"You are right, jewel, to be in a hurry," said Carroll. "But sure you won't leave poor Moriarty behind ye here in distress, when he has no friend in the wide world but yourself?"

"Tell me, in the first place, Moriarty, are you innocent?"

"Upon my conscience, master, I am perfectly innocent as the child unborn, both of the murder and the robbery. If your honour will give me leave, I'll tell you the whole story."

"That will be a long affair, Moriarty, if you talk out of the face, as you used to do. I will, however, find an opportunity to hear it all. But, in the meantime, stay where you are till I return."

Ormond went instantly to Connal's, to inform him of what had happened. His astonishment was obviously mixed with disappointment. But to do him justice, besides the interest which he really had in the preservation of the fortune, he felt some personal regard for Ormond himself.

"What shall we do without you?" said he. "I assure you, Madame and I have never been so happy together since the first month after our marriage as we have been since you came to Paris."

Connal was somewhat consoled by hearing Ormond say, that if he were time enough in London to save his fortune, he proposed returning immediately to Paris, intending to make the tour of Switzerland and Italy.

Connal had no doubt that they should yet be able to fix him at Paris.

Madame de Connal and Mademoiselle were out—Connal did not know where they were gone. Ormond was glad to tear himself away with as few adieus as possible. He got into his travelling carriage, put his servant on the box, and took Moriarty with him in the carriage, that he might relate his history at leisure.

"Plase your honour," said Moriarty, "Mr. Marcus never missed any opportunity of showing me ill-will. The supercargo of the ship that was cast away, when you were with Sir Herbert Annaly, God rest his soul! came down to the sea-side to look for some of the things that he had lost: the day after he came, early in the morning, his horse, and bridle, and saddle, and a surtout coat, was found in a lane, near the place where we lived, and the supercargo was never heard any more of. Suspicion fell upon many—the country rung with the noise that was made about this murder—and at last I was taken up for it, because people had seen me buy cattle at the fair, and the people would not believe it was with money your honour sent me by the good parson—for the parson was gone out of the country, and I had nobody to stand my friend; for Mr. Marcus was on the grand jury, and the sheriff was his friend, and Sir Ulick was in Dublin, at the bank. Howsomdever, after a long trial, which lasted the whole day, a 'cute lawyer on my side found out that there was no proof that any body had been murdered, and that a man might lose his horse, his saddle, and his bridle, and his big coat, without being kilt: so that the judge ordered the jury to let me off for the murder. They then tried me for the robbery; and sure enough that went again me: for a pair of silver-mounted pistols, with the man's name engraved upon them, was found in my house. They knew the man's name by the letters in the big coat. The judge asked me what I had to say for myself: 'My lard,' says I, 'those pistols were brought into my house about a fortnight ago, by a little boy, one little Tommy Dunshaughlin, who found them in a punk-horn, at the edge of a bog-hole.'

"The jidge favoured me more than the jury—for he asked how old the boy was, and whether I could produce him? The little fellow was brought into court, and it was surprising how clear he told his story. The jidge listened to the child, young as he was. But M'Crule was on the jury, and said that he knew the child to be as cunning as any in Ireland, and that he would not believe a word that came out of his mouth. So the short and the long of it was, I was condemned to be transported.

"It would have done you good, if you'd heard the cry in the court when sentence was given, for I was loved in the country. Poor Peggy and Sheelah!—But I'll not be troubling your honour's tender heart with our parting. I was transmuted to Dublin, to be put on board the tender, and lodged in Kilmainham, waiting for the ship that was to go to Botany. I had not been long there, when another prisoner was brought to the same room with me. He was a handsome-looking man, about thirty years of age, of the most penetrating eye and determined countenance that I ever saw. He appeared to be worn down with ill-health, and his limbs much swelled: notwithstanding which, he had strong handcuffs on his wrists, and he seemed to be guarded with uncommon care. He begged the turnkey to lay him down upon the miserable iron bed that was in the cell; and he begged him, for God's sake, to let him have a jug of water by his bedside, and to leave him to his fate.

"I could not help pitying this poor cratur; I went to him, and offered him any assistance in my power. He answered me shortly, 'What are you here for?'—I told him. 'Well,' says he, 'whether you are guilty or not, is your affair, not mine; but answer me at once—are you a good man?—Can you go through with a thing?—and are you steel to the back-bone?'—'I am,' said I. 'Then,' said he, 'you are a lucky man—for he that is talking to you is Michael Dunne, who knows how to make his way out of any jail in Ireland.' Saying this, he sprung with great activity from the bed. 'It is my cue,' said he, 'to be sick and weak, whenever the turnkey comes in, to put him off his guard—for they have all orders to watch me strictly; because as how, do you see, I broke out of the jail of Trim; and when they catched me, they took me before his honour the police magistrate, who did all he could to get out of me the way which I made my escape.' 'Well,' says the magistrate, 'I'll put you in a place where you can't get out—till you're sent to 'Botany.' 'Plase your worship,' says I, 'if there's no offence in saying it, there's no such place in Ireland.'—'No such place as what?' 'No such place as will hold Michael Dunne.'—'What do you think of Kilmainbam?' says he. 'I think it's a fine jail—and it will be no asy matter to get out of it—but it is not impossible.'—'Well, Mr. Dunne,' said the magistrate, 'I have heard of your fame, and that you have secrets of your own for getting out. Now, if you'll tell me how you got out of the jail of Trim, I'll make your confinement at Kilmainham as asy as may be, so as to keep you safe; and if you do not, you must be ironed, and I will have sentinels from an English regiment, who shall be continually changed: so that you can't get any of them to help you.'—'Plase your worship,' said Dunne, 'that's very hard usage; but I know as how that you are going to build new jails all over Ireland, and that you'd be glad to know the best way to make them secure. If your worship will promise me that if I get out of Kilmainham, and if I tell you how I do it, then you'll get me a free pardon, I'll try hard but what before three months are over I'll be a prisoner at large.'—'That's more than I can promise you,' said the magistrate; 'but if you will disclose to me the best means of keeping other people in, I will endeavour to keep you from Botany Bay.'—'Now, sir,' says Dunne, 'I know your worship to be a man of honour, and that your own honour regards yourself, and not me; so that if I was ten times as bad as I am, you'd keep your promise with me, as well as if I was the best gentleman in Ireland. So that now, Mr. Moriarty,' said Dunne, 'do you see, if I get out, I shall be safe; and if you get out along with me, you have nothing to do but to go over to America. And if you are a married man, and tired of your wife, you'll get rid of her. If you are not tired of her, and you have any substance, she may sell it and follow you.'

