Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “There is King Corny!” exclaimed Ormond, who just then saw him come in view.

  “Come on, then,” cried O’Tara, leaping over a ditch that was between them, and running up to King Corny. “Great news for you, King Corny, I’ve brought — your son-in-law elect, White Connal, is off.”

  “Off — how?”

  “Out of the world clean! Poor fellow, broke his neck with that horse he could never manage — on Sunday last. I left him for dead Sunday night — found him dead Monday morning — came off straight with the news to you.”

  “Dead!” repeated Corny and Harry, looking at one another. “Heaven forbid!” said Corny, “that I should—”

  “Heaven forbid!” repeated Harry; “but—”

  “But good morning to you both, then,” said O’Tara: “shake hands either way, and I’ll condole or congratulate to-morrow as the case may be, with more particulars if required.”

  O’Tara ran off, saying he would be back again soon; but he had great business to do. “I told the father last night.”

  “I am no hypocrite,” said Corny. “Rest to the dead and all their faults! White Connal is out of my poor Dora’s way, and I am free from my accursed promise!” Then clasping his hands, “Praised be Heaven for that! — Heaven is too good to me! — Oh, my child! how unworthy White Connal of her! — Thank Heaven on my knees, with my whole heart, thank Heaven that I am not forced to the sacrifice! — My child, my darling Dora, she is free! — Harry Ormond, my dear boy, I’m free,” cried O’Shane, embracing Harry with all the warmth of paternal affection.

  Ormond returned that embrace with equal warmth, and with a strong sense of gratitude: but was his joy equal to O’Shane’s? What were his feelings at this moment? They were in such confusion, such contradiction, he could scarcely tell. Before he heard of White Connal’s death, at the time when he was throwing pebbles into the lake, he desired nothing so much as to be able to save Dora from being sacrificed to that odious marriage; he thought, that if he were not bound in honour to his benefactor, he should instantly make that offer of his hand and heart to Dora, which would at once restore her to health, and happiness, and fulfil the wishes of her kind, generous father. But now, when all obstacles seemed to vanish — when his rival was no more — when his benefactor declared his joy at being freed from his promise — when he was embraced as O’Shane’s son, he did not feel joy: he was surprised to find it; but he could not. Now that he could marry Dora, now that her father expected that he should, he was not clear that he wished it himself. Quick as obstacles vanished, objections recurred: faults which he had formerly seen so strongly, which of late compassion had veiled from his view, reappeared; the softness of manner, the improvement of temper, caused by love, might be transient as passion. Then her coquetry — her frivolity. She was not that superior kind of woman which his imagination had painted, or which his judgment could approve of in a wife. How was he to explain this confusion of feeling to Corny? Leaning on his arm, he walked on towards the house. He saw Corny, smiling at his own meditations, was settling the match, and anticipating the joy to all he loved. Harry sighed, and was painfully silent.

  “Shoot across like an arrow to the house,” cried Corny, turning suddenly to him, and giving him a kind push—”shoot off, Harry, and bring Dora to meet me like lightning, and the poor aunt, too—’twould be cruel else! But what stops you, son of my heart?”

  “Stay!” cried Corny, a sudden thought striking him, which accounted for Harry Ormond’s hesitation; “Stop, Harry! You are right, and I am a fool. There is Black Connal, the twin-brother — oh, mercy! — against us still. May be Old Connal will keep me to it still — as he couldn’t, no more than I could, foresee that when I promised Dora that was not then born, it would be twins — and as I said son, and surely I meant the son that would be born then — and twins is all as one as one, they say. Promise fettering still! Bad off as ever, may be,” said Cornelius. His whole countenance and voice changed; he sat down on a fallen tree, and rested his hands on his knees. “What shall we do now, Harry, with Black Connal?”

  “He may be a very different man from White Connal — in every respect,” said Ormond.

  O’Shane looked up for a moment, and then interpreting his own way, exclaimed, “That’s right, Harry — that thought is like yourself, and the very thought I had myself. We must make no declarations till we have cleared the point of honour. Not the most beautiful angel that ever took woman’s beautiful form — and that’s the greatest temptation man can meet — could tempt my Harry Ormond from the straight path of honour!”

