garden here."

"There was no wheedling in the case," said Ormond: "your father gave it freely, or I should not have accepted it."

"You were very good to accept it, no doubt," said Marcus, in an ironical tone: "I know I have asked my father for a garden to a cottage before now, and have been refused."

Sir Ulick came up just as this was said, and, alarmed at the tone of voice, used all his address to bring his son back to good temper; and he might have succeeded, but that Peggy Carroll chanced to appear at that instant.

"Who is that?" cried Marcus—"Peggy Sheridan, as I live! is it not?"

"No, please your honour, but Peggy Sheridan that was—Peggy Carroll that is," said Peggy, curtsying, with a slight blush, and an arch smile.

"So, you have married that Moriarty at last."

"I have, please your honour—he is a very honest boy—and I'm very happy— if your honour's pleased."

"Who persuaded your father to this, pray, contrary to my advice?"

"Nobody at all, plase your honour," said Peggy, looking frightened.

"Why do you say that, Peggy," said Ormond, "when you know it was I who persuaded your father to give his consent to your marriage with Moriarty?"

"You! Mr. Ormond!—Oh, I comprehend it all now," said Marcus, with his sneering look and tone: "no doubt you had good reasons."

Poor Peggy blushed the deepest crimson.

"I understand it all now," said Marcus—"I understand you now, Harry."

Ormond's anger rose, and with a look of high disdain, he replied, "You understand me, now! No, nor ever will, nor ever can. Our minds are unintelligible to each other."

Then turning from him, Ormond walked away with indignant speed.

"Peggy, don't I see something like a cow yonder, getting her bread at my expense?" said Sir Ulick, directing Peggy's eye to a gap in the hedge by the road-side. "Whose cow is that at the top of the ditch, half through my hedge?"

"I can't say, please your honour," said Peggy, "if it wouldn't be Paddy M'Grath's—Betty M'Gregor!" cried she, calling to a bare-footed girl, "whose cow is yonder?"

"Oh, marcy! but if it isn't our own red rogue—and when I tied her legs three times myself, the day!" said the girl, running to drive away the cow.

"Oh! she strays and trespasses strangely, the red cow, for want of the little spot your honour promised her," said Peggy.

"Well, run and save my hedge from her now, my pretty Peggy, and I will find the little spot for her to-morrow," said Sir Ulick.

Away ran Peggy after the cow—while lowering Marcus cursed them all three. Pretty Peg he swore ought to be banished the estate—the cow ought to be hamstrung instead of having a spot promised her; "but this is the way, sir, you ruin the country and the people," said he to his father.

"Be that as it may, I do not ruin myself as you do, Marcus," replied the cool Sir Ulick. "Never mind the cow—nonsense! I am not thinking of a cow."

"Nor I neither, sir."

"Then follow Harry Ormond directly, and make him understand that he misunderstood you," said Sir Ulick.

"Excuse me, sir—I cannot bend to him," said Marcus.

"And you expect that he will lend you ten thousand pounds at your utmost need?"

"The money, with your estate, can be easily raised elsewhere, sir," said Marcus.

"I tell you it cannot, sir," said the father.

"I cannot bend to Ormond, sir: to any body but him—any thing but that—my pride cannot stoop to that."

"Your pride!—'pride that licks the dust,'" thought Sir Ulick. It was in vain for the politic father to remonstrate with the headstrong son. The whole train which Sir Ulick had laid with so much skill, was, he feared, at the moment when his own delicate hand was just preparing to give the effective touch, blown up by the rude impatience of his son. Sir Ulick, however, never lost time or opportunity in vain regret for the past. Even in the moment of disappointment, he looked to the future. He saw the danger of keeping two young men together, who had such incompatible tempers and characters. He was, therefore, glad when he met Ormond again, to hear him propose his returning to Annaly, and he instantly acceded to the proposal.

"Castle Hermitage, I know, my dear boy, cannot be as pleasant to you just now, as I could wish to make it: we have nobody here now, and Marcus is not all I could wish him," said Sir Ulick, with a sigh. "He had always a jealousy of my affection for you, Harry—it cannot be helped—we do not choose our own children—but we must abide by them—you must perceive that things are not going on quite rightly between my son and me."

"I am sorry for it, sir; especially as I am convinced I can do no good, and therefore wish not to interfere."

"I believe you are right—though I part from you with regret."

"I shall be within your reach, sir, you know: whenever you wish for me, if ever I can be of the least use to you, summon me, and I am at your orders."

