Tales and Novels Volume IX Part 32

"And the land--which you are no judge of yet, but you will--is as good as it is pretty," said King Corny, "which I am glad of for your sake, Prince Harry; I won't have you, like that _donny_ English prince or king, they nicknamed _Lackland_.--No: you sha'n't lack land while I have it to let or give. I called you prince--Prince of the Black Islands--and here's your princ.i.p.ality. Call out my prime minister, Pat Moore. I sent him across the bog to meet us at Moriarty's. Here he is, and Moriarty along with him to welcome you. Patrick, give Prince Harry possession--with sod and twig. Here's the kay from my own hand, and I give you joy. Nay, don't deny me the pleasure--I've a right to it.

No wrong to my daughter, if that's what you are thinking of--a clear improvement of my own,--and she will have enough without it. Besides, her betrothed White Connal is a fat grazier, who will make her as rich as a Jew; and any way she is as generous as a princess herself. But if it pains you so, and weighs you down, as I see it does, to be under any obligation--you shall be under none in life. You shall pay me rent for it, and you shall give it up whenever you please. Well! we'll settle that between ourselves," continued his majesty; "only take possession, that's all I ask. But I hope," added he, "before we've lived a year, or whatever time it is till you arrive at years of discretion, you'll know me well enough, and love me well enough, not to be so stiff about a trifle, that's nothing between friend and friend--let alone the joke of king and prince, dear Harry."

The gift of this _princ.i.p.ality_ proved a most pernicious, nearly a fatal, gift to the young prince. The generosity, the delicacy, with which it was made, a delicacy worthy of the most polished, and little to have been expected from the barbarian mock-monarch, so touched our young hero's heart, so subjected his grateful spirit to his benefactor, that he thenceforth not only felt bound to King Corny for life, but p.r.o.ne to deem every thing he did or thought, wisest, fittest, best.

When he was invested with his petty princ.i.p.ality, it was expected of him to give a dinner and a dance to the island: so he f gave a dinner and a dance, and every body said he was a fine fellow, and had the spirit of a prince. "King Corny, G.o.d bless him! couldn't go astray in his choice of a favourite--long life to him and Prince Harry! and no doubt there'd be fine hunting, and shooting, and coursing continually. Well, was not it a happy thing for the islands, when Harry Ormond first set foot on them?

From a boy 'twas _a_sy to see what a man he'd be. Long may he live to _reign_ over us!"

The taste for vulgar praise grew by what it fed upon. Harry was in great danger of forgetting that he was too fond of flattery, and too fond of company--not the best. He excused himself to himself, by saying that companions of some kind or other he must have, and he was in a situation where good company was not to be had. Then Moriarty Carroll was gamekeeper, and Moriarty Carroll was always out hunting or shooting with him, and he was led by kind and good feelings to be more familiar and _free_ with this man than he would have been with any other in the same rank of life. The poor fellow was ardently attached to him, and repeated, with delight, all the praises he heard of Master Harry, through _the Islands_. The love of popularity seized him--popularity on the lowest scale! To be popular among the unknown, unheard-of inhabitants of the Black Islands,--could this be an object to any man of common sense, any one who had lived in civilized society, and who had had any thing like the education of a gentleman? The fact, argue about it as you will--the fact was as is here stated; and let those who hear it with a disdainful smile recollect that whether in Paris, London, or the Black Islands, the mob are, in all essential points, pretty nearly the same.

It happened about this time that Betty Dunshaughlin was rummaging in her young lady's work-basket for some riband, "which she knew she might take," to dress a cap that was to be hung upon a pole as a prize, to be danced for at the _pattern_, [Footnote: _Patron_, probably--an entertainment held in honour of the _patron_ saint. A festive meeting, similar to a wake in England.] to be given next Monday at Ormond Vale, by Prince Harry. Prince Harry was now standing by, giving some instructions about the ordering of the entertainment; Betty, in the mean time, pursued her own object of the riband, and as she emptied the basket in haste, threw out a book, which Harry, though not much at this time addicted to reading, s.n.a.t.c.hed impatiently, eager to know what book it was: it was one he had often heard of--often intended to read some time or other, but somehow or other he had never had time: and now he was in the greatest possible hurry, for the hounds were out. But when once he had opened the book, he could not shut it: he turned over page after page, peeped at the end, the beginning, and the middle, then back to the beginning; was diverted by the humour--every Irishman loves humour; delighted with the wit--what Irishman is not? And his curiosity was so much raised by the story, his interest and sympathy so excited for the hero, that he read on, standing for a quarter of an hour, fixed in the same position, while Betty held forth unheard, about cap, supper, and _pattern_. At last he carried off the book to his own room, that he might finish it in peace; nor did he ever stop till he came to the end of the volume. The story not finis.h.i.+ng there, and breaking off in a most interesting part, he went in search of the next volume, but that was not to be found. His impatience was ravenous.