  Harry Ormond stood at this moment abashed by praise which he did not quite deserve. “Indeed, sir,” said he, “you give me too much credit.” “I cannot give you too much credit; you are an honourable young man, and I understand you through and through.”

  That was more than Harry himself did. Corny went on talking to himself aloud, “Black Connal is abroad these great many years, ever since he was a boy — never saw him since a child that high — an officer he is in the Irish brigade now — black eyes and hair; that was why they called him Black Connal — Captain Connal now; and I heard the father say he was come to England, and there was some report of his going to be married, if I don’t mistake,” cried Corny, turning again to Harry, pleasure rekindling in his eye. “If that should be! there’s hope for us still; but I see you are right not to yield to the hope till we are clear. My first step, in honour, no doubt, must be across the lake this minute to the father — Connal of Glynn; but the boat is on the other side. The horn is, with my fishing-tackle, Harry, down yonder — run, for you can run — horn the boat, or if the horn be not there, sign to the boat with your handkerchief — bring it up here, and I will put across before ten minutes shall be over — my horse I will have down to the water’s edge by the time you have got the boat up — when an honourable tough job is to be done, the sooner the better.”

  The horse was brought to the water’s edge, the boat came across, Corny and his horse were in; and Corny, with his own hands on the oar, pushed away from land: then calling to Harry, he bid him wait on the shore by such an hour, and he should have the first news.

  “Rest on your oars, you, while I speak to Prince Harry.

  “That you may know all, Harry, sooner than I can tell you, if all be safe, or as we wish it, see, I’ll hoist my neckcloth, white, to the top of this oar; if not, the black flag, or none at all, shall tell you. Say nothing till then — God bless you, boy!” Harry was glad that he had these orders, for he knew that as soon as Mademoiselle should be up, and hear of O’Tara’s early visit, with the message he said he had left at the house that he brought great news, Mademoiselle would soon sally forth to learn what that news might be. In this conjecture Ormond was not mistaken. He soon heard her voice “Mon-Dieu!-ing” at the top of the bank: he ducked — he dived — he darted through nettles and brambles, and escaped. Seen or unseen he escaped, nor stopped his flight even when out of reach of the danger. As to trusting himself to meet Dora’s eyes, “’twas what he dared not.”

  He hid, and wandered up and down, till near dinner-time. At last, O’Shane’s boat was seen returning — but no white flag! The boat rowed nearer and nearer, and reached the spot where Harry stood motionless.

  “Ay, my poor boy, I knew I’d find you so,” said O’Shane, as he got ashore. “There’s my hand, you have my heart — I wish I had another hand to give you — but it’s all over with us, I fear. Oh! my poor Dora! — and here she is coming down the bank, and the aunt! — Oh, Dora! you have reason to hate me!”

  “To hate you, sir? Impossible!” said Ormond, squeezing his hand strongly, as he felt.

  “Impossible! — true — for her to hate, who is all love and loveliness! — impossible too for you, Harry Ormond, who is all goodness!”

  “Bon Dieu!” cried Mademoiselle, who was now within exclamation distance. “What a course we have had after you, gentlemen! Ladies looking for gentlemen! — C’est inouï! — What is it all? for I am
dying with curiosity.”

  Without answering Mademoiselle, the father, and Harry’s eyes, at the same moment, were fixed on one who was some steps behind, and who looked as if dying with a softer passion. Harry made a step forward to offer his arm, but stopped short; the father offered his, in silence.

  “Can nobody speak to me? — Bien poli!” said Mademoiselle.

  “If you please, Miss O’Faley, ma’am,” cried a hatless footman, who had run after the ladies the wrong way from the house: “if you please, ma’am, will she send up dinner now?”

  “Oui, qu’on serve! — Yes, she will. Let her dish — by that time she is dished, we shall be in — and have satisfied our curiosity, I hope,” added she, turning to her brother-in-law.

  “Let us dine first,” said Cornelius, “and when the cloth is removed, and the waiting-ears out of hearing, time enough to have our talk to ourselves.”