"There was something, Master Harry, about the man that made me have great confidence in him—and I was ready to follow his advice. Whenever the turnkey was coming he was groaning and moaning on the bed. At other times he made me keep bathing his wrists with cold water, so that in three or four days they were not half the size they were at first. This change he kept carefully from the jailor. I observed that he frequently asked what day of the month it was, but that he never made any attempt to speak to the sentinels; nor did he seem to make any preparation, or to lay any scheme for getting out. I held my tongue, and waited qui'tely. At last, he took out of his pocket a little flageolet, and began to play upon it. He asked me if I could play: I said I could a little, but very badly. 'I don't care how bad it is, if you can play at all.' He got off the bed where he was lying, and with the utmost ease pulled his hands out of his handcuffs. Besides the swelling of his wrists having gone down, he had some method of getting rid of his thumb that I never could understand. Says I, 'Mr. Dunne, the jailor will miss the fetters,'—'No,' said he, 'for I will put them on again;' and so he did, with great ease. 'Now,' said he, 'it is time to begin our work.'

"He took off one of his shoes, and taking out the in-sole, he showed me a hole, that was cut where the heel was, in which there was a little small flat bottle, which he told me was the most precious thing in life. And under the rest of the sole there were a number of saws, made of watch spring, that lay quite flat and snug under his foot. The next time the turnkey came in, he begged, for the love of God, to have a pipe and some tobacco, which was accordingly granted to him. What the pipes and tobacco were for, I could not then guess, but they were found to be useful. He now made a paste of some of the bread of his allowance, with which he made a cup round the bottom of one of the bars of the window; into this cup he poured some of the contents of the little bottle, which was, I believe, oil of vitriol: in a little time, this made a bad smell, and it was then I found the use of the pipe and tobacco, for the smell of the tobacco quite bothered the smell of the vitriol. When he thought he had softened the iron bar sufficiently, he began to work away with the saws, and he soon taught me how to use them; so that we kept working on continually, no matter how little we did at a time; but as we were constantly at it, what I thought never could be done was finished in three or four days. The use of the flageolet was to drown the noise of the filing; for when one filed, the other piped.

"When the bar was cut through, he fitted the parts nicely together, and covered them over with rust. He proceeded in the same manner to cut out another bar; so that we had a free opening out of the window. Our cell was at the very top of the jail, so that even to look down to the ground was terrible.

"Under various pretences, we had got an unusual quantity of blankets on our beds; these he examined with the utmost care, as upon their strength our lives were to depend. We calculated with great coolness the breadth of the strips into which he might cut the blankets, so as to reach from the window to the ground; allowing for the knots by which they were to be joined, and for other knots that were to hinder the hands and feet from slipping.

"'Now,' said he, 'Mr. Moriarty, all this is quite asy, and requires nothing but a determined heart and a sound head: but the difficulty is to baffle the sentinel that is below, and who is walking backward and forward continually, day and night, under the window; and there is another, you see, in a sentry-box, at the door of the yard: and, for all I know, there may be another sentinel at the other side of the wall. Now these men are never twice on the same duty: I have friends enough out of doors, who have money enough, and would have talked reason to them; but as these sentinels are changed every day, no good can be got of them: but stay till to-morrow night, and we'll try what we can do.'

"I was determined to follow him. The next night, the moment that we were locked in for the night, we set to work to cut the blankets into slips, and tied them together with great care. We put this rope round one of the fixed bars of the window; and, pulling at each knot, we satisfied ourselves that every part was sufficiently strong. Dunne looked frequently out of the window with the utmost anxiety—it was a moonlight night.

"'The moon,' said he, 'will be down in an hour and a half.'

"In a little while we heard the noise of several girls singing at a distance from the windows, and we could see, as they approached, that they were dancing, and making free with the sentinels: I saw that they were provided with bottles of spirits, with which they pledged the deluded soldiers. By degrees the sentinels forgot their duty; and, by the assistance of some laudanum contained in some of the spirits, they were left senseless on the ground. The whole of this plan, and the very night and hour, had been arranged by Dunne with his associates, before he was put into Kilmainham. The success of this scheme, which was totally unexpected by me, gave me, I suppose, plase your honour, fresh courage. He, very honourably, gave me the choice to go down first or to follow him. I was ashamed not to go first: after I had got out of the window, and had fairly hold of the rope, my fear diminished, and I went cautiously down to the bottom. Here I waited for Dunne, and we both of us silently stole along in the dark, for the moon had gone in, and we did not meet with the least obstruction. Our out of door's assistants had the prudence to get entirely out of sight. Dunne led me to a hiding-place in a safe part of the town, and committed me to the care of a seafaring man, who promised to get me on board an American ship.

"'As for my part,' said Dunne, 'I will go in the morning, boldly, to the magistrate, and claim his promise.'

"He did so—and the magistrate with good sense, and good faith, kept his promise, and obtained a pardon for Dunne.

