Though Sir Ulick O’Shane contrived to laugh on most occasions where other people would have wept, and though he had pretty well case-hardened his heart, yet he was shocked by the first news of the death of Sir Herbert Annaly. He knew the man must die, he said — so must we all, sooner or later — but for the manner of his death, Sir Ulick could not help feeling a secret pang. He felt conscious of having encouraged, or at least connived at, the practices of those wretches who had roused the generous and just indignation of Sir Herbert, and in pursuit of whom this fine young man had fallen a sacrifice.
Not only the “still small voice,” but the cry of the country, was against Sir Ulick on this occasion. He saw that he must give up the offenders, and show decidedly that he desired to have them punished. Decidedly, then, and easily, as ever prince abandoned secretary or chancellor to save his own popularity, quickly as ever grand seignior gave up grand vizier or chief baker to appease the people, Sir Ulick gave up his “honest rascals,” his “rare rapparees,” and even his “wrecker royal.” Sir Ulick set his magistrate, Mr. M’Crule, at work for once on the side both of justice and law; warrants, committals, and constables, cleared the land. Many fled — a few were seized, escorted ostentatiously by a serjeant and twelve of Sir Ulick’s corps, and lodged in the county jail to stand their trial, bereft of all favour and purtection, bona fide delivered up to justice.
A considerable tract of Sir Ulick’s coast estate, in consequence of this, remained untenanted. Some person in whom he could confide must be selected to inhabit the fishing-lodge, and to take care of the cabins and land till they should be relet. Sir Ulick pitched upon Moriarty Carroll for this purpose, and promised him such liberal reward, that all Moriarty’s friends congratulated him upon his “great luck in getting the appointment, against the man, too, that Mr. Marcus had proposed and favoured.”
Marcus, who was jealous in the extreme of power, and who made every trifle a matter of party competition, was vexed at the preference given against an honest man and a friend of his own, in favour of Moriarty, a catholic; a fellow he had always disliked, and a protege of Mr. Ormond. Ormond, though obliged to Sir Ulick for this kindness to Moriarty, was too intent on other things to think much about the matter. When he should see Florence Annaly again, seemed to him the only question in the universe of great importance.
Just at this time arrived letters for Mr. Ormond, from Paris, from M. and Mad. de Connal; very kind letters, with pressing invitations to him to pay them a visit. M. de Connal informed him, “that the five hundred pounds, King Corny’s legacy, was ready waiting his orders. M. de Connal hoped to put it into Mr. Ormond’s hands in Paris in his own hotel, where he trusted that Mr. Ormond would do him the pleasure of soon occupying the apartments which were preparing for him.” It did not clearly appear whether they had or had not heard of his accession of fortune. Dora’s letter was not from Dora— it was from Mad. de Connal. It was on green paper, with a border of Cupids and roses, and store of sentimental devices in the corners. The turn of every phrase, the style, as far as Ormond could judge, was quite French — aiming evidently at being perfectly Parisian. Yet it was a letter so flattering to the vanity of man as might well incline him to excuse the vanity of woman. “Besides,” as Sir Ulick O’Shane observed, “after making due deductions for French sentiment, there remains enough to satisfy an honest English heart that the lady really desires to see you, Ormond; and that now, in the midst of her Parisian prosperity, she has the grace to wish to show kindness to her father’s adopted son, and to the companion and friend of her childhood.” Sir Ulick was of opinion that Ormond could not do better than accept the invitation. Ormond was surprised, for he well recollected the manner in which his guardian had formerly, and not many months ago, written and spoken of Connal as a coxcomb and something worse.
“That is true,” said Sir Ulick; “but that was when I was angry about your legacy, which was of great consequence to us then, though of none now — I certainly did suspect the man of a design to cheat you; but it is clear that I was wrong — I am ready candidly to acknowledge that I did him injustice. Your money is at your order — and I have nothing to say, but to beg M. de Connal ten thousand French pardons. Observe, I do not beg pardon for calling him a coxcomb, for a coxcomb he certainly is.”
“An insufferable coxcomb!” cried Ormond.