"Thank you! but stay one moment," said Sir Ulick, with a sudden look of recollection: "you will be of age in a few days, Harry—we ought to settle accounts, should not we?"

"Whenever you please, sir—no hurry on my part—but you have advanced me a great deal of money lately—I ought to settle that."

"Oh, as to that—a mere trifle. If you are in no hurry, I am in none; for I shall have business enough on my hands during these few days, before Lady Norton fills the house again with company—I am certainly a little hurried now."

"Then, sir, do not think of my business—I cannot be better off, you know, than I am—I assure you I am sensible of that. Never mind the accounts— only send for me whenever I can be of any use or pleasure to you. I need not make speeches: I trust, my dear guardian—my father, when I was left fatherless—I trust you believe I have some gratitude in me."

"I do," cried Sir Ulick, much moved; "and, by Heaven, it is impossible to— I mean—in short, it is impossible not to love you, Harry Ormond."

* * * * *



CHAPTER XXIII.

There are people who can go on very smoothly with those whose principles and characters they despise and dislike. There are people who, provided they live in company, are happy, and care but little of what the company is composed. But our young hero certainly was not one of these contented people. He was perhaps too much in the other extreme. He could not, without overt words or looks of indignation, endure the presence of those whose characters or principles he despised—he could not, even without manifest symptoms of restlessness or ennui, submit long to live with mere companions; he required to have friends; nor could he make a friend from ordinary materials, however smooth the grain, or however fine the polish they might take. Even when the gay world at Castle Hermitage was new to him—amused and enchanted as he was at first with that brilliant society, he could not have been content or happy without his friends at Vicar's Dale, to whom, once at least in the four-and-twenty hours, he found it necessary to open his heart. We may then judge how happy he now felt in returning to Annaly: after the sort of moral constraint which he had endured in the company of Marcus O'Shane, we may guess what an expansion of heart took place.

The family union and domestic happiness which he saw at Annaly, certainly struck him at this time more forcibly, from the contrast with what he had just seen at Castle Hermitage. The effect of contrast, however, is but transient. It is powerful as a dramatic resource, but in real life it is of no permanent consequence. There was here a charm which operates with as great certainty, and with a power secure of increasing instead of diminishing from habit—the charm of domestic politeness, in the every day manners of this mother, son, and daughter, towards each other, as well as towards their guests. Ormond saw and felt it irresistibly. He saw the most delicate attentions combined with entire sincerity, perfect ease, and constant respect; the result of the early habits of good-breeding acting upon the feelings of genuine affection. The external polish, which Ormond now admired, was very different from that varnish which often is hastily applied to hide imperfections. This polish was of the substance itself, to be obtained only by long use; but, once acquired, lasting for ever: not only beautiful, but serviceable, preserving from the injuries of time and from the dangers of familiarity.

What influence the sister's charms might have to increase Ormond's admiration of the brother, we shall not presume to determine; but certainly he liked Sir Herbert Annaly better than any young man he had ever seen. Sir Herbert was some years older than Ormond; he was in his twenty-seventh year: but at this age he had done more good in life than many men accomplish during their whole existence. Sir Herbert's principal estates were in another part of Ireland. Dr. Cambray had visited them. The account he gave Ormond of what had been done there, to improve the people and to make them happy; of the prosperous state of the peasantry; their industry and independence; their grateful, not servile, attachment to Sir Herbert Annaly and his mother; the veneration in which the name of Annaly was held; all delighted the enthusiastic Ormond.

The name of Annaly was growing wonderfully dear to him; and, all of a sudden, the interest he felt in the details of a country gentleman's life was amazingly increased. At times, when the ladies were engaged, he accompanied Sir Herbert in visiting his estate. Sir Herbert had never till lately resided at Annaly, which had, within but a short time, reverted to his possession, in consequence of the death of the person to whom it had been let. He found much that wanted improvement in the land, and more in the people.