"I wrote to Peggy, to get aboard an American ship. I was cast away on the coast of France—made my way to the first religious house that I could hear of, where I luckily found an Irishman, who saved me from starvation, and who sent me on from convent to convent, till I got to Paris, where your honour met me on that bridge, just when I was looking for Miss Dora's house. And that's all I've got to tell," concluded Moriarty, "and all true."

No adventures of any sort happened to our hero in the course of his journey. The wind was fair for England when he reached Calais: he had a good passage; and with all the expedition that good horses, good roads, good money, and civil words, ensure in England, he pursued his way; and arrived in the shortest time possible in London.

He reached town in the morning, before the usual hour when the banks are open. Leaving orders with his servant, on whose punctuality he could depend, to awaken him at the proper hour, he lay down, overcome with fatigue, and slept—yes—slept soundly.



CHAPTER XXXI.

Ormond was wakened at the proper hour—went immediately to ——'s bank. It was but just open, and beginning to do business. He had never been there before—his person was not known to any of the firm. He entered a long narrow room, so dark at the entrance from the street that he could at first scarcely see what was on either side of him—a clerk from some obscure nook, and from a desk higher than himself, put out his head, with a long pen behind his ear, and looked at Ormond as he came in. "Pray, sir, am I right?—Is this Mr. ——'s bank?"

"Yes, sir."

With mercantile economy of words, and a motion of his head, the clerk pointed out to Ormond the way he should go—and continued casting up his books. Ormond walked down the narrow aisle, and it became light as he advanced towards a large window at the farther end, before which three clerks sat at a table opposite to him. A person stood with his back to Ormond, and was speaking earnestly to one of the clerks, who leaned over the table listening. Just as Ormond came up he heard his own name mentioned—he recollected the voice—he recollected the back of the figure —the very bottle-green coat—it was Patrickson—Ormond stood still behind him, and waited to hear what was going on.

"Sir," said the clerk, "it is a very sudden order for a very large sum."

"True, sir—but you see my power—you know Mr. Ormond's handwriting, and you know Sir Ulick O'Shane's—"

"Mr. James," said the principal clerk, turning to one of the others, "be so good to hand me the letters we have of Mr. Ormond. As we have never seen the gentleman sign his name, sir, it is necessary that we should be more particular in comparing."

"Oh! sir, no doubt—compare as much as you please—no doubt people cannot be too exact and deliberate in doing business."

"It certainly is his signature," said the clerk.

"I witnessed the paper," said Patrickson.

"Sir, I don't dispute it," replied the clerk; "but you cannot blame us for being cautious when such a very large sum is in question, and when we have no letter of advice from the gentleman."

"But I tell you I come straight from Mr. Ormond; I saw him last Tuesday at Paris—"

"And you see him now, sir," said Ormond, advancing.

Patrickson's countenance changed beyond all power of control.

"Mr. Ormond!—I thought you were at Paris."

"Mr. Patrickson!—I thought you were at Havre de Grace—what brought you here so suddenly?"

"I acted for another," hesitated Patrickson: "I therefore made no delay."

"And, thank Heaven!" said Ormond, "I have acted for myself!—but just in time!—Sir," continued he, addressing himself to the principal clerk, "Gentlemen, I have to return you my thanks for your caution—it has actually saved me from ruin—for I understand—"

Ormond suddenly stopped, recollecting that he might injure Sir Ulick O'Shane essentially by a premature disclosure, or by repeating a report which might he ill-founded.

He turned again to speak to Patrickson, but Patrickson had disappeared.

Then continuing to address himself to the clerks. "Gentlemen," said Ormond, speaking carefully, "have you heard any thing of or from Sir Ulick O'Shane lately, except what you may have heard from this Mr. Patrickson?"

"Not from but of Sir Ulick O'Shane we heard from our Dublin correspondent—in due course we have heard," replied the head clerk. "Too true, I am afraid, sir, that his bank had come to paying in sixpences on Saturday."

The second clerk seeing great concern in Ormond's countenance, added, "But Sunday, you know, is in their favour, sir; and Monday and Tuesday are holidays: so they may stand the run, and recover yet."

With the help of this gentleman's thirty thousand, they might have recovered, perhaps—but Mr. Ormond would scarcely have recovered it.

As to the ten thousand pounds in the Three per Cents., of which Sir Ulick had obtained possession a month ago, that was irrecoverable, if his bank should break—"If."—The clerks all spoke with due caution; but their opinion was sufficiently plain. They were honestly indignant against the guardian who had thus attempted to ruin his ward.

Though almost stunned and breathless with the sense of the danger he had so narrowly escaped, yet Ormond's instinct of generosity, if we may use the expression, and his gratitude for early kindness, operated; he would not believe that Sir Ulick had been guilty of a deliberate desire to injure him. At all events, he determined that, instead of returning to France, as he had intended, he would go immediately to Ireland, and try if it were possible to assist Sir Ulick, without materially injuring himself.

Having ordered horses, he made inquiry wherever he thought he might obtain information with respect to the Annalys. All that he could learn was, that they were at some sea-bathing place in the south of England, and that Miss Annaly was still unmarried. A ray of hope darted into the mind of our hero —and he began his journey to Ireland with feelings which every good and generous mind will know how to appreciate.

He had escaped at Paris from a temptation which it was scarcely possible to resist. He had by decision and activity preserved his fortune from ruin—he had under his protection an humble friend, whom he had saved from banishment and disgrace, and whom he hoped to restore to his wretched wife and family. Forgetful of the designs that had been meditated against him by his guardian, to whose necessities he attributed his late conduct, he hastened to his immediate assistance; determined to do every thing in his power to save Sir Ulick from ruin, if his difficulties arose from misfortune, and not from criminality: if, on the contrary, he should find that Sir Ulick was fraudulently a bankrupt, he determined to quit Ireland immediately, and to resume his scheme of foreign travel.

