Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  The gossoon who had been sent with the despatch to the King of the Black Islands did not return this day — disappointment upon disappointment. Moriarty, who had exerted himself too much, that he might appear better than he really was, suffered proportionably this night; and so did Ormond, who, never before having been with any person delirious from fever, was excessively alarmed. What he endured cannot be described: it was, however, happy for him that he was forced to bear it all — nothing less could have made a sufficient impression on his mind — nothing less could have been a sufficient warning to set a guard upon the violence of his temper.

  In the morning the fever abated: about eight o’clock the patient sunk into a sound sleep; and Ormond, kneeling by his bedside, ardent in devotion as in all his sentiments, gave thanks to Heaven, prayed for Moriarty’s perfect recovery, and vowed with the strongest adjurations that if he might be spared for this offence, if he might be saved from the horror of being a murderer, no passion, no provocation should ever, during the whole future course of his life, tempt him to lift his hand against a fellow-creature.

  As he rose from his knees, after making this prayer and this vow, he was surprised to see standing beside him Lady Annaly — she had made a sign to the sick man not to interrupt Ormond’s devotion by any exclamation at her entrance.

  “Be not disturbed — let me not feel that I embarrass you, Mr. Ormond,” said she: “I came here not to intrude upon your privacy. Be not ashamed, young gentleman,” continued she, “that I should have witnessed feelings that do you honour, and that interest me in your future fate.”

  “Interest Lady Annaly in my future fate! — Is it possible!” exclaimed Ormond: “Is it possible that one of whom I stood so much in awe — one whom I thought so much too good, ever to bestow a thought on — such a one as I am — as I was, even before this fatal—” (his voice failed).

  “Not fatal, I hope — I trust,” said Lady Annaly: “this poor man’s looks at this moment assure me that he is likely to do well.”

  “True for ye, my lady,” said Moriarty, “I’ll do my best, surely: I’d live through all, if possible, for his sake, let alone my mudther’s, or shister’s, or my own—’twould be too bad, after; all the trouble he got these two nights, to be dying at last, I and hanting him, may be, whether I would or no — for as to prosecuting, that would never be any way, if I died twenty times over. I sint off that word to my mudthier and shister, with my curse if they’d do other — and only that they were at the fair, and did not get the word, or the news of my little accident, they’d have been here long ago; and the minute they come, I’ll swear ’em not to prosecute, or harbour a thought of revenge again’ him, who had no malice again’ me, no more than a child. And at another’s bidding, more than his own, he drew the trigger, and the pistol went off unknownst, in a passion: so there’s the case for you, my lady.”

  Lady Annaly, who was pleased with the poor fellow’s simplicity and generosity in this tragi-comic statement of the case, inquired if she could in any way afford him assistance.

  “I thank your ladyship, but Mr. Harry lets me want for nothing.”

  “Nor ever will, while I have a farthing I can call my own,” cried Ormond.

  “But I hope, Mr. Ormond,” said Lady Annaly, smiling, “that when Moriarty — is not that his name? — regains his strength, to which he seems well inclined, you do not mean to make him miserable and good for nothing, by supporting him in idleness?”

  “No, he sha’n’t, my lady — I would not let him be wasting his little substance on me. And did ye hear, my lady, how he is going to lave Castle Hermitage? Well, of all the surprises ever I got! It come upon me like a shot — my shot was nothing to it!”

  It was necessary to insist upon Moriarty’s submitting to be silent and quiet; for not having the fear of the surgeon before his eyes, and having got over his first awe of the lady, he was becoming too full of oratory and action. Lady Annaly took Ormond out with her, that she might speak to him of his own affairs.

  “You will not, I hope, Mr. Ormond, ascribe it to idle curiosity, but to a wish to be of service, if I inquire what your future plans in life may be?”

  Ormond had never formed any, distinctly. “He was not fit for any profession, except, perhaps, the army — he was too old for the navy — he was at present going, he believed, to the house of an old friend, a relation of Sir Ulick, Mr. Cornelius O’Shane.”