This estate stretched along the sea-shore: the tenants whom he found living near the coast were an idle, profligate, desperate set of people; who, during the time of the late middle landlord, had been in the habit of making their rents by nefarious practices. The best of the set were merely idle fishermen, whose habits of trusting to their luck incapacitated them from industry: the others were illicit distillers— smugglers—and miscreants who lived by waifs and strays; in fact, by the pillage of vessels on the coast. The coast was dangerous—there happened frequent shipwrecks; owing partly, as was supposed, to the false lights hung out by these people, whose interest it was that vessels should be wrecked. Shocked at these practices, Sir Herbert Annaly had, from the moment he came into possession of the estate, exerted himself to put a stop to them, and to punish, where he could not reform the offenders. The people at first pleaded a sort of tenant's right, which they thought a landlord could scarcely resist. They protested that they could not make the rent, if they were not allowed to make it in their own way; and showed, beyond a doubt, that Sir Herbert could not get half as much rent for his land in those parts, if he looked too scrupulously into the means by which it was made. They brought, in corroboration of their arguments or assertions, the example and constant practice of "many as good a jantleman as any in Ireland, who had his rent made up for him that ways, very ready and punctual. There was his honour, Mr. Such-a-one, and so on; and there was Sir Ulick O'Shane, sure! Oh! he was the man to live under—he was the man that knew when to wink and when to blink; and if he shut his eyes properly, sure his tenants filled his fist. Oh! Sir Ulick was the great man for favour and purtection, none like him at all!—He is the good landlord, that will fight the way clear for his own tenants through thick and thin—none dare touch them. Oh! Sir Ulick's the kind jantleman that understands the law for the poor, and could bring them off at every turn, and show them the way through the holes in an act of parliament, asy as through a riddle!

"Oh, and if he could but afford to be half as good as his promises, Sir Ulick O'Shane would be too good entirely!"

Now Sir Ulick O'Shane had purchased a tract of ground adjoining to Sir Herbert's, on this coast; and he had bought it on the speculation that he could let it at a very high rent to these people, of whose ways and means of paying it he chose to remain in ignorance. All the tenants whom Sir Herbert banished from his estate flocked to Sir Ulick's.

By the sacrifice of his own immediate interest, and by great personal exertion, strict justice, and a generous and well secured system of reward, Sir Herbert already had produced a considerable change for the better in the morals and habits of the people. He was employing some of his tenants on the coast, in building a lighthouse, for which he had a grant from parliament; and he was endeavouring to establish a manufacture of sail-cloth, for which there was sufficient demand. But almost at every step of his progress, he was impeded by the effects of the bad example of his neighbours on Sir Ulick's estate; and by the continual quarrels between the idle, discarded tenants, and their industrious and now prosperous successors.

Whenever a vessel in distress was seen off the coast, there was a constant struggle between the two parties who had opposite interests; the one to save, the other to destroy. In this state of things, causes of complaint perpetually occurred; and Ormond who was present, when the accusers and the accused appealed to their landlord, sometimes as lord of the manor, sometimes as magistrate, had frequent opportunities of seeing both Sir Herbert's principles and temper put to the test. He liked to compare the different modes in which King Corny, his guardian, and Sir Herbert Annaly managed these things. Sir Herbert governed neither by threats, punishments, abuse, nor tyranny; nor yet did he govern by promises nor bribery, favour and protection, like Sir Ulick. He neither cajoled nor bullied—neither held it as a principle, as Marcus did, that the people must be kept down, or that the people must be deceived. He treated them neither as slaves, subject to his will; nor as dupes, or objects on which to exercise his wit or his cunning. He treated them as reasonable beings, and as his fellow- creatures, whom he wished to improve, that he might make them and himself happy. He spoke sense to them; and he mixed that sense with wit and humour, in the proportion necessary to make it palatable to an Irishman.

In generosity there was a resemblance between the temper of Sir Herbert and of Corny; but to Ormond's surprise, and at first to his disappointment, Sir Herbert valued justice more than generosity. Ormond's heart on this point was often with King Corny, when his head was forced to be with Sir Herbert; but, by degrees, head and heart came together. He became practically convinced that justice is the virtue that works best for a constancy, and best serves every body's interest in time and in turn. Ormond now often said to himself, "Sir Herbert Annaly is but a few years older than I am; by the time I am of his age, why should not I become as useful, and make as many human beings happy as he does?" In the meantime, the idea of marrying and settling in Ireland became every day more agreeable to Ormond; and France and Italy, which he had been so eager to visit, faded from his imagination. Sir Herbert and Lady Annaly, who had understood from Dr. Cambray that Ormond was going to commence his grand tour immediately, and who heard him make a number of preparatory inquiries when he had been first at Annaly, naturally turned the conversation often to the subject. They had looked out maps and prints, and they had taken down from their shelves the different books of travels, which might be most useful to him, with guides, and post-road books, and all that could speed the parting guest. But the guest had no mind to part—every thing, every body at Annaly, he found so agreeable and so excellent.