The system of posting had at this time been carried to the highest perfection in England. It was the amusement and the fashion of the time, to squander large sums in hurrying from place to place, without any immediate motive for arriving at the end of a journey, but that of having the satisfaction of boasting in what a short time it had been performed; or, as it is expressed in one of our comedies, "to enter London like a meteor, with a prodigious tail of dust."

Moriarty Carroll, who was perched upon the box with Ormond's servant, made excellent observations wherever he went. His English companion could not comprehend how a man of common sense could be ignorant of various things, which excited the wonder and curiosity of Moriarty. Afterwards, however, when they travelled in Ireland, Moriarty had as much reason to be surprised at the impression which Irish manners and customs made upon his companion. After a rapid journey to Holyhead, our hero found to his mortification that the packet had sailed with a fair wind about half an hour before his arrival.

Notwithstanding his impatience, he learned that it was impossible to overtake the vessel in a boat, and that he must wait for the sailing of the next day's packet.

Fortunately, however, the Lord-Lieutenant's secretary arrived from London at Holyhead time enough for the tide; and as he had an order from the post-office for a packet to sail whenever he should require it, the intelligent landlord of the inn suggested to Ormond that he might probably obtain permission from the secretary to have a berth in this packet.

Ormond's manner and address were such as to obtain from the good-natured secretary the permission he required; and, in a short time, he found himself out of sight of the coast of Wales. During the beginning of their voyage the motion of the vessel was so steady, and the weather so fine, that every body remained on deck; but on the wind shifting and becoming more violent, the landsmen soon retired below decks, and poor Moriarty and his English companion slunk down into the steerage, submitting to their fate. Ormond was never sea-sick; he walked the deck, and enjoyed the admirable manoeuvring of the vessel. Two or three naval officers, and some other passengers, who were used to the sea, and who had quietly gone to bed during the beginning of the voyage, now came from below, to avoid the miseries of the cabin. As one of these gentlemen walked backwards and forwards upon deck, he eyed our hero from time to time with looks of anxious curiosity—Ormond perceiving this, addressed the stranger, and inquired from him whether he had mistaken his looks, or whether he had any wish to speak to him. "Sir," said the stranger, "I do think that I have seen you before, and I believe that I am under considerable obligations to you—I was supercargo to that vessel that was wrecked on the coast of Ireland, when you and your young friend exerted yourselves to save the vessel from plunder. After the shipwreck, the moment I found myself on land, I hastened to the neighbouring town to obtain protection and assistance. In the mean time, your exertions had saved a great deal of our property, which was lodged in safety in the neighbourhood. I had procured a horse in the town to which I had gone, and had ridden back to the shore with the utmost expedition. Along with the vessel which had been shipwrecked there had sailed another American sloop. We were both bound from New York to Bourdeaux. In the morning after the shipwreck, our consort hove in sight of the wreck, and sent a boat on shore, to inquire what had become of the crew, and of the cargo, but they found not a human creature on the shore, except myself. The plunderers had escaped to their hiding- places, and all the rest of the inhabitants had accompanied the poor young gentleman, who had fallen a sacrifice to his exertions in our favour.

"It was of the utmost consequence to my employers, that I should arrive as soon as possible at Bourdeaux, to give an account of what had happened. I therefore, without hesitation, abandoned my horse, with its bridle and saddle, and I got on board the American vessel without delay. In my hurry I forgot my great coat on the shore, a loss which proved extremely inconvenient to me—as there were papers in the pockets which might be necessary to produce before my employers.

"I arrived safely at Bourdeaux, settled with my principals to their satisfaction, and I am now on my way to Ireland, to reclaim such part of my property, and that of my employers, as was saved from the savages who pillaged us in our distress."—This detail, which was given with great simplicity and precision, excited considerable interest among the persons upon the deck of the packet. Moriarty, who was pretty well recovered from his sickness, was now summoned upon deck. Ormond confronted him with the American supercargo, but neither of them had the least recollection of each other. "And yet," said Ormond to the American, "though you do not know this man, he is at this moment under sentence of transportation for having robbed you, and he very narrowly escaped being hanged for your murder. A fate from which he was saved by the patience and sagacity of the judge who tried him."

Moriarty's surprise was expressed with such strange contortions of delight, and with a tone, and in a phraseology, so peculiarly his own, as to astonish and entertain the spectators. Among these was the Irish secretary, who, without any application being made to him, promised Moriarty to procure for him a free pardon.

On Ormond's landing in Dublin, the first news he heard, and it was repeated a hundred times in a quarter of an hour, was that "Sir Ulick O'Shane was bankrupt—that his bank shut up yesterday." It was a public calamity, a source of private distress, that reached lower and farther than any bankruptcy had ever done in Ireland. Ormond heard of it from every tongue, it was written in every face—in every house it was the subject of lamentation, of invective. In every street, poor men, with ragged notes in their hands, were stopping to pore over the names at the back of the notes, or hurrying to and fro, looking up at the shop-windows for "half price given here for O'Shane's notes." Groups of people, of all ranks, gathered —stopped—dispersed, talking of Sir Ulick O'Shane's bankruptcy—their hopes—their fears—their losses—their ruin—their despair—their rage. Some said it was all owing to Sir Ulick's shameful extravagance: "His house in Dublin, fit for a duke!—Castle Hermitage full of company to the last week—balls—dinners—the most expensive luxuries—scandalous!"

Others accused Sir Ulick's absurd speculations. Many pronounced the bankruptcy to be fraudulent, and asserted that an estate had been made over to Marcus, who would live in affluence on the ruin of the creditors.