  “My son, Sir Herbert Annaly, has an estate in this neighbourhood, at which he has never yet resided, but we are going there when we leave Castle Hermitage. I shall hope to see you at Annaly, when you have determined on your plans; perhaps you may show us how we can assist in forwarding them.”

  “Is it possible,” repeated Ormond, in unfeigned astonishment, “that your ladyship can be so very good, so condescending, to one who so little deserves it? But I will deserve it in future. If I get over this — interested in my future fate — Lady Annaly!”

  “I knew your father many years ago,” said Lady Annaly; “and as his son, I might feel some interest for you; but I will tell you sincerely, that, on some occasions, when we met in Dublin, I perceived traits of goodness in you, which, on your own account, Mr. Ormond, have interested me in your fate. But fate is an unmeaning commonplace — worse than commonplace — word: it is a word that leads us to imagine that we are fated or doomed to certain fortunes or misfortunes in life. I have had a great deal of experience, and from all I have observed, it appears to me, that far the greatest part of our happiness or misery in life depends upon ourselves.”

  Ormond stopped short, and listened with the eagerness of one of quick feeling and quick capacity, who seizes an idea that is new to him, and the truth and value of which he at once appreciates. For the first time in his life he heard good sense from the voice of benevolence — he anxiously desired that she should go on speaking, and stood in such an attitude of attentive deference as fully marked that wish.

  But at this moment Lady O’Shane’s footman came up with a message from his lady; her ladyship sent to let Lady Annaly know that breakfast was ready. Repeating her good wishes to Ormond she bade him adieu, while he was too much overpowered with his sense of gratitude to return her thanks.

  “Since there exists a being, and such a being, interested for me, I must be worth something — and I will make myself worth something more: I will begin from this moment, I am resolved, to improve; and who knows but in the end I may become every thing that is good? I don’t want to be great.”

  Though this resolution was not steadily adhered to, though it was for a time counteracted by circumstances, it was never afterwards entirely forgotten. From this period, in consequence of the great and painful impression which had been suddenly made on his mind, and from a few words of sense and kindness spoken to him at a time when his heart was happily prepared to receive them, we may date the commencement of our hero’s reformation and improvement — hero, we say; but certainly never man had more faults than Ormond had to correct, or to be corrected, before he could come up to the received idea of any description of hero. Most heroes are born perfect — so at least their biographers, or rather their panegyrists, would have us believe. Our hero is far from this happy lot; the readers of his story are in no danger of being wearied, at first setting out, with the list of his merits and accomplishments; nor will they be awed or discouraged by the exhibition of virtue above the common standard of humanity — beyond the hope of imitation. On the contrary, most people will comfort and bless themselves with the reflection, that they never were quite so foolish, nor quite so bad, as Harry Ormond.

  For the advantage of those who may wish to institute the comparison, his biographer, in writing the life of Ormond, deems it a point of honour to extenuate nothing; but to trace, with an impartial hand, not only every improvement and advance, but every deviation or retrograde movement.

  CHAPTER IV.

  Full of sudden zeal for his own improvement, Ormond sat down at the foot of a tree, determined to make a lis
t of all his faults, and of all his good resolutions for the future. He took out his pencil, and began on the back of a letter the following resolutions, in a sad scrawling hand and incorrect style.

  HARRY OSMOND’S GOOD RESOLUTIONS.

  Resolved 1st. — That I will never drink more than (blank number of) glasses.

  Resolved 2ndly. — That I will cure myself of being passionate.

  Resolved 3rdly. — That I will never keep low company.

  Resolved. — That I am too fond of flattery — women’s, especially, I like most. To cure myself of that.

  Ormond. Here he was interrupted by the sight of a little gossoon, with a short stick tucked under his arm, who came pattering on bare-foot in a kind of pace indescribable to those who have never seen it — it was something as like walking or running as chanting is to speaking or singing.