It must be a great satisfaction to a young man who has a grain of sense, and who feels that he is falling inevitably and desperately in love, to see that all the lady's family, as well as the object of his passion, are exactly the people whom he should wish of all others to make his friends for life. Here was every thing that could be desired, suitability of age, of fortune, of character, of temper, of tastes—every thing that could make a marriage happy, could Ormond but win the heart of Florence Annaly. Was that heart disengaged?—He resolved to inquire first from his dear friend, Dr. Cambray, who was much in the confidence of this family, a great favourite with Florence, and consequently dearer than ever to Ormond. He went directly to Vicar's Dale to see and consult him, and Ormond thought he was confiding a profound secret to the doctor, when first he spoke to him of his passion for Miss Annaly; but to his surprise, the doctor told him he had seen it long ago, and his wife and daughters had all discovered it, even when they were first with him at Annaly.

"Is it possible?—and what do you all think?"

"We think that you would be a perfectly happy man, if you could win Miss Annaly; and we wish you success most sincerely. But—"

"But—Oh, my dear doctor, you alarm me beyond measure."

"What! by wishing you success?"

"No, but by something in your look and manner, and by that terrible but: you think that I shall never succeed—you think that her heart is engaged. If that be the case, tell me so at once, and I will set off for France to-morrow."

"My good sir, you are always for desperate measures—you are in too great a hurry to come to a conclusion, before you have the means of forming a just conclusion. Remember, I tell you, this precipitate temper will some time or other bring some great evil upon you."

"I will be patient all my life afterwards, if you will only this instant tell me whether she is engaged."

"I do not know whether Miss Annaly's heart be disengaged or not—I can tell you only that she has had a number of brilliant offers, and that she has refused them all."

"That proves that she had not found one amongst them that She liked," said Ormond.

"Or that she liked some one better than all those whom she refused," said Dr. Cambray.

"That is true—that is possible—that is a dreadful possibility," said Ormond. "But do you think there is any probability of that?"

"There is, I am sorry to tell you, my dear Ormond, a probability against you—but I can only state the facts in general. I can form no opinion, for I have had no opportunity of judging—I have never seen the two young people together. But there is a gentleman of great merit, of suitable family and fortune, who is deeply in love with Miss Annaly, and who I presume has not been refused, for I understand he is soon to be here."

"To be here!" cried Ormond: "a man of great merit!—I hope he is not an agreeable man."

"That's a vain hope," said Dr. Cambray; "he is a very agreeable man."

"Very agreeable!—What sort of person—grave or gay?—Like any body that I ever saw?"

"Yes, like a person that you have seen, and a person for whom I believe you have a regard—like his own father, your dear King Corny's friend, General Albemarle."

"How extraordinary!—how unlucky!" said Ormond. "I would rather my rival were any one else than the son of a man I am obliged to; and a most dangerous rival he must be, if he have his father's merit, and his father's manners. Oh! my dear Dr. Cambray, I am sure she likes him—and yet she could not be so cheerful in his absence, if she were much in love—I defy her; and it is impossible that he can be as much in love with her as I am, else nothing could keep him from her."

"Nothing but his duty, I suppose you mean?"

"Duty!—What duty?"

"Why, there really are duties in this world to be performed, though a man in love is apt to forget it. Colonel Albemarle, being an officer, cannot quit his regiment till he has obtained leave of absence."

"I am heartily glad of it," cried Ormond—"I will make the best use of my time before he comes. But, my dear doctor, do you think Lady Annaly—do you think Sir Herbert wish it to be?"

"I really cannot tell:—I know only that he is a particular friend of Sir Herbert, and that I have heard Lady Annaly speak of him as being a young man of excellent character and high honour, for whom she has a great regard."

Ormond sighed.

"Heaven forgive me that sigh!" said he: "I thought I never should be brought so low as to sigh at bearing of any man's excellent character and high honour: but I certainly wish Colonel Albemarle had never been born. Heaven preserve me from envy and jealousy!"

Our young hero had need to repeat this prayer the next morning at breakfast, when Sir Herbert, on opening his letters, exclaimed, "My friend, Colonel Albemarle—"

And Lady Annaly, in a tone of joy, "Colonel Albemarle!—I hope he will soon be here."

Sir Herbert proceeded: "Cannot obtain leave of absence yet—but lives in hopes," said Sir Herbert, reading the letter, and handing it to his mother.