At Sir Ulick's house in town every window-shutter was closed. Ormond rang and knocked in vain—not that he wished to see Sir Ulick—no, he would not have intruded on his misery for the world; but Ormond longed to inquire from the servants how things were with him. No servant could be seen. Ormond went to Sir Ulick's bank. Such crowds of people filled the street that it was with the utmost difficulty and after a great working of elbows, that in an hour or two he made his way to one of the barred windows. There was a place where notes were handed in and accepted, as they called it, by the clerks, who thus for the hour soothed and pacified the sufferers, with the hopes that this acceptance would be good, and would stand in stead at some future day. They were told that when things should come to a settlement, all would be paid. There was property enough to satisfy the creditors, when the commissioners should look into it. Sir Ulick would pay all honourably—as far as possible—fifteen shillings in the pound, or certainly ten shillings—the accepted notes would pass for that any where. The crowd pressed closer and closer, arms crossing over each other to get notes in at the window, the clerks' heads appearing and disappearing. It was said they were laughing while they thus deluded the people.

All the intelligence that Ormond, after being nearly suffocated, could obtain from any of the clerks, was, that Sir Ulick was in the country. "They believed at Castle Hermitage—could not be certain—had no letters for him to-day—he was ill when they heard last—so ill he could do no business—confined to his bed."

The people in the street hearing these answers replied, "Confined in his bed, is he?—In the jail, it should be, as many will be along of him. Ill, is he, Sir Ulick?—Sham sickness, may be—all his life a sham." All these and innumerable other taunts and imprecations, with which the poor people vented their rage, Ormond heard as he made his way out of the crowd.

Of all who had suffered, he who had probably lost the most, and who certainly had been on the brink of losing the greatest part of what he possessed, was the only individual who uttered no reproach.

He was impatient to get down to Castle Hermitage, and if he found that Sir Ulick had acted fairly, to be some comfort to him, to be with him at least when deserted by all the rest of the world.

At all the inns upon the road, as he went from Dublin to Castle Hermitage, even at the villages where he stopped to water the horses, every creature, down to the hostlers, were talking of the bankruptcy—and abusing Sir Ulick O'Shane and his son. The curses that were deep, not loud, were the worst— and the faces of distress worse than all. Gathering round his carriage, wherever it stopped, the people questioned him and his servants about the news, and then turned away, saying they were ruined. The men stood in unutterable despair. The women crying, loudly bewailed "their husbands, their sons, that must waste in the jail or fly the country; for what should they do for the rents that had been made up in Sir Ulick's notes, and no good now?"

Ormond felt the more on hearing these complaints, from his sense of the absolute impossibility of relieving the universal distress.

He pursued his melancholy journey, and took Moriarty into the carriage with him, that he might not be recognized on the road.

When he came within sight of Castle Hermitage, he stopped at the top of the hill at a cottage, where many a time in his boyish days he had rested with Sir Ulick out hunting. The mistress of the house, now an old woman, came to the door.

"Master Harry dear!" cried she, when she saw who it was. But the sudden flash of joy in her old face was over in an instant.

"But did you hear it?" cried she, "and the great change it caused him—poor Sir Ulick O'Shane? I went up with eggs on purpose to see him, but could only hear—he was in his bed—wasting with trouble—nobody knows any thing more—all is kept hush and close. Mr. Marcus took off all he could rap, and ran, even to—"

"Well, well, I don't want to hear of Marcus—can you tell me whether Dr. Cambray is come home?"

"Not expected to come till Monday."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh! not a morning but I'm there the first thing, asking, and longing for them."

"Lie back, Moriarty, in the carriage, and pull your hat over your face," whispered Ormond: "postilions, drive on to that little cabin, with the trees about it, at the foot of the hill." This was Moriarty's cabin. When they stopped, poor Peggy was called out. Alas! how altered from the dancing, sprightly, blooming girl, whom Ormond had known so few years since in the Black Islands! How different from the happy wife, whom he had left, comfortably settled in a cottage suited to her station and her wishes! She was thin, pale, and haggard—her dress was neglected—an ill-nursed child, that she had in her arms she gave to a young girl near her. Approaching the carriage, and seeing Harry Ormond, she seemed ready to sink into the earth: however, after having drank some water, she recovered sufficiently to be able to answer Ormond's inquiries.

"What do you intend to do, Peggy?"

"Do, sir!—go to America, to join my husband sure; every thing was to have been sold, Monday last—but nobody has any money—and I am tould it will cost a great deal to get across the sea."

At this she burst into tears and cried most bitterly; and at this moment the carriage door flew open—Moriarty's impatience could be no longer restrained—he flung himself into the arms of his wife.

Leaving this happy and innocent couple to enjoy their felicity we proceed to Castle Hermitage.

Ormond directed the postilions to go the back way to the house. They drove down the old avenue.

Presently they saw a boy, who seemed to be standing on the watch, run back towards the castle, leaping over hedge and ditch with desperate haste. Then came running from the house three men, calling to one another to shut the gates for the love of God!

They all ran towards the gateway through which the postilions were going to drive, reached it just as the foremost horses turned, and flung the gate full against the horses' heads. The men, without looking or caring, went on locking the gate. Ormond jumped out of the carriage—at the sight of him, the padlock fell from the hand of the man who held it.

"Master Harry himself!—and is it you?—We ask your pardon, your honour."

The men were three of Sir Ulick's workmen—Ormond forbad the carriage to follow. "For perhaps you are afraid of the noise disturbing Sir Ulick?" said be.

"No, plase your honour," said the foremost man, "it will not disturb him— as well let the carriage come on—only," whispered he, "best to send the hack postilions with their horses always to the inn, afore they'd learn any thing."