  “The answer I am from the Black Islands, Master Harry; and would have been back wid you afore nightfall yesterday, only he — King Corny — was at the fair of Frisky — could not write till this morning any way — but has his service to ye, Master Harry, will be in it for ye by half after two with a bed and blanket for Moriarty, he bid me say on account he forgot to put it in the note. In the Sally Cove the boat will be there abow in the big lough, forenent the spot where the fir dale was cut last seraph by them rogues.”

  The despatch from the King of the Black Islands was then produced from the messenger’s bosom, and it ran as follows:

  “Dear Harry. What the mischief has come over Cousin Ulick to be banishing you from Castle Hermitage? But since he conformed, he was never the same man, especially since his last mis-marriage. But no use moralizing — he was always too much of a courtier for me. Come you to me, my dear boy, who is no courtier, and you’ll be received and embraced with open arms — was I Briareus, the same way — Bring Moriarty Carroll (if that’s his name), the boy you shot, which has given you so much concern — for which I like you the better — and honour that boy, who, living or dying, forbade to prosecute. Don’t be surprised to see the roof the way it is: — since Tuesday I wedged it up bodily without stirring a stick: — you’ll see it from the boat, standing three foot high above the walls, waiting while I’m building up to it — to get attics — which I shall for next to nothing — by my own contrivance. Meantime, good dry lodging, as usual, for all friends at the palace. He shall be well tended for you by Sheelah Dunshaughlin, the mother of Betty, worth a hundred of her! and we’ll soon set him up again with the help of such a nurse, as well as ever, I’ll engage; for I’m a bit of a doctor, you know, as well as every thing else. But don’t let any other doctor, surgeon, or apothecary, be coming after him for your life — for none ever gets a permit to land, to my knowledge, on the Black Islands — to which I attribute, under Providence, to say nothing of my own skill in practice, the wonderful preservation of my people in health — that, and woodsorrell, and another secret or two not to be committed to paper in a hurry — all which I would not have written to you, but am in the gout since four this morning, held by the foot fast — else I’d not be writing, but would have gone every inch of the way for you myself in style, in lieu of sending, which is all I can now do, my six-oared boat, streamers flying, and piper playing like mad — for I would not have you be coming like a banished man, but in all glory, to Cornelius O’Shane, commonly called King Corny — but no king to you, only your hearty old friend.”

  “Heaven bless Cornelius O’Shane!” said Harry Ormond to himself, as he finished this letter. “King or no king, the most warm-hearted man on earth, let the other be who he will.”

  Then pressing this letter to his heart, he put it up carefully, and rising in haste, he dropped the list of his faults. That train of associations was completely broken, and for the present completely forgotten; nor was it likely to be soon renewed at the Black Islands, especially in the palace, where he was now going to take up his residence. Moriarty was laid on a bed; and was transported, with Ormond, in the six-oared boat, streamers flying, and piper playing, across the lake to the islands. Moriarty’s head ached terribly, but he nevertheless enjoyed the playing of the pipes in his ear, because of the air of triumph it gave Master Harry, to go away in this grandeur, in the face of the country. King Corny ordered the discharge of twelve guns on his landing, which popped one after another gloriously — the hospitable echoes, as Moriarty called them, repeating the sound. A horse, decked with ribands, waited on the shore, with King Corny’s compliments for Prince Harry, as the boy, who held the stirrup for Ormond to mount, said he was instructed to call him, and to proclaim him “Prince Harry” throughout the island, which he did by sound of horn, the whole way they proceeded to the palace — very much to the annoyance of the horse, but all for the greater glory of the prince, who managed his steed to the admiration of the shouting ragged multitude, and of his majesty, who sat in state in his gouty chair at the palace door. He had had himself rolled out to welcome the coming guest.

  “By all that’s princely,” cried he, “then, that young Harry Ormond was intended for a prince, he sits ahorse so like myself; and that horse requires a master hand to manage him.”