Ormond did not dare, did not think it honourable, to make use of his eyes, though there now might have been a decisive moment for observation. No sound reached his ear from Miss Annaly's voice; but Lady Annaly spoke freely and decidedly in praise of Colonel Albemarle. As she read the letter, Sir Herbert, after asking Ormond three times whether he was not acquainted with General Albemarle, obtained for answer, that he "really did not know." In truth, Ormond did not know any thing at that moment. Sir Herbert, surprised, and imagining that Ormond had not yet heard him, was going to repeat his question—but a look from his mother stopped him. A sudden light struck Lady Annaly. Mothers are remarkably quick-sighted upon these occasions. There was a silence of a few minutes, which appeared to poor Ormond to be a silence that would never be broken; it was broken by some slight observation which the brother and sister made to each other upon a paragraph in the newspaper, which they were reading together. Ormond took breath.

"She cannot love him, or she could not be thinking of a paragraph in the newspaper at this moment."

From this time forward Ormond was in a continual state of agitation, reasoning, as the passions reason, as ill as possible, upon even the slightest circumstances that occurred, from whence he might draw favourable or unfavourable omens. He was resolved—and that was prudent—not to speak of his own sentiments, till he was clear how matters stood about Colonel Albemarle: he was determined not to expose himself to the useless mortification of a refusal. While in this agony of uncertainty, he went out one morning to take a solitary walk, that he might reflect at leisure. Just as he was turning from the avenue to the path that led to the wood, a car full of morning visitors appeared. Ormond endeavoured to avoid them, but not before he had been seen. A servant rode after him to beg to know "if he were Mr. Harry Ormond—if he were, one of the ladies on the car, Mrs. M'Crule, sent her compliments to him, and requested he would be so good as to let her speak with him at the house, as she had a few words of consequence to say."

"Mrs. M'Crule!" Ormond did not immediately recollect that he had the honour of knowing any such person, till the servant said, "Miss Black, sir, that was—formerly at Castle Hermitage."

His old enemy, Miss Black, he recollected well. He obeyed the lady's summons, and returned to the house.

Mrs. M'Crule had not altered in disposition, though her objects had been changed by marriage. Having no longer Lady O'Shane's quarrels with her husband to talk about, she had become the pest of the village of Castle Hermitage and of the neighbourhood—the Lady Bluemantle of the parish. Had Miss Black remained in England, married or single, she would only have been one of a numerous species too well known to need any description; but transplanted to a new soil and a new situation, she proved to be a variety of the old species, with peculiarly noxious qualities, which it may be useful to describe, as a warning to the unwary. It is unknown how much mischief the Lady Bluemantle class may do in Ireland, where parties in religion and politics run high; and where it often happens, that individuals of the different sects and parties actually hate without knowing each other, watch without mixing with one another, and consequently are prone reciprocally to believe any stories or reports, however false or absurd, which tend to gratify their antipathies. In this situation it is scarcely possible to get the exact truth as to the words, actions, and intentions, of the nearest neighbours, who happen to be of opposite parties or persuasions. What a fine field is here for a mischief-maker! Mrs. M'Crule had in her parish done her part; she had gone from rich to poor, from poor to rich, from catholic to protestant, from churchman to dissenter, and from dissenter to methodist, reporting every idle story, and repeating every ill-natured thing that she heard said—things often more bitterly expressed than thought, and always exaggerated or distorted in the repetition. No two people in the parish could have continued on speaking terms at the end of the year, but that, happily, there were in this parish both a good clergyman and a good priest; and still more happily, they both agreed in labouring for the good of their parishioners. Dr. Cambray and Mr. M'Cormuck made it their business continually to follow after Mrs. M'Crule, healing the wounds which she inflicted, and pouring into the festering heart the balm of Christian charity: they were beloved and revered by their parishioners; Mrs. M'Crule was soon detected, and universally avoided. Enraged, she attacked, by turns, both the clergyman and the priest; and when she could not separate them, she found out that it was very wrong that they should agree. She discovered that she was a much better protestant, and a much better Christian, than Dr. Cambray, because she hated her catholic neighbours.

Dr. Cambray had taken pains to secure the co-operation of the catholic clergyman, in all his attempts to improve the lower classes of the people. His village school was open to catholics as well as protestants; and Father M'Cormuck, having been assured that their religion would not be tampered with, allowed and encouraged his flock to send their children to the same seminary.

