Accordingly he sat down and wrote to Miss Annaly a most passionate letter, enclosed in a most dutiful one to Lady Annaly, as full of respectful attachment and entire obedience, as a son-in-law expectant could devise — beginning very properly and very sincerely, with anxiety and hopes about her ladyship’s health, and ending, as properly, and as sincerely, with hopes that her ladyship would permit him, as soon as possible, to take from her the greatest, the only remaining source of happiness she had in life — her daughter.
Having worded this very plausibly — for he had now learned how to write a letter — our hero despatched a servant of Sir Ulick’s with his epistle; ordering him to wait certainly for an answer, but above all things to make haste back. Accordingly the man took a cross road — a short cut, and coming to a bridge, which he did not know was broken down till he was close upon it, he was obliged to return and to go round, and did not get home till long after dark — and the only answer he brought was, that there was no answer — only Lady Annaly’s compliments.
Ormond could scarcely believe that no answer had been sent; but the man took all the saints in heaven, or in the calendar, to witness, that he would not tell his honour, or any jantleman, a lie.
Upon a cross-examination, the man gave proof that he had actually seen both the ladies. They were sitting so and so, and dressed so and so, in mourning. Farther, he gave undeniable proof that he had delivered the letters, and that they had been opened and read; for — by the same token — he was summoned up to my lady on account of one of Mr. Ormond’s letters, he did not know which, or to who, being dated Monday, whereas it was Wednesday; and he had to clear himself of having been three days on the road.
Ormond, inordinately impatient, could not rest a moment. The next morning he set off at full speed for Annaly, determined to find out what was the matter.
Arrived there, a new footman came to the door with “Not at home, sir.” Ormond could have knocked him down, but he contented himself with striking his own forehead — however, in a genteel proper voice, he desired to see Sir Herbert’s own man, O’Reilly.
“Mr. O’Reilly is not here, sir — absent on business.”
Every thing was adverse. Ormond had one hope, that this new fellow, not knowing him, might by mistake have included him in a general order against morning visitors.
“My name is Ormond, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I beg you will let Lady Annaly and Miss Annaly know that Mr. Ormond is come to pay his respects to them.”
The man seemed very unwilling to carry any message to his ladies. “He was sure,” he said, “that the ladies would not see anybody.”
“Was Lady Annaly ill?”
“Her ladyship had been but poorly, but was better within the last two days.”
“And Miss Annaly?”
“Wonderful better, too, sir; has got up her spirits greatly to-day.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said Ormond. “Pray, sir, can you tell me whether a servant from Mr. Ormond brought a letter here yesterday?”
“He did, sir.”
“And was there any answer sent?”
“I really can’t say, sir.”
“Be so good to take my name to your lady,” repeated Ormond.
“Indeed, sir, I don’t like to go in, for I know my lady — both my ladies is engaged, very particularly engaged — however, if you very positively desire it, sir—”
Ormond did very positively desire it, and the footman obeyed. While Ormond was waiting impatiently for the answer, his horse, as impatient as himself, would not stand still. A groom, who was sauntering about, saw the uneasiness of the horse, and observing that it was occasioned by a peacock, who, with spread tail, was strutting in the sunshine, he ran and chased the bird away. Ormond thanked the groom, and threw him a luck token; but not recollecting his face, asked how long he had been at Annaly. “I think you were not here when I was here last?” said Ormond.
“No, sir.” said the man, looking a little puzzled; “I never was here till the day before yesterday in my born days. We bees from England.”
“We!”
“That is, I and master — that is, master and I.” Ormond grew pale; but the groom saw nothing of it — his eyes had fixed upon Ormond’s horse.
“A very fine horse this of yours, sir, for sartain, if he could but stand, sir; he’s main restless at a door. My master’s horse is just his match for that.”
“And pray who is your master, sir?” said Ormond, in a voice which he forced to be calm.
“My master, sir, is one Colonel Albemarle, son of the famous General Albemarle, as lost his arm, sir, you might have heard talk of, time back,” said the groom.
At this moment a window-blind was flapped aside, and before the wind blew it back to its place again, Ormond saw Florence Annaly sitting on a sofa, and a gentleman, in regimentals, kneeling at her feet.
“Bless my eyes!” cried the groom, “what made you let go his bridle, sir? Only you sat him well, sir, he would ha’ thrown you that minute — Curse the blind! that flapped in his eyes.”
The footman re-appeared on the steps. “Sir, it is just as I said — I could not be let in. Mrs. Spencer, my lady’s woman, says the ladies is engaged — you can’t see them.”
Ormond had seen enough.
“Very well, sir,” said he—”Mr. Ormond’s compliments — he called, that’s all.”
Ormond put spurs to his horse, and galloped off; and, fast as he went, he urged his horse still faster.
In the agony of disappointed love and jealousy, he railed bitterly against the whole sex, and against Florence Annaly in particular. Many were the rash vows he made that he would never think of her more — that he would tear her from his heart — that he would show her that he was no whining lover, no easy dupe, to be whiffled off and on, the sport of a coquette.
“A coquette! — is it possible, Florence Annaly? — You — and after all!”