Ormond walked on quickly, and as soon as he was out of hearing of the postilions again asked the men, "What news?—how is Sir Ulick?"

"Poor gentleman! he has had a deal of trouble—and no help for him," said the man.

"Better tell him plain," whispered the next. "Master Harry, Sir Ulick O'Shane's trouble is over in this world, sir."

"Is he—"

"Dead, he is, and cold, and in his coffin—this minute—and thanks be to God, if he is safe there even from them that are on the watch to seize on his body!—In the dread of them creditors, orders were given to keep the gates locked. He is dead since Tuesday, sir,—but hardly one knows it out of the castle—except us."

Ormond walked on silently, while they followed, talking at intervals.

"There is a very great cry against him, sir, I hear, in Dublin,—and here in the country, too," said one.

"The distress, they say, is very great, he caused; but they might let his body rest any way—what good can that do them?"

"Bad or good, they sha'n't touch it," said the other: "by the blessing, we shall have him buried safe in the morning, afore they are stirring. We shall carry the coffin through the under ground passage, that goes to the stables, and out by the lane to the churchyard asy—and the gentleman, the clergyman, has notice all will be ready, and the housekeeper only attending."

"Oh! the pitiful funeral," said the eldest of the men, "the pitiful funeral for Sir Ulick O'Shane, that was born to better."

"Well, we can only do the best we can," said the other, "let what will happen to ourselves; for Sir Marcus said he wouldn't take one of his father's notes from any of us."

Ormond involuntarily felt for his purse.

"Oh! don't be bothering the gentleman, don't be talking," said the old man.

"This way, Master Harry, if you please, sir, the underground way to the back yard. We keep all close till after the burying, for fear—that was the housekeeper's order. Sent all off to Dublin when Sir Ulick took to his bed, and Lady Norton went off."

Ormond refrained from asking any questions about his illness, fearing to inquire into the manner of his death. He walked on more quickly and silently. When they were going through the dark passage, one of the men, in a low voice, observed to Mr. Ormond that the housekeeper would tell him all about it.

When they got to the house, the housekeeper and Sir Ulick's man appeared, seeming much surprised at the sight of Mr. Ormond. They said a great deal about the unfortunate event, and their own sorrow and distress; but Ormond saw that theirs were only the long faces, dismal tones, and outward show of grief. They were just a common housekeeper and gentleman's gentleman, neither worse nor better than ordinary servants in a great house. Sir Ulick had only treated them as such.

The housekeeper, without Ormond's asking a single question, went on to tell him that "Castle Hermitage was as full of company, even to the last week, as ever it could hold, and all as grand as ever; the first people in Ireland—champagne and burgundy, and ices, and all as usual—and a ball that very week. Sir Ulick was very considerate, and sent Lady Norton off to her other friends; he took ill suddenly that night with a great pain in his head: he had been writing hard, and in great trouble, and he took to his bed, and never rose from it—he was found by Mr. Dempsey, his own man, dead in his bed in the morning—of a broken heart, to be sure!—Poor gentleman!—Some people in the neighbourhood was mighty busy talking how the coroner ought to be sent for; but that blew over, sir. But then we were in dread of the seizure of the body for debt, so the gates was kept locked; and now you know all we know about it, sir."

Ormond said he would attend the funeral. There was no attempt to seize upon the body; only the three workmen, the servants, a very few of the cottagers, and Harry Ormond, attended to the grave the body of the once popular Sir Ulick O'Shane. This was considered by the country people as the greatest of all the misfortunes that had befallen him; the lowest degradation to which an O'Shane could be reduced. They compared him with King Corny, and "see the difference!" said they; "the one was the true thing, and never changed—and after all, where is the great friends now?—the quality that used to be entertained at the castle above? Where is all the favour promised him now? What is it come to? See, with all his wit, and the schemes upon schemes, broke and gone, and forsook and forgot, and buried without a funeral, or a tear, but from Master Harry." Ormond was surprised to hear, in the midst of many of their popular superstitions and prejudices, how justly they estimated Sir Ulick's abilities and character.

As the men filled up his grave, one of them said, "There lies the making of an excellent gentleman—but the cunning of his head spoiled the goodness of his heart."

The day after the funeral an agent came from Dublin to settle Sir Ulick O'Shane's affairs in the country.

On opening his desk, the first thing that appeared was a bundle of accounts, and a letter, directed to H. Ormond, Esq. He took it to his own room and read—

"ORMOND,

"I intended to employ your money to re-establish my falling credit, but I never intended to defraud you.

"ULICK O'SHANE."



CHAPTER XXXII.

Both from a sense of justice to the poor people concerned, and from a desire to save Sir Ulick O'Shane's memory as far as it was in his power from reproach, Ormond determined to pay whatever small debts were due to his servants, workmen, and immediate dependents. For this purpose, when the funeral was over, he had them all assembled at Castle Hermitage. Every just demand of this sort was paid, all were satisfied; even the bare-footed kitchen-maid, the drudge of this great house, who, in despair, had looked at her poor one guinea note of Sir Ulick's, had that note paid in gold, and went away blessing Master Harry. Happy for all that he is come home to us, was the general feeling. But there was one man, a groom of Sir Ulick's, who did not join in any of these blessings or praises: he stood silent and motionless, with his eyes on the money which Mr. Ormond had put into his hand.

"Is your money right?" said Ormond.

"It is, sir; but I had something to tell you."

When all the other servants had left the room, the man said, "I am the groom, sir, that was sent, just before you went to France, with a letter to Annaly: there was an answer to that letter, sir, though you never got it."

"There was an answer!" cried Ormond, anger flashing, but an instant afterwards joy sparkling in his eyes. "There was a letter!—From whom?— I'll forgive you all, if you will tell me the whole truth."