Mrs. M'Crule was, or affected to be, much alarmed and scandalized at seeing catholic and protestant children mixing so much together; she knew that opinions were divided among some families in the neighbourhood upon the propriety of this mixture, and Mrs. M'Crule thought it a fine opportunity of making herself of consequence, by stirring up the matter into a party question. This bright idea had occurred to her just about the time that Ormond brought over little Tommy from the Black Islands. During Ormond's absence upon his tour, Sheelah and Moriarty had regularly sent the boy to the village school; exhorting him to mind his book and his figures, that he might surprise Mr. Ormond with his larning when he should come back. Tommy, with this excitation, and being a quick, clever little fellow, soon got to the head of his class, and kept there; and won all the school-prizes, and carried them home in triumph to his grandame, and to his dear Moriarty, to be treasured up, that he might show them to Mr. Ormond at his return home. Dr. Cambray was pleased with the boy, and so was every body, except Mrs. M'Crule. She often visited the school for the pleasure of finding fault; and she wondered to see this little Tommy, who was a catholic, carrying away the prizes from all the others. She thought it her duty to inquire farther about him; and as soon as she discovered that he came from the Black Islands, that he lived with Moriarty, and that Mr. Ormond was interested about him, she said she knew there was something wrong—therefore, she set her face against the child, and against the shameful partiality that some people showed.

Dr. Cambray pursued his course without attending to her; and little Tommy pursued his course, improving rapidly in his larning.

Now there was in that county an excellent charitable institution for the education of children from seven to twelve years old; an apprentice fee was given with the children when they left the school, and they had several other advantages, which made parents of the lower classes extremely desirous to get their sons into this establishment.

Before they could be admitted, it was necessary that they should have a certificate from their parish minister and catholic clergyman, stating that they could read and write, and that they were well-behaved children. On a certain day, every year, a number of candidates were presented. The certificates from the clergyman and priest of their respective parishes were much attended to by the lady patronesses, and by these the choice of the candidate to be admitted was usually decided. Little Tommy had an excellent certificate both from Father M'Cormuck and from Dr. Cambray. Sheelah and Moriarty were in great joy, and had "all the hopes in life" for him; and Sheelah, who was very fond of surprises, had cautioned Moriarty, and begged the doctor not to tell Mr. Harry a word about it, till all was fixed, "for if the boy should not have the luck to be chose at last, it would only be breaking his little heart the worse, that Mr. Harry should know any thing at all about it, sure."

Meantime, Mrs. M'Crule was working against little Tommy with all her might.

Some of the lady patronesses were of opinion, that it would be expedient in future, to confine their bounty to the children of protestants only.

Mrs. M'Crule, who had been deputed by one of the absent ladies to act for her, was amazingly busy, visiting all the patronesses, and talking, and fearing, and "hoping to heaven!" and prophesying, canvassing, and collecting opinions and votes, as for a matter of life and death. She hinted that she knew that the greatest interest was making to get in this year a catholic child, and there was no knowing, if this went on, what the consequence might be. In short Ireland would be ruined, if little Tommy should prove the successful candidate. Mrs. M'Crule did not find it difficult to stir up the prejudices and passions of several ladies, whose education and whose means of information might have secured them from such contemptible influence.

Her present business at Annaly was to try what impression she could make on Lady and Miss Annaly, who were both patronesses of the school. As to Ormond, whom she never had liked, she was glad of this opportunity of revenging herself upon his little protege; and of making Mr. Ormond sensible, that she was now a person of rather more consequence than she had been, when he used formerly to defy her at Castle Hermitage. She little thought that, while she was thus pursuing the dictates of her own hate, she might serve the interests of Ormond's love.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XXIV.

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 protege 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 leas 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 consomme, 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 protege."

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.



CHAPTER XXV.

One evening Ormond walked with Sir Herbert Annaly to the sea-shore, to look at the lighthouse which was building. He was struck with all that had been done here in the course of a few months, and especially with the alteration in the appearance of the people. Their countenances had changed from the look of desponding idleness and cunning, to the air of busy, hopeful independence. He could not help congratulating Sir Herbert, and warmly expressing a wish that he might himself, in the whole course of his life, do half as much good as Sir Herbert had already effected. "You will do a great deal more," said Sir Herbert: "you will have a great deal more time. I must make the best of the little—probably the very little time I shall have: while I yet live, let me not live in vain."