Certain tender recollections obtruded; but he repelled them — he would not allow one of them to mitigate his rage. His naturally violent passion of anger, now that it broke again from the control of his reason, seemed the more ungovernable from the sense of past and the dread of future restraint.
So, when a horse naturally violent, and half trained to the curb, takes fright, or takes offence, and, starting, throws his master, away he gallops; enraged the more by the falling bridle, he rears, plunges, curvets, and lashes out behind at broken girth or imaginary pursuer.
“Good Heavens! what is the matter with you, my dear boy? — what has happened?” cried Sir Ulick, the moment he saw him; for the disorder of Ormond’s mind appeared strongly in his face and gestures — still more strongly in his words.
When he attempted to give an account of what had happened, it was so broken, so exclamatory, that it was wonderful how Sir Ulick made out the plain fact. Sir Ulick, however, well understood the short-hand language of the passions: he listened with eager interest — he sympathized so fully with Ormond’s feelings — expressed such astonishment, such indignation, that Harry, feeling him to be his warm friend, loved him as heartily as in the days of his childhood.
Sir Ulick saw and seized the advantage: he had almost despaired of accomplishing his purpose — now was the critical instant.
“Harry Ormond,” said he, “would you make Florence Annaly feel to the quick — would you make her repent in sackcloth and ashes — would you make her pine for you, ay! till her very heart is sick?”
“Would I? to be sure — show me how! — only show me how!” cried Ormond.
“Look ye, Harry! to have and to hold a woman — trust me, for I have had and held many — to have and to hold a woman, you must first show her that you can, if you will, fling her from you — ay! and leave her there: set off for Paris to-morrow morning — my life upon it, the moment she hears you are gone, she will wish you back again!”
“I’ll set off to-night,” said Ormond, ringing the bell to give orders to his servant t
o prepare immediately for his departure.
Thus Sir Ulick, seizing precisely the moment when Ormond’s mind was at the right heat, aiming with dexterity and striking with force, bent and moulded him to his purpose.
While preparations for Ormond’s journey were making, Sir Ulick said that there was one thing he must insist upon his doing before he quitted Castle Hermitage — he must look over and settle his guardianship accounts.
Ormond, whose head was far from business at this moment, was very reluctant: he said that the accounts could wait till he should return from France; but Sir Ulick observed that if he, or if Ormond were to die, leaving the thing unsettled, it would be loss of property to the one, and loss of credit to the other. Ormond then begged that the accounts might be sent after him to Paris; he would look over them there at leisure, and sign them. No, Sir Ulick said, they ought to be signed by some forthcoming witness in this country. He urged it so much, and put it upon the footing of his own credit and honour in such a manner, that Ormond could not refuse. He seized the papers, and took a pen to sign them; but Sir Ulick snatched the pen from his hand, and absolutely insisted upon his first knowing what he was going to sign.
“The whole account could have been looked over while we have been talking about it,” said Sir Ulick.
Ormond sat down and looked it over, examined all the vouchers, saw that every thing was perfectly right and fair, signed the accounts, and esteemed Sir Ulick the more for having insisted upon showing, and proving that all was exact.
Sir Ulick offered to manage his affairs for him while he was away, particularly a large sum which Ormond had in the English funds. Sir Ulick had a banker and a broker in London, on whom he could depend, and he had, from his place and connexions, means of obtaining good information in public affairs; he had made a great deal himself by speculations in the funds, and he could buy in and sell out to great advantage, he said, for Ormond. But for this purpose a power of attorney was necessary to be given by Ormond to Sir Ulick.
There was scarcely time to draw one up, nor was Sir Ulick sure that there was a printed form in the house. Luckily, however, a proper power was found, and filled up, and Ormond had just time to sign it before he stepped into the carriage: he embraced his guardian, and thanked him heartily for his care of the interests of his purse, and still more for the sympathy he had shown in the interests of his heart. Sir Ulick was moved at parting with him, and this struck Harry the more, because he certainly struggled to suppress his feelings. Ormond stopped at Vicar’s Dale to tell Dr. Cambray all that had happened, to thank him and his family for their kindness, and to take leave of them.
They were indeed astonished when he entered, saying, “Any commands, my good friends, for London or Paris? I am on my way there — carriage at the door.”
At first they could not believe him to be serious; but when they heard his story, and saw by the agitation of his manner that he was in earnest, they were still more surprised at the suddenness of his determination. They all believed and represented to him that there must be some mistake, and that he was not cool enough to judge sanely at this moment.
Dr. Cambray observed that Miss Annaly could not prevent any man from kneeling to her. Ormond haughtily said, “He did not know what she could prevent, he only knew what she did. She had not vouchsafed an answer to his letter — she had not admitted him. These he thought were sufficient indications that the person at her feet was accepted. Whether he were or not, Ormond would inquire no further. She might now accept or refuse, as she pleased — he would go to Paris.”
His friends had nothing more to say or to do, but to sigh, and to wish him a good journey, and much pleasure at Paris.