  “Bien singulier, ces Anglois!” muttered Mademoiselle to herself, as they proceeded to the house. “Here is a young man, and the most polite of the silent company, who may well be in some haste for his dinner; for to my knowledge, he is without his breakfast.”

  Harry had no appetite for dinner, but swallowed as much as Mademoiselle O’Faley desired. A remarkably silent meal it would have been, but for her happy volubility, equal to all occasions. At last came the long expected words, “Take away.” When all was taken away, and all were gone, but those who, as O’Shane said, would too soon wish unheard what they were dying to hear, he drew his daughter’s chair close to him, placed her so as “to save her blushes,” and began his story, by relating all that O’Tara had told.

  “It was a sudden death — shocking!” Mademoiselle repeated several times; but both she and Dora recovered from the shock, or from the word “shocking!” and felt the delight of Dora’s being no longer a sacrifice.

  After a general thanksgiving having been offered for her escape from the butor, Mademoiselle, in transports, was going on to say that now her niece was free to make a suitable match, and she was just turning to wonder that Harry Ormond was not that moment at her niece’s feet; and Dora’s eyes, raised slowly towards him and suddenly retracted, abashed and perplexed Harry indescribably; when Corny continued thus: “Dora is not free, nor am I free in honour yet, nor can I give any body freedom of tongue or heart until I know farther.”

  Various exclamations of surprise and sorrow interrupted him.

  “Am I never, never, to be free!” cried Dora: “Oh! am not I now at liberty?”

  “Hear me, my child,” said her father; “I feel it as you do.”

  “And what is it next — Qu’est-ce que c’est — this new obstacle? — What can it be?” said Mademoiselle.

  The father then stated sorrowfully, that Old Connal of Glynn would by no means relinquish the promise, but considered it equally binding for the twin born with White Connal, considering both twins as coming under the promise to his son that was to be born. He said he would write immediately to his son, who was now in England.

  “And now tell me what kind of a person is this new pretender, this Mr. Black Connal,” cried Mademoiselle.

  “Of him we know nothing as yet,” said O’Shane; “but I hope, in Heaven, that the man that is coming is as different from the man that’s gone as black from white.”

  Harry heard Dora breathe quick and quicker, but she said nothing.

  “Then we shall get his answer to the father’s letter in eight days, I count,” said Mademoiselle; “and I have great hopes we shall never be troubled with him: we shall know if he will come or not, in eight days.”

  “About that time,” said O’Shane: “but, sister O’Faley, do not nurse my child or yourself up with deceitful hopes. There’s not a man alive — not a Connal, surely, hearing what happiness he is heir to, but would come flying over post-haste. So you may expect his answer, in eight days — Dora, my darling, and God grant he may be—”

  “No matter what he is, sir — I’ll die before I will see him,” cried Dora, rising, and bursting into tears.

  “Oh, my child, you won’t die! — you can’t — from me, your father!” Her father threw his arms round her, and would have drawn her to him, but she turned her face from him: Harry was on the other side — her eyes met his, and her face became covered with blushes.

  “Open the window, Harry!” said O’Shane, who saw the conflict; “open the window! — we all want it.”

  Harry opened the window, and hung out of it gasping for breath.

  “She’s gone — the aunt has taken her off — it’s over for this fit,” said O’Shane. “Oh, my child, I must go through with it! My boy, I honour as I love you — I have a great deal to say about your own affairs, Harry.”

  “My affairs — oh! what affairs have I? Never think of me, dear sir—”

  “I will — but can’t now — I am spent for this day — leave out the bottle of claret for Father Jos, and I’ll get to bed — I’ll see nobody, tell Father Jos — I’m gone to my room.”

  The next morning O’Tara came to breakfast. Every person had a different question to ask him, except Dora, who was silent.

  Corny asked what kind of man Black Connal was. Mademoiselle inquired whether he was most French or English; Ormond, whether he was going to be married.

  To all these questions O’Tara pleaded ignorance: except with respect to the sports of the field, he had very little curiosity or intelligence.