"Mercy, Master Harry," cried Mrs. Betty, "don't eat one up! I know nothing at-all-at-all about the book, and I'm very sorry I tumbled it out of the basket. That's all there is of it to be had high or low--so don't be tormenting me any more out of my life for nothing."

But having seized upon her, he refused to let her go, and protested that he would continue to be the torment of her life, till she should find the other volume. Betty, when her memory was thus racked, put her hand to her forehead, and recollected that in _the apple-room_ there was a heap of old books. Harry possessed himself of the key of the apple-room, tossed over the heap of tattered mouldy books, and at last found the precious volume. He devoured it eagerly--nor was it forgotten as soon as finished. As the chief part of the entertainment depended on the characters, it did not fade from his imagination. He believed the story to be true, for it was constructed with unparalleled ingenuity, and developed with consummate art. The character which particularly interested him was that of the hero, the more peculiarly, because he saw, or fancied that he saw, a resemblance to his own; with some differences, to be sure--but young readers readily a.s.similate and identify themselves with any character, the leading points of which resemble their own, and in whose general feelings they sympathize. In some instances, Harry, as he read on, said to himself, "I would not--I could not have done so and so." But upon the whole, he was charmed by the character--that of a warm-hearted, generous, imprudent young man, with little education, no literature, governed more by feeling than by principle, never upon any occasion reasoning, but keeping right by happy moral instincts; or when going wrong, very wrong, forgiven easily by the reader and by his mistress, and rewarded at the last with all that love and fortune can bestow, in consideration of his being "a very fine fellow."

Closing the book, Harry Ormond resolved to be what he admired--and, if possible, to s.h.i.+ne forth an Irish Tom Jones. For this purpose he was not at all bound to be a moral gentleman, nor, as he conceived, to be a _gentleman_ at all--not, at least, in the commencement of his career: he might become accomplished at any convenient period of his life, and become moral at the end of it, but he might begin by being an accomplished--blackguard. Blackguard is a harsh word; but what other will express the idea? Unluckily, the easiest points to be imitated in any character are not always the best; and where any lat.i.tude is given to conscience, or any precedents are allowed to the grosser pa.s.sions for their justification, those are the points which are afterwards remembered and applied in practice, when the moral salvo sentences are forgotten, or are at best but of feeble countervailing effect.

At six o'clock on Monday evening the cap--the prize cap, flaming with red ribands from the top of the pole, streamed to the summer air, and delighted the upturned eyes of a.s.sembled crowds upon the green below.

The dance began, and our popular hero, the delight of all the nymphs, and the envy of all the swains, danced away with one of the prettiest, "smartest," "most likely-looking" "la.s.ses," that ever appeared at any former patron. She was a degree more refined in manner, and polished in appearance, than the fair of the Black Islands, for she came from the continent of Ireland--she had the advantage of having been sometimes at the big house at Castle Hermitage--she was the gardener's daughter--Peggy Sheridan--distinguished among her fellows by a nosegay, such as no other could have procured--distinguished more by her figure and her face than by her nosegay, and more by her air and motions, than even by her figure or her face: she stepped well, and stepped out--she danced an Irish jig to admiration, and she was not averse from admiration; village prudes, perhaps, might call her a village coquette; but let not this suggest a thought derogatory to the reputation of the lively Peggy. She was a well-behaved, well-meaning, innocent, industrious girl--a good daughter, a good sister, and more than one in the neighbourhood thought she would make a good wife. She had not only admirers, but suitors in abundance. Harry Ormond could not think of her as a wife, but he was evidently--more evidently this day than ever before--one of Peggy's admirers. His heart or his fancy was always warmly susceptible to the charms of beauty; and, never well guarded by prudence, he was now, with his head full of Tom Jones, p.r.o.ne to run into danger himself, and rashly ready to hurry on an innocent girl to her destruction. He was not without hopes of pleasing--what young man of nineteen or twenty is? He was not without chance of _success_, as it is called, with Peggy--what woman can be p.r.o.nounced safe, who ventures to extend to a young lover the encouragement of coquettish smiles?

