Harry Ormond thought it hard to bear unmerited reproach and suspicion; found it painful to endure the altered eye of his once kind and always generous, and to him always dear, friend and benefactor. But Ormond had given a solemn promise to White Connal never to mention any thing that had passed between them to O’Shane; and he could not therefore explain these circumstances of the quarrel. Conscious that he was doing right, he kept his promise to the person he hated and despised, at the hazard, at the certainty, of displeasing the man he most loved in the world; and to whom he was the most obliged. While his heart yearned with tenderness towards his adopted father, he endured the reproach of ingratitude; and while he knew he had acted perfectly honourably, he suffered under the suspicion of equivocation and breach of confidence: he bore it all; and in reward he had the conviction of his own firmness, and an experience, upon trial, of his adherence to his word of honour. The trial may seem but trivial, the promise but weak: still it was a great trial to him, and he thought the promise as sacred as if it had been about an affair of state.
It happened some days after the conversation had passed between him and O’Shane, that Cornelius met O’Tara, the gentleman who had laid the bets about the cock-fight with Connal; and chancing to ask him what had prevented the intended battle, O’Tara told all he knew of the adventure. Being a good-natured and good-humoured man, he stated the matter as playfully as possible — acknowledged that they had all been foolish and angry; but that Harry Ormond and Moriarty had at last pacified them by proper apologies. Of what had passed afterwards, of the bullying, and the challenge, and the submission, O’Tara knew nothing; but King Corny having once been put on the right scent, soon made it all out. He sent for Moriarty, and cross-questioning him, heard the whole; for Moriarty had not been sworn to secrecy, and had very good ears. When he had been turned out of the stable, he had retreated only to the harness-room, and had heard all that had passed. King Corny was delighted with Harry’s spirit — and now he was Prince Harry again, and the generous, warm-hearted Cornelius went, in impatience, to seek him out, and to beg his pardon for his suspicions. He embraced him, called him son, and dear son — said he had now found out, no thanks to him, Connal’s cause of complaint, and it had nothing to do with Dora. —“But why could not you say so, man?”
He had said so repeatedly.
“Well, so I suppose it is to be made out clearly to be all my fault, that was in a passion, and could not hear, understand, or believe. Well, be it so; if I was unjust, I’ll make it up to you, for I’ll never believe my own ears, or eyes, against you, Harry, while I live, depend upon it:— if I heard you asking her to marry you, I would believe my ears brought me the words wrong; if I saw you even leading her into the church instead of the chapel, and the priest himself warning me of it, I’d say and think, Father Jos, ’tis a mistake — a vision — or a defect of vision. In short, I love and trust you as my own soul, Harry Ormond, for I did you injustice.”
This full return of kindness and confidence, besides the present delight it gave him, left a permanent and beneficial impression upon our young hero’s mind. The admiration he felt for O’Shane’s generous conduct, and the self-approbation he enjoyed in consequence of his own honourable firmness, had a great effect in strengthening and forming his character: it also rendered him immediately more careful in his whole behaviour towards Miss O’Shane. He was prudent till both aunt and niece felt indignant astonishment. There was some young lady with whom Harry had danced and walked, and of whom he had, without any design, spoken as a pleasing gentle girl. Dora recollected this praise, and joining it with his present distant behaviour toward herself, she was piqued and jealous; and then she became, what probably she would never otherwise have been, quite decided in her partiality for Harry Ormond. The proofs of this were soon so manifest, that many thought, and Miss O’Faley in particular, that Harry was grown stupid, blind, and deaf. He was net stupid, blind, or deaf — he had felt the full power of Dora’s personal charms, and his vanity had been flattered by the preference which Dora showed for him. Where vanity is the ruling passion, young men are easily flattered into being in love with any pretty, perhaps with any ugly girl, who is, or who affects to be, in love with them. But Harry Ormond had more tenderness of heart than vanity: against the suggestions of his vanity he had struggled successfully; but now his heart had a hard trial. Dora’s spirits were failing, her cheek growing pale, her tone of voice was quite softened; sighs would sometimes break forth — persuasive sighs! — Dora was no longer the scornful lady in rude health, but the interesting invalid — the victim going to be sacrificed. Dora’s aunt talked of the necessity of advice for her niece’s health. Great stress was laid on air and exercise, and exercise on horseback. Dora rode every day on the horse Harry Ormond broke in for her, the only horse she could now ride; and Harry understood its ways, and managed it so much better than any body else; and Dora was grown a coward, so that it was quite necessary he should ride or walk beside her. Harry Ormond’s tenderness of heart increased his idea of the danger. Her personal charms became infinitely more attractive to him; her defects of temper and character were forgotten and lost in his sense of pity and gratitude; and the struggle of his feelings was now violent.
One morning our young hero rose early, for he could no longer sleep, and he walked out, or, more properly, he rambled, or he strolled, or streamed out, and he took his way — no, his steps were irresistibly led — to his accustomed haunt by the water side, under the hawthorn bank, and there he walked and picked daisies, and threw stones into the lake, and he loitered on, still thinking of Dora and death, and of the circles in the water, and again of the victim and of the sacrifice, when suddenly he was roused from his reverie by a shrill whistle, that seemed to come from the wood above, and an instant afterwards he heard some one shouting, “Harry Ormond! — Harry Ormond!”
“Here!” answered Harry; and as the shouts were repeated he recognized the voice of O’Tara, who now came, whip in hand, followed by his dogs, running down the bank to him.
“Oh! Harry Ormond, I’ve brought great news with me for all at Corny Castle; but the ladies are not out of their nests, and King Corny’s Lord knows how far off. Not a soul or body to be had but yourself here, by good luck, and you shall have the first of the news, and the telling of it.”
“Thank you,” said Ormond; “and what is the news?”
“First and foremost,” said O’Tara, “you know birds of a feather flock together. White Connal, though, except for the cock-fighting, I never relished him, was mighty fond of me, and invited me down to Connal’s-town, where I’ve been with him this week — you know that much, I conclude.”
Harry owned he did not.
O’Tara wondered how he could help knowing it. “But so it was; we had a great cock-fight, and White Connal, who knew none of my secrets in the feeding line, was bet out and out, and angry enough he was; and then I offered to change birds with him, and beat him with his own Ginger by my superiority o’ feeding, which he scoffed at, but lookup the bet.”
Ormond sighed with impatience in vain — he was forced to submit, and to go through the whole detail of the cock-fight. “The end of it was, that White Connal was worsted by his own bird, and then mad angry was he. So, then,” continued O’Tara, “to get the triumph again on his side, one way or another, was the thing. I had the advantage of him in dogs, too, for he kept no hounds — you know he is close, and hounds lead to a gentlemanlike expense; but very fine horses he had, I’ll acknowledge, and, Harry Ormond, you can’t but remember that one which he could not manage the day he was out riding here with Miss Dora, and you changed with him.”
“I remember it well,” said Ormond.
“Ay, and he has got reason to remember it now, sure enough.”
“Has he had a fall?” said Ormond, stopping.
“Walk on, can’t ye — keep up, and I’ll tell you all regular.”
“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,............