  A ray of hope again darted across the mind of Corny. From his knowledge of the world, he thought it very probable that a young officer in the French brigade would be well contented to be heir to his brother’s fortune, without encumbering himself with an Irish wife, taken from an obscure part of the country. Corny, therefore, eagerly inquired from O’Tara what became of White Connal’s property. O’Tara answered, that the common cry of the country was, that all White Connal’s profitable farms were leasehold property, and upon his own life. Poor Corny’s hopes were thus frustrated: he had nothing left to do for some days but to pity Harry Ormond, to bear with the curiosity and impatience of Mademoiselle, and with the froward sullenness of Dora, till some intelligence should arrive respecting the new claimant to her destined hand.

  CHAPTER XIV

  A few days afterwards, Sheelah, bursting into Dora’s room, exclaimed, “Miss Dora! Miss Dora! for the love of God, they are coming! They’re coming down the avenue, powdering along! Black Connal himself flaming away, with one in a gold hat, this big, galloping after, and all gold over, he is entirely! — Oh! what will become of us, Master Harry, now! Oh! it took the sight out of my eyes! — And yours as red as ferrets, dear! — Oh! the cratur. But come to the window and look out — nobody will mind — stretch out the body, and I’ll hold ye fast, never fear! — at the turn of the big wood do you see them behind the trees, the fir dales, glittering and flaming? Do you see them at all?”

  “Too plainly,” said Dora, sighing; “but I did not expect he would come in such a grand style. I wonder—”

  “Oh! so do I, greatly — mostly at the carriage. Never saw the like with the Connals, so grand — but the queer thing—”

  “Ah! my dear Dore, un cabriolet!” cried Mademoiselle, entering in ecstacy. “Here is Monsieur de Connal for you in a French cabriolet, and a French servant riding on to advertise you and all. Oh! what are you twisting your neck, child? I will have no toss at him now — he is all the gentleman, you shall see: so let me set you all to rights while your father is receive. I would not have him see you such a horrible figure — not presentable! you look—”

  “I do not care how I look — the worse the better,” said Dora: “I wish to look a horrible figure to him — to Black Connal.”

  “Oh! put your Black Connals out of your head — that is always in your mouth: I tell you he is call M. de Connal. Now did I not hear him this minute announced by his own valet? — Monsieur de Connal presents his compliments — he beg permission to present himself — and there was I, luckily, to answer for your father in French.�
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  “French! sure Black Connal’s Irish born!” said Sheelah: “that much I know, any way.”

  A servant knocked at the door with King Corny’s request that the ladies would come down stairs, to see, as the footman added to his master’s message, to see old Mr. Connal and the French gentleman.

  “There! French, I told you,” said Mademoiselle, “and quite the gentleman, depend upon it, my dear — come your ways.”

  “No matter what he is,” said Dora, “I shall not go down to see him; so you had better go by yourself, aunt.”

  “Not one step! Oh! that would be the height of impolitesse and disobedience — you could not do that, my dear Dore; consider, he is not a man that nobody knows, like your old butor of a White Connal. Not signify how bad you treat him — like the dog; but here is a man of a certain quality, who knows the best people in Paris, who can talk, and tell every where. Oh! in conscience, my dear Dore, I shall not suffer these airs with a man who is somebody, and—”

  “If he were the king of France,” cried Dora, “if he were Alexander the Great himself, I would not be forced to see the man, or marry him against my will!”

  “Marry! Who talk of marry? Not come to that yet; ten to one he has no thought of you, more than politeness require.”

  “Oh! as to that,” said Dora, “aunt, you certainly are mistaken there. What do you think he comes over to Ireland, what do you think he comes here for?”

  “Hark! then,” said Sheelah, “don’t I hear them out of the window? Faith! there they are, walking and talking and laughing, as if there was nothing at all in it.”

  “Just Heavens! What a handsome uniform!” said Miss O’Faley; “and a very proper-looking man,” said Sheelah.

  “Well, who’d have thought Black Connal, if it’s him, would ever have turned out so fine a presence of a man to look at?”

  “Very cavalier, indeed, to go out to walk, without waiting to see us,” said Dora.