"I will—and not a word of lie, and I beg your honour's pardon, if—"

"Go on—straight to the fact, this instant, or you shall never have my pardon."

"Why then I stopped to take a glass coming home; and, not knowing how it was, I had the misfortune to lose the bit of a note, and I thought no more about it till, plase your honour, after you was gone, it was found."

"Found!" cried Ormond, stepping hastily up to him—where is it?"

"I have it safe here," said the man, opening a sort of pocket-book "here I have kept it safe till your honour came back."

Ormond saw and seized upon a letter in Lady Armaly's hand, directed to him. Tore it open—two notes—one from Florence.

"I forgive you!" said he to the man, and made a sign to him to leave the room.

When Ormond had read, or without reading had taken in, by one glance of the eye, the sense of the letters—he rang the bell instantly.

"Inquire at the post-office," said he to his servant, "whether Lady Annaly is in England or Ireland?—If in England, where?—if in Ireland, whether at Annaly or at Herbert's Town? Quick—an answer."

An answer was quickly brought, "In England—in Devonshire, sir: here is the exact direction to the place, sir. I shall pack up, I suppose, sir?"

"Certainly—directly."

Leaving a few lines of explanation and affection for Dr. Cambray, our young hero was off again, to the surprise and regret of all who saw him driving away as fast as horses could carry him. His servant, from the box, however, spread as he went, for the comfort of the deploring village, the assurance that "Master and he would soon be back again, please Heaven!—and happier than ever."

And now that he is safe in the carriage, what was in that note of Miss Annaly's which has produced such a sensation? No talismanic charm ever operated with more magical celerity than this note. What were the words of the charm?

That is a secret which shall never be known to the world.

The only point which it much imports the public to know is probably already guessed—that the letter did not contain a refusal, nor any absolute discouragement of Ormond's hopes. But Lady Annaly and Florence had both distinctly told him that they could not receive him at Annaly till after a certain day, on which they said that they should be particularly engaged. They told him that Colonel Albemarle was at Annaly—that he would leave it at such a time—and they requested that Mr. Ormond would postpone his visit till after that time.

Not receiving this notice, Ormond had unfortunately gone upon the day that was specially prohibited.

Now that the kneeling figure appeared to him as a rival in despair, not in triumph, Ormond asked himself how he could ever have been such an idiot as to doubt Florence Annaly.

"Why did I set off in such haste for Paris?—Could not I have waited a day?—Could not I have written again?—Could I not have cross-questioned the drunken servant when he was sober?—Could not I have done any thing, in short, but what I did?"

Clearly as a man, when his anger is dissipated, sees what he ought to have done or to have left undone while the fury lasted; vividly as a man in a different kind of passion sees the folly of all he did, said, or thought, when he was possessed by the past madness; so clearly, so vividly, did Ormond now see and feel—and vehemently execrate, his jealous folly and mad precipitation; and then he came to the question, could his folly be repaired?—would his madness ever be forgiven? Ormond, in love affairs, never had any presumption—any tinge of the Connal coxcombry in his nature: he was not apt to flatter himself that he had made a deep impression; and now he was, perhaps from his sense of the superior value of the object, more than usually diffident. Though Miss Annaly was still unmarried, she might have resolved irrevocably against him. Though she was not a girl to act in the high-flown heroine style, and, in a fit of pride or revenge, to punish the man she liked, by marrying his rival, whom she did not like; yet Florence Annaly, as Ormond well knew, inherited some of her mother's strength of character; and, in circumstances that deeply touched her heart, might be capable of all her mother's warmth of indignation. It was in her character decidedly to refuse to connect herself with any man, however her heart might incline towards him, if he had any essential defect of temper; or if she thought that his attachment to her was not steady and strong, such as she deserved it should be, and such as her sensibility and all her hopes of domestic happiness required in a husband. And then there was Lady Annaly to be considered—how indignant she would be at his conduct!

While Ormond was travelling alone, he had full leisure to torment himself with these thoughts. Pressed forward alternately by hope and fear, each urging expedition, he hastened on—reached Dublin—crossed the water—and travelling day and night, lost not a moment till he was at the feet of his fair mistress.

To those who like to know the how, the when, and the where, it should be told that it was evening when he arrived. Florence Annaly was walking with her mother by the seaside, in one of the most beautiful and retired parts of the coasts of Devonshire, when they were told by a servant that a gentleman from Ireland had just arrived at their house, and wished to see them. A minute afterwards they saw—"Could it be?" Lady Annaly said, turning in doubt to her daughter; but the cheek of Florence instantly convinced the mother that it could be none but Mr. Ormond himself.

"Mr. Ormond!" said Lady Annaly, advancing kindly, yet with dignified reserve—"Mr. Ormond, after his long absence, is welcome to his old friend."

There was in Ormond's look and manner, as he approached, something that much inclined the daughter to hope that he might prove not utterly unworthy of her mother's forgiveness; and when he spoke to the daughter, there was in his voice and look something that softened the mother's heart, and irresistibly inclined her to wish that he might be able to give a satisfactory explanation of his strange conduct. Where the parties are thus happily disposed both to hear reason, to excuse passion, and to pardon the errors to which passion, even in the most reasonable minds, is liable, explanations are seldom tedious, or difficult to be comprehended. The moment Ormond produced the cover, the soiled cover of the letters, a glimpse of the truth struck Florence Annaly; and before he had got farther in his sentence than these words, "I did not receive your ladyship's letter till within these few days," all the reserve of Lady Annaly's manner was dispelled: her smiles relieved his apprehensions, and encouraged him to proceed in his story with happy fluency. The carelessness of the drunken servant, who had occasioned so much mischief, was talked of for a few minutes with great satisfaction.