  Ormond alighted.

  The gracious, cordial, fatherly welcome, with which he was received, delighted his heart.

  “Welcome, prince, my adopted son, welcome to Corny castle — palace, I would have said, only for the constituted authorities of the post-office, that might take exceptions, and not be sending me my letters right. As I am neither bishop nor arch, I have, in their blind eyes or conceptions, no right — Lord help them! — to a temporal palace. Be that as it may, come you in with me, here into the big room — and see! there’s the bed in the corner for your first object, my boy — your wounded chap; and I’ll visit his wound, and fix it and him the first thing for ye, the minute he comes up.”

  His majesty pointed to a bed in the corner of a large apartment, whose beautiful painted ceiling and cornice, and fine chimney-piece with caryatides of white marble, ill accorded with the heaps of oats and corn, the thrashing cloth and flail, which lay on the floor.

  “It is intended for a drawing-room, understand,” said King Corny; “but till it is finished, I use it for a granary or a barn, when it would not be a barrack-room or hospital, which last is most useful at present.”

  To this hospital Moriarty was carefully conveyed. Here, notwithstanding his gout, which affected only his feet, King Corny dressed Moriarty’s wound with exquisite tenderness and skill; for he had actually acquired knowledge and address in many arts, with which none could have suspected him to have been in the least acquainted.

  Dinner was soon announced, which was served up with such a strange mixture of profusion and carelessness, as showed that the attendants, who were numerous and ill-caparisoned, were not much used to gala-days. The crowd, who had accompanied Moriarty into the house, were admitted into the dining-room, where they stood round the king, prince, and Father Jos the priest, as the courtiers, during the king’s supper at Versailles, surrounded the King of France. But these poor people were treated with more hospitality than were the courtiers of the French king; for as soon as the dishes were removed, their contents were generously distributed among the attendant multitude. The people blest both king and prince, “wishing them health and happiness long to reign over them;” and bowing suitably to his majesty the king, and to his reverence the priest, without standing upon the order of their going, departed.

  “And now, Father Jos,” said the king to the priest, “say grace, and draw close, and let me see you do justice to my claret, or the whiskey punch if you prefer; and you, Prince Harry, we will set to it regally as long as you please.”

  “Till tea-time,” thought young Harry. “Till supper-time,” thought Father Jos. “Till bed-time,” thought King Corny.

  At tea-time young Harry, in pursuance of his resolution the first, rose, but he was seized instantly, and held down to his chair. The royal command was laid upon him “to sit still and be a good fellow.” Moreover th
e door was locked — so that there was no escape or retreat.

  The next morning when he wakened with an aching head, he recollected with disgust the figure of Father Jos, and all the noisy mirth of the preceding night. Not without some self-contempt, he asked himself what had become of his resolution.

  “The wounded boy was axing for you, Master Harry,” said the girl, who came in to open the shutters.

  “How is he?” cried Harry, starting up.

  “He is but soberly; [Footnote: But soberly — not very well, or in good spirits.] he got the night but middling; he concaits he could not sleep becaase he did not get a sight of your honour afore he’d settle — I tell him ’tis the change of beds, which always hinders a body to sleep the first night.”

  The sense of having totally forgotten the poor fellow — the contrast between this forgetfulness and the anxiety and contrition of the two preceding nights, actually surprised Ormond: he could hardly believe that he was one and the same person. Then came excuses to himself: “Gratitude — common civility — the peremptoriness of King Corny — his passionate temper, when opposed on this tender point — the locked door — and two to one: in short, there was an impossibility in the circumstances of doing otherwise than what he had done. But then the same impossibility — the same circumstances — might recur the next night, and the next, and so on: the peremptory temper of King Corny was not likely to alter, and the moral obligation of gratitude would continue the same; so that at nineteen was he to become, from complaisance, what his soul and body abhorred — an habitual drunkard? And what would become of Lady Annaly’s interest in his fate or his improvement?”