"Yet live," said Ormond; "I hope—I trust—you will live many years to be happy, and to make others so: your strength seems quite re-established—you have all the appearance of health."

Sir Herbert smiled, but shook his head.

"My dear Ormond, do not trust to outward appearances too much. Do not let my friends entirely deceive themselves. I know that my life cannot be long—I wish, before I die, to do as much good as I can."

The manner in which these words were said, and the look with which they were accompanied, impressed Ormond at once with a conviction of the danger, fortitude, and magnanimity of the person who spoke to him. The hectic colour, the brilliant eye, the vividness of fancy, the superiority of intellectual powers, the warmth of the affections, and the amiable gentleness of the disposition of this young man, were, alas! but so many fatal indications of his disease. The energy with which, with decreasing bodily and increasing mental strength, he pursued his daily occupations, and performed more than every duty of his station, the never-failing temper and spirits with which he sustained the hopes of many of his friends, were but so many additional causes of alarm to the too experienced mother. Florence, with less experience, and with a temper happily prone to hope, was more easily deceived. She could not believe that a being, whom she saw so full of life, could be immediately in danger of dying. Her brother had now but a very slight cough—he had, to all appearance, recovered from the accident by which they had been so much alarmed when they were in England. The physicians had pronounced, that with care to avoid cold, and all violent exertion, he might do well and last long.

To fulfil the conditions was difficult; especially that which required him to refrain from any great exertion. Whenever he could be of service to his friends, or could do any good to his fellow-creatures, he spared neither mental nor bodily exertion. Under the influence of benevolent enthusiasm, he continually forgot the precarious tenure by which he held his life.

It was now the middle of winter, and one stormy night a vessel was wrecked on the coast near Annaly. The house was at such a distance from that part of the shore where the vessel struck, that Sir Herbert knew nothing of it till the next morning, when it was all over. No lives were lost. It was a small trading vessel, richly laden. Knowing the vile habits of some of the people who lived on the coast, Sir Herbert, the moment he heard that there was a wreck, went down to see that the property of the sufferers was protected from those depredators, who on such occasions were astonishingly alert. Ormond accompanied him, and by their joint exertions much of the property was placed in safety under a military guard. Some had been seized and carried off before their arrival, but not by any of Sir Herbert's tenants. It became pretty clear that the neighbours on Sir Ulick O'Shane's estate were the offenders. They had grown bold from impunity, and from the belief that no jantleman "would choose to interfere with them, on account of their landlord."

Sir Herbert's indignation rose. Ormond pledged himself that Sir Ulick O'Shane would never protect such wretches; and eager to assist public justice, to defend his guardian, and, above all, to calm Sir Herbert and prevent him from over-exerting himself, he insisted upon being allowed to go in his stead with the party of military who were to search the suspected houses. It was with some difficulty that he prevailed. He parted with Sir Herbert; and, struck at the moment with his highly-raised colour, and the violent heat and state of excitation he was in, Ormond again urged him to remember his own health, and his mother and sister.

"I will—I do," said Sir Herbert; "but it is my duty to think of public justice before I think of myself."

The apprehension Ormond felt in quitting Sir Herbert recurred frequently as he rode on in silence; but he was called into action and it was dissipated. Ormond spent nearly three hours searching a number of wretched cabins from which the male inhabitants fled at the approach of the military, leaving the women and children to make what excuses and tell what lies they could. This the women and children executed with great readiness and ability, and in the most pity-moving tones imaginable.

The inside of an Irish cabin appears very different to those who come to claim hospitality and to those who come to detect offenders.

Ormond having never before entered a cabin with a search-warrant, constable, or with the military, he was "not up to the thing"—as both the serjeant and constable remarked to each other. While he listened to the piteous story of a woman about a husband who had broken his leg from a ladder, sarving the masons at Sir Herbert's lighthouse, and was lying at the hospital, not expected, [Footnote: Not expected to live.] the husband was lying all the time with both his legs safe and sound in a potato furrow within a few yards of the house. And the child of another eloquent matron was running off with a pair of silver-mounted pistols taken from the wreck, which he was instructed to hide in a bog-hole, snug—the bog-water never rusting. In one hovel—for the houses of these wretches who lived by pillage, after all their ill-gotten gains, were no better than hovels—in one of them, in which, as the information stated, some valuable plunder was concealed, they found nothing but a poor woman groaning in bed, and two little children; one crying as if its heart would break, and the other sitting up behind the mother's bolster supporting her. After the soldiers had searched every place in vain, even the thatch of the house, the woman showing no concern all the while, but groaning on, seeming scarce able to answer Mr. Ormond's questions—the constable, an old hand, roughly bid her get up, that they might search the bed; this Ormond would not permit:—she lay still, thanking his honour faintly, and they quitted the house. The goods which had been carried off were valuable, and were hid in the straw of the very bed on which the woman was lying.