Ormond took his own share of the blame so frankly and with so good a grace, and described with such truth the agony he had been thrown into by the sight of the kneeling figure in regimentals, that Lady Annaly could not help comforting him by the assurance that Florence had, at the same moment, been sufficiently alarmed by the rearing of his horse at the sight of the flapping window-blind.

"The kneeling gentleman," said Lady Annaly, "whom you thought at the height of joy and glory, was at that moment in the depths of despair. So ill do the passions see what is even before their eyes!"

If Lady Annaly had had a mind to moralize, she might have done so to any length, without fear of interruption from either of her auditors, and with the most perfect certainty of unqualified submission and dignified humility on the part of our hero, who was too happy at this moment not to be ready to acknowledge himself to have been wrong and absurd, and worthy of any quantity of reprehension or indignation that could have been bestowed upon him.

Her ladyship went, however, as far from morality as possible—to Paris. She spoke of the success Mr. Ormond had had in Parisian society—she spoke of M. and Madame de Connal, and various persons with whom he had been intimate, among others of the Abbe Morellet.

Ormond rejoiced to find that Lady Annaly knew he had been in the Abbe Morellet's distinguished society. The happiest hopes for the future rose in his mind, from perceiving that her ladyship, by whatever means, knew all that he had been doing in Paris. It seems that they had had accounts of him from several English travellers, who had met him at Paris, and had heard him spoken of in different companies.

Ormond took care—give him credit for it all who have ever been in love— even in these first moments, with the object of his present affection, Ormond took care to do justice to the absent Dora, whom he now never expected to see again. He seized, dexterously, an opportunity, in reply to something Lady Annaly said about the Connals, to observe that Madame de Connal was not only much admired for her beauty at Paris, but that she did honour to Ireland by having preserved her reputation; young, and without a guide, as she was, in dissipated French society, with few examples of conjugal virtues to preserve in her mind the precepts and habits of her British education.

He was glad of this opportunity to give, as he now did with all the energy of truth, the result of his feelings and reflections on what he had seen of the modes of living among the French; their superior pleasures of society, and their want of our domestic happiness.

While Ormond was speaking, both the mother and daughter could not help admiring, in the midst of his moralizing, the great improvement which had been made in his appearance and manners.

With all his own characteristic frankness, he acknowledged the impression which French gaiety and the brilliancy of Parisian society had at first made upon him: he was glad, however, that he had now seen all that the imagination often paints as far more delightful than it really is. He had, thank Heaven, passed through this course of dissipation without losing his taste for better and happier modes of life. The last few months, though they might seem but a splendid or feverish dream in his existence, had in reality been, he believed, of essential service in confirming his principles, settling his character, and deciding for ever his taste and judgment, after full opportunity of comparison, in favour of his own country—and especially of his own countrywomen.

Lady Annaly smiled benignantly, and after observing that this seemingly unlucky excursion, which had begun in anger, had ended advantageously to Mr. Ormond; and after having congratulated him upon having saved his fortune, and established his character solidly, she left him to plead his own cause with her daughter—in her heart cordially wishing him success.

What he said, or what Florence answered, we do not know; but we are perfectly sure that if we did, the repetition of it would tire the reader. Lady Annaly and tea waited for them with great patience to an unusually late, which they conceived to be an unusually early, hour. The result of this conversation was, that Ormond remained with them in this beautiful retirement in Devonshire the next day, and the next, and—how many days are not precisely recorded; a blank was left for the number, which the editor of these memoirs does not dare to fill up at random, lest some Mrs. M'Crule should exclaim, "Scandalously too long to keep the young man there!"—or, "Scandalously too short a courtship, after all!"

It is humbly requested that every young lady of delicacy and feeling will put herself in the place of Florence Annaly—then, imagining the man she most approves of to be in the place of Mr. Ormond, she will be pleased to fill up the blank with what number of days she may think proper.

When the happy day was named, it was agreed that they should return to Ireland, to Annaly; and that their kind friend, Dr. Cambray, should be the person to complete that union which he had so long foreseen and so anxiously desired.

Those who wish to hear something of estates, as well as of weddings, should be told that about the same time Ormond received letters from Marcus O'Shane, and from M. de Connal; Marcus informing him that the estate of Castle Hermitage was to be sold by the commissioners of bankrupts, and beseeching him to bid for it, that it might not be sold under value. M. de Connal also besought his dear friend, Mr. Ormond to take the Black Islands off his hands, for they encumbered him terribly. No wonder, living, as he did, at Paris, with his head at Versailles, and his heart in a faro bank. Ormond could not oblige both the gentlemen, though they had each pressing reasons for getting rid speedily of their property, and were assured that he would be the most agreeable purchaser. Castle Hermitage was the finest estate, and by far the best bargain. But other considerations weighed with our hero. While Sir Ulick O'Shane's son and natural representative was living, banished by debts from his native country, Ormond could not bear to take possession of Castle Hermitage. For the Black Islands he had a fondness—they were associated with all the tender recollections of his generous benefactor. He should hurt no one's feelings by this purchase—and he might do a great deal of good, by carrying on his old friend's improvements, and by farther civilizing the people of the Islands, all of whom were warmly attached to him. They considered Prince Harry as the lawful representative of their dear King Corny, and actually offered up prayers for his coming again to reign over them.

To those who think that the mind is a kingdom of yet more consequence than even that of the Black Islands, it may be agreeable to hear that Ormond continued to enjoy the empire which he had gained over himself; and to maintain that high character, which in spite of his neglected education, and of all the adverse circumstances to which he was early exposed, he had formed for himself by resolute energy.

Lady Annaly with the pride of affection, gloried in the full accomplishment of her prophecies; and was rewarded in the best manner for that benevolent interest which she had early taken in our hero's improvement, by seeing the perfect felicity that subsisted between her daughter and Ormond.

The End.