Peggy said, "innocent smiles sure," "meaning nothing;" but they were interpreted to mean something: less would in his present dispositions have excited the hero who imitated Tom Jones to enterprise. Report says that, about this time, Harry Ormond was seen disguised in a slouched hat and _trusty_ [Footnote: Great coat.], wandering about the grounds at Castle Hermitage. Some swear they saw him pretending to dig in the garden; and even under the gardener's windows, seeming to be nailing up jessamine. Some would not swear, but if they might trust their own eyes, they might verily believe, and _could_, only that they would not, take their oath to having seen him once cross the lake alone by moonlight.

But without believing above half what the world says, candour obliges us to acknowledge, that there was some truth in these scandalous reports.

He certainly pursued, most imprudently "pursued the chase of youth and beauty;" nor would he, we fear, have dropped the chase till Peggy was his prey, but that _fortunately_, in the full headlong career of pa.s.sion, he was suddenly startled and stopped by coming in view of an obstacle that he could not overleap--a greater wrong than he had foreseen, at least a different wrong, and in a form that made his heart tremble. He reined in his pa.s.sion, and stood appalled.

In the first hurry of that pa.s.sion he had seen nothing, heard nothing, understood nothing, but that Peggy was pretty, and that he was in love.

It happened one evening that he, with a rose yet unfaded in his hand--a rose which he had s.n.a.t.c.hed from Peggy Sheridan--took the path towards Moriarty Carroll's cottage. Moriarty, seeing him from afar, came out to meet him; but when he came within sight of the rose, Moriarty's pace slackened, and turning aside, he stepped out of the path, as if to let Mr. Ormond pa.s.s.

"How now, Moriarty?" said Harry. But looking in his face, he saw the poor fellow pale as death.

"What ails you, Moriarty?"

"A pain I just took about my heart," said Moriarty, pressing both hands to his heart.

"My poor fellow!--Wait!--you'll be better just now, I hope," said Ormond, laying his hand on Moriarty's shoulder.

"I'll never be better of it, I fear," said Moriarty, withdrawing his shoulder; and giving a jealous glance at the rose, he turned his head away again.

"I'll thank your honour to go on, and leave me--I'll be better by myself. It is not to your honour, above all, that I can open my heart."

A suspicion of the truth now flashed across Ormond's mind--he was determined to know whether it was the truth or not.

"I'll not leave you, till I know what's the matter," said he.

"Then none will know that till I die," said Moriarty; adding, after a little pause, "there's no knowing what's wrong withinside of a man till he is opened."

"But alive, Moriarty, if the heart is in the case only," said Ormond, "a man can open himself to a friend."

"Ay, if he had a friend," said Moriarty. "I'll beg your honour to let me pa.s.s--I am able for it now--I am quite stout again."

"Then if you are quite stout again, I shall want you to row me across the lake."

"I am not able for that, sir," replied Moriarty, pus.h.i.+ng past him.

"But," said Ormond, catching hold of his arm, "aren't you able or willing to carry a note for me?" As he spoke, Ormond produced the note, and let him see the direction--to Peggy Sheridan.

"Sooner stab me to the heart _again_," cried Moriarty, breaking from him.

"Sooner stab myself to the heart then," cried Ormond, tearing the note to bits. "Look, Moriarty: upon my honour, till this instant, I did not know you loved the girl--from this instant I'll think of her no more--never more will I see her, hear of her, till she be your wife."

"Wife!" repeated Moriarty, joy illuminating, but fear as instantly darkening his countenance. "How will that be now?"

"It _will_ be--it shall be--as happily as honourably. Listen to me, Moriarty--as honourably now as ever. Can you think me so wicked, so base, as to say, _wife_, if--no, pa.s.sion might hurry me to a rash, but of a base action I'm incapable. Upon my soul, upon the sacred honour of a gentleman--"

Moriarty sighed.

"Look!" continued Ormond, taking the rose from his breast; "this is the utmost that ever pa.s.sed between us, and that was my fault: I s.n.a.t.c.hed it, and thus--thus," cried he, tearing the rose to pieces, "I scatter it to the winds of heaven; and thus may all trace of past fancy and folly be blown from remembrance!"