As they were returning homewards after their fruitless search, when they had passed the boundary of Sir Ulick's and had reached Sir Herbert's territory, they were overtaken by a man, who whispered something to the serjeant which made him halt, and burst out a laughing; the laugh ran through the whole serjeant's guard, and reached Ormond's ears; who, asking the cause of it, was told how the woman had cheated them, and how she was now risen from her bed, and was dividing the prize among the lawful owners, "share and share alike." These lawful owners, all risen out of the potato furrows, and returning from the bogs, were now assembled, holding their bed of justice. At the moment the serjeant's information came off, their captain, with a bottle of whiskey in his hand, was drinking, "To the health of Sir Ulick O'Shane, our worthy landlord—seldom comes a better. The same to his ward, Harry Ormond, Esq., and may his eyesight never be better nor worse."

Harry Ormond instantly turned his horse's head, much provoked at having been duped, and resolved that the plunderers should not now escape. By the advice of serjeants and constables, he dismounted, that no sound of horses' hoofs might give notice from a distance; though, indeed, on the sands of the sea-shore, no horses' tread, he thought, could be heard. He looked round for some one with whom he could leave his horse, but not a creature, except the men who were with him, was in sight.

"What can have become of all the people?" said Ormond: "it is not the workmen's dinner-hour, and they are gone from the work at the lighthouse; and the horses and cars are left without any one with them." He went on a few paces, and saw a boy who seemed to be left to watch the horses, and who looked very melancholy. The boy did not speak as Ormond came up. "What is the matter?" said Ormond: "something dreadful has happened— speak!"

"Did not you hear it, sir?" said the boy: "I'd be loth to tell it you."

"Has any thing happened to—"

"Sir Herbert—ay—the worst that could. Running to stop one of them villains that was making off with something from the wreck, he dropped sudden as if he was shot, and—when they went to lift him up—But you'll drop yourself, sir," said the boy.

"Give him some of the water out of the bucket, can't ye?"

"Here's my cap," said the serjeant. Ormond was made to swallow the water, and, recovering his senses, heard one of the soldiers near him say, "'Twas only a faint Sir Herbert took, I'll engage."

The thought was new life to Ormond: he started up, mounted his horse, and galloped off—saw no creature on the road—found a crowd at the gate of the avenue—the crowd opened to let him pass, many voices calling as he passed to beg him to send out word. This gave him fresh hopes, since nothing certain was known: he spurred on his horse; but when he reached the house, as he was going to Sir Herbert's room he was met by Sir Herbert's own man, O'Reilly. The moment he saw O'Reilly's face, he knew there was no hope—he asked no question: the surgeon came out, and told him that in consequence of having broke a blood-vessel, which bled internally, Sir Herbert had just expired—his mother and sister were with him. Ormond retired—he begged the servants would write to him at Dr. Cambray's—and he immediately went away.

Two days after he had a note from O'Reilly, written in haste, at a very early hour in the morning, to say that he was just setting out with the hearse to the family burial-place at Herbert—it having been thought best that the funeral should not be in this neighbourhood, on account of the poor people at Annaly being so exasperated against those who were thought to be the immediate occasion of his death. Sir Herbert's last orders to O'Reilly were to this effect—"to take care, and to have every thing done as privately as possible."

No pomp of funeral was, indeed, necessary for such a person. The great may need it—the good need it not: they are mourned in the heart, and they are remembered without vain pageantry. If public sorrow can soothe private grief—and surely in some measure it must—the family and friends of this young man had this consolation; but they had another and a better.

It is the triumph of religion and of its ministers to be able to support the human heart, when all other resources are of little avail. Time, it is true, at length effaces the recollection of misfortune, and age deadens the sense of sorrow. But that power to console is surely far superior in its effect, more worthy of a rational and a social being, which operates—not by contracting or benumbing our feelings and faculties, but by expanding and ennobling them—inspiring us, not with stoic indifference to the pains and pleasures of humanity, but with pious submission to the will of Heaven —to the order and orderer of the universe.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XXVI.

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, bona 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.