“But a coxcomb in fashion,” said Sir Ulick; “and a coxcomb in fashion is a useful connexion. He did not fable about Versailles — I have made particular inquiries from our ambassador at Paris, and he writes me word that Connal is often at court —en bonne odeur at Versailles. The ambassador says he meets the Connals every where in the first circles — how they came there I don’t know.”
“I am glad to hear that, for Dora’s sake,” said Ormond.
“I always thought her a sweet, pretty little creature,” said Sir Ulick, “and no doubt she has been polished up; and dress and fashion make such a difference in a woman — I suppose she is now ten times better — that is, prettier: she will introduce you at Paris, and your own merit— that is, manners, and figure, and fortune — will make your way every where. By-the-bye, I do not see a word about poor Mademoiselle — Oh, yes! here is a Line squeezed in at the edge —‘Mille tendres souvenirs de la part de Mdlle. O’Faley.’”
“Poor Mademoiselle!”
“Poor Mademoiselle!” repeated Sir Ulick.
“Do you mean that thing half Irish, half French, half mud, half tinsel?” said Ormond.
“Very good memory! very sly, Harry! But still in the Irish half of her I dare say there is a heart; and we must allow her the tinsel, in pure gratitude, for having taught you to speak French so well — that will be a real advantage to you in Paris.”
“Whenever I go there, sir,” said Ormond, coldly.
Sir Ulick was very much disappointed at perceiving that Ormond had no mind to go to Paris; but dropping the subject, he turned the conversation upon the Annalys: he praised Florence to the skies, hoped that Ormond would be more fortunate than Marcus had been, for somehow or other, he should never live or die in peace till Florence Annaly was more nearly connected with him. He regretted, however, that poor Sir Herbert was carried off before he had completed the levying of those fines, which would have cut off the entail, and barred the heir-at-law from the Herbert estates. Florence was not now the great heiress it was once expected she should be; indeed she had but a moderate gentlewoman’s fortune — not even what at Smithfield a man of Ormond’s fortune might expect; but Sir Ulick knew, he said, that this would make no difference to his ward, unless to make him in greater impatience to propose for her.
It was impossible to be in greater impatience to propose for her than Ormond was. Sir Ulick did not wonder at it; but he thought that Miss Annaly would not, could not, listen to him yet. Time, the comforter, must come first; and while time was doing this business, love could not decently be admitted.
“That was the reason,” said Ulick, returning by another road to the charge, “why I advised a trip to Paris; but you know best.”
“I cannot bear this suspense — I must and will know my fate — I will write instantly, and obtain an answer.”
“Do so; and to save time, I can tell what your fate and your answer will be: from Florence Annaly, assurance of perfect esteem and regard, as far as friendship, perhaps; but she will tell you that she cannot think of love at present. Lady Annaly, prudent Lady Annaly, will say that she hopes Mr. Ormond will not think of settling for life till he has seen something more of the world. Well, you don’t believe me,” said Sir Ulick, interrupting himself just at the moment when he saw that Ormond began to think there was some sense in what he was saying.
“If you don’t believe me, Harry,” continued he, “consult your oracle, Dr. Cambray: he has just returned from Annaly, and he can tell you how the land lies.”
Dr. Cambray agreed with Sir Ulick that both Lady Annaly and her daughter would desire that Ormond should see more of the world before he settled for life; but as to going off to Paris, without waiting to see or write to them, Dr. Cambray agreed with Ormond that it would be the worst thing he could do — that so far from appearing a proof of his respect to their grief, it would only seem a proof of indifference, or a sign of impatience: they would conclude that he was in haste to leave his friends in adversity, to go to those in prosperity, and to enjoy the gaiety and dissipation of Paris. Dr. Cambray advised that he should remain quietly where he was, and wait till Miss Annaly should be disposed to see him. This was most prudent, Ormond allowed. “But then the delay!” To conquer by delay we must begin by conquering our impatience: now that was what our hero could not possibly do — therefore he jumped hastily to this conclusion, that “in love affairs no man should follow any mortal’s opinion but his own.”
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’Rei............