"Amen!" said Moriarty, watching the rose-leaves for an instant, as they flew and were scattered out of sight; then, as Ormond broke the stalk to pieces, and flung it from him, he asked, with a smile, "Is the pain about your heart gone now, Moriarty?"

"No, plase your honour, not gone; but a quite different--better--but worse. So strange with me--I can't speak rightly--for the pleasure has seized me stronger than the pain."

"Lean against me, poor fellow. Oh, if I had broken such a heart!"

"Then how wrong I was when I said that word I did!" said Moriarty. "I ask your honour, your dear honour's pardon on my knees."

"For what?--For what?--You have done no wrong."

"No:--but I said wrong--very wrong--when I said stab me to the heart _again_. Oh, that word _again_--it was very ungenerous."

"n.o.ble fellow!" said Ormond.

"Good night to your honour, kindly," said Moriarty.

"How happy I am now!" said our young hero to himself, as he walked home, "which I never should have been if I had done this wrong."

A fortunate escape!--yes: but when the escape is owing to good fortune, not to prudence--to good feeling, not to principle--there is no security for the future.

Ormond was steady to his promise toward Moriarty: to do him justice, he was more than this--he was generous, actively, perseveringly generous, in his conduct to him. With open heart, open purse, public overture, and private negotiation with the parents of Peggy Sheridan, he at last succeeded in accomplis.h.i.+ng Moriarty's marriage.

Ormond's biographer may well be allowed to make the most of his persevering generosity on this occasion, because no other sc.r.a.p of good can be found, of which to make any thing in his favour, for several months to come. Whether Tom Jones was still too much, and Lady Annaly too little, in his head--whether it was that King Corny's example and precepts were not always edifying--whether this young man had been prepared by previous errors of example and education--or whether he fell into mischief because he had nothing else to do in these Black Islands; certain it is, that from the operation of some or all of these causes conjointly, he deteriorated sadly. He took to "vagrant courses," in which the muse forbears to follow him.

CHAPTER VIII.

It is said that the Turks have a very convenient recording angel, who, without dropping a tear to blot out that which might be wished unsaid or undone, fairly shuts his eyes, and forbears to record whatever is said or done by man in three circ.u.mstances: when he is drunk, when he is in a pa.s.sion, and while he is _under age_. What the _under age_, or what the years of discretion of a Turk may be, we do not at this moment recollect. We only know that our own hero is not yet twenty. Without being quite as accommodating as the Mahometan angel, we should wish to obliterate from our record some months of Ormond's existence. He felt and was ashamed of his own degradation; but, after having lost, or worse than lost, a winter of his life, it was in vain to lament; or rather, it was not enough to weep over the loss--how to repair it was the question.

Whenever Ormond returned to his better self, whenever he thought of improving, he remembered Lady Annaly; and he now recollected with shame, that he had never had the grace to answer or to thank her for her letter. He had often thought of writing, but he had put it off from day to day, and now months had pa.s.sed; he wrote a sad scrawling hand, and he had always been ashamed that Lady Annaly should see it; but now the larger shame got the better of the lesser, and he determined he would write. He looked for her letter, to read it over again before he answered it--the letter was very safe, for he considered it as his greatest treasure.

On recurring to the letter, he found that she had mentioned a present of books which she intended for him: a set of books which belonged to her son, Sir Herbert Annaly, and of which she found they had duplicates in their library. She had ordered the box containing them to be sent to Annaly, and had desired her agent there to forward it; but in case any delay should occur, she begged Mr. Ormond would take the trouble to inquire for them himself. This whole affair about the books had escaped Ormond's memory: he felt himself blush all over when he read the letter again; and sent off a messenger immediately to the agent at Annaly, who had kept the box till it was inquired for. It was too heavy for the boy to carry, and he returned, saying that two men would not carry it, nor four--a slight exaggeration! A car was sent for it, and at last Harry obtained possession of the books. It was an excellent collection of what may be called the English and French cla.s.sics: the French books were, at this time, quite useless to him, for he could not read French. Lady Annaly, however, sent these books on purpose to induce him to learn a language, which, if he should go into the army, as he seemed inclined to do, would be particularly useful to him. Lady Annaly observed that Mr.