Ormond now requested that Dr. Cambray would have the goodness to write to him from time to time, to inform him of whatever he might wish to know during his absence. He was much mortified to hear from the doctor that he was obliged to proceed, with his family, for some months, to a distant part of the north of England; and that, as to the Annalys, they were immediately removing to the sea-coast of Devonshire, for the benefit of a mild climate and of sea-bathing. Ormond, therefore, had no resource but in his guardian. Sir Ulick’s affairs, however, were to take him over to London, from whence Ormond could not expect much satisfactory intelligence with respect to Ireland.
Ormond flew to Dublin, crossed the channel in an express boat, travelled night and day in the mail to London, from thence to Dover — crossed the water in a storm, and travelled with the utmost expedition to Paris, though there was no one reason why he should be in haste; and for so much, his travelling was as little profitable or amusing as possible. He saw, heard, and understood nothing, till he reached Paris.
It has been said that the traveller without sensibility may travel from Dan to Beersheba, without finding any thing worth seeing. The traveller who has too much sensibility often observes as little — of this all persons must be sensible, who have ever travelled when their minds were engrossed with painful feelings, or possessed by any strong passion.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Ormond had written to M. and Madame de Connal to announce his intentions of spending some time in Paris, and to thank them for the invitation to their house; an invitation which, however, he declined accepting; but he requested M. de Connal to secure apartments for him in some hotel near them.
Upon his arrival he found every thing prepared for a Milord Anglois: handsome apartments, fashionable carriage, well-powdered laquais, and a valet-de-chambre, waited the orders of monsieur.
Connal was with him a few minutes after his arrival — welcomed him to Paris with cordial gaiety — was more glad, and more sorry, and said more in five minutes, and above all made more protestations of regard, than an Englishman would make in a year.
He was rejoiced — delighted — enchanted to see Mr. Ormond. Madame de Connal was absolutely transported with joy when she heard he was on his road to Paris. Madame was now at Versailles; but she would return in a few days: she would be in despair at Mr. Ormond’s not accepting the apartments in the Hotel de Connal, which were actually prepared for him; but in fact it was nearly the same thing, within two doors of them. He hoped Mr. Ormond liked his apartments — but in truth that was of little consequence, for he would never be in them, except when he was asleep or dressing.
Ormond thought the apartments quite superb, and was going to have thanked M. de Connal for the trouble he had taken; but at the word superbe, Connal ran on again with French vivacity of imagination.
“Certainly, Mr. Ormond ought,” he said, “to have every thing now in the first style.” He congratulated our hero on his accession of fortune, “of which Madame de Connal and he had heard with inexpressible joy. And Mdlle. O’Faley, too, she who had always prophesied that they should meet in happiness at Paris, was now absolutely in ecstasy.”
“You have no idea, in short, my dear Ormond, of what a strong impression you left on all our minds — no conception of the lively interest you always inspired.”
It was a lively interest which had slumbered quietly for a considerable time, but now it wakened with perfectly good grace. Ormond set little value on these sudden protestations, and his pride felt a sort of fear that it should be supposed he was deceived by them; yet, altogether, the manner was agreeable, and Connal was essentially useful at this moment: as Sir Ulick had justly observed, a coxcomb in fashion may, in certain circumstances, be a useful friend.
“But, my dear fellow,” cried Connal, “what savage cut your hair last? — It is a sin to trust your fine head to the barbarians — my hairdresser shall be with you in the twinkling of an eye: I will send my tailor — allow me to choose your embroidery, and see your lace, before you decide — I am said to have a tolerable taste — the ladies say so, and they are always the best judges. The French dress will become you prodigiously, I foresee — but, just Heaven! — what buckles! — those must have been made before the flood: no disparagement to your taste, but what could you do better in the Black Islands? Paris is the onl
y place for bijouterie — except in steel, Paris surpasses the universe — your eyes will be dazzled by the Palais Royal. But this hat! — you know it can’t appear — it would destroy you: my chapelier shall be with you instantly. It will all be done in five minutes — you have no idea of the celerity with which you may command every thing at Paris. But I am so sorry that madame is at Versailles, and that I am under a necessity of being there myself to-morrow for the rest of this week; but I have a friend, a little Abbé, who will be delighted in the mean time to show you Paris.”
From the moment of his arrival at Paris, Ormond resolved to put Florence Annaly completely out of his thoughts, and to drown in gaiety and dissipation the too painful recollection of her duplicity towards him. He was glad to have a few days to look about him, and to see something of Paris.
He should like, as he told M. de Connal, to go to the play, to accustom himself to the language. He must wear off his English or Irish awkwardness a little, before he should be presented to Madame de Connal, or appear in French society. A profusion of compliments followed from M. de Connal; but Ormond persisting, it was settled that he should go incog. this night to the Théâtre François.
Connal called upon him in the evening, and took him to the theatre.
They were in une petite loge, where they could see without being seen. In the box with them was the young Abbé, and a pretty little French actress, Mdlle. Adrienne. At the first coup-d’oeil, the French ladies did not strike him as handsome; they looked, as he said, like dolls, all eyes and rouge; and rouge, as he thought, very unbecomingly put on, in one frightful red patch or plaster, high upon the cheek, without any pretence to the imitation of natural colour.
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