Tales and Novels Volume IX Part 36

"Don't hurry, poor Sheelah--no necessity to hurry away from me," said Ormond, who had stood for a few moments like one transfixed. "'Tis for me to go--and I will go as fast and as far as you please, Dora, away from you and for ever."

"For ever!" said Dora: "what do you mean?"

"Away from the Black Islands? he can't mean that," said Sheelah.

"Why not?--Did not I leave Castle Hermitage at a moment's warning?"

"_Warning!_ Nonsense!" cried Dora: "lean on him, Sheelah--he has frightened you; lean on him, can't you?--sure he's better than your stick. Warning!--where did you find that pretty word? Is Harry Ormond then turned footman?"

"Harry Ormond!--and a minute ago she would not let me--Miss O'Shane, I shall not forget myself again--amuse yourself with being as capricious as you please, but not at my expense; little as you think of me, I am not to be made your b.u.t.t or your dupe: therefore, I must seriously beg, at once, that I may know whether you wish me to stay or to go."

"To stay, to be sure, when my father invites you. Would you expose me to his displeasure? you know he can't bear to be contradicted; and you know that he asked you to stay and live here."

"But without exposing you to any displeasure, I can," replied Ormond, "contrive--"

"Contrive nothing at all--do leave me to contrive for myself. I don't mean to say _leave_ me--you take up one's words so quickly, and are so pa.s.sionate, Mr. Ormond."

"If you would have me understand you, Dora, explain how you wish me to live with you."

"Lord bless me! what a fuss the man makes about living with one--one would think it was the most difficult thing in the world. Can't you live on like any body else? There's my aunt in the hedge-row walk, all alone--I must go and take care of her: I leave you to take care of Sheelah--you know you were always very good-natured when we were children."

Dora went off quick as lightning, and what to make of her, Ormond did not well know. Was it mere childishness, or affectation, or coquetry?

No; the real tears, and real expression of look and word forbade each of these suppositions. One other cause for her conduct might have been suggested by a vain man. Harry Ormond was not a vain man; but a little fluttering delight was just beginning to play round his head, when Sheelah, leaning heavily on his arm as they ascended the bank, reminding him of her existence--"My poor old Sheelah!" said he, "are you not tired?"

"Not now, thanks to your arm, Master Harry, dear, that was always good to me--not now--I am not a whit tired; now I see all right again between my childer--and happy I was, these five minutes past, watching you smiling to yourself; and I don't doubt but all the world will smile on ye yet. If it was my world, it should. But I can only wish you my best wish, which I did long ago--_may you live to wonder at your own good luck!_"

Ormond looked as if he was going to ask some question that interested him much, but it ended by wondering what o'clock it was. Sheelah wondered at him for thinking what the hour was, when she was talking of Miss Dora. After a silence, which brought them to the chicken-yard door, where Sheelah was "to quit his arm," she leaned heavily again.

"The marriage--that they are all talking of in the kitchen, and every where through the country--Miss Dora's marriage with White Connal, is reprieved for the season. She axed time till she'd be seventeen--very rasonable. So it's to be in October--if we all live till those days--in the same mind. Lord, he knows--I know nothing at all about it; but I thank you kindly, Master Harry, and wish you well, any way. Did you ever happen to see the bridegroom that is to be?"

"Never."

Harry longed to hear what she longed to say; but he did not deem it prudent, he did not think it honourable, to let her enter on this topic.

The prudential consideration might have been conquered by curiosity; but the honourable repugnance to obtaining second-hand information, and encouraging improper confidence, prevailed. He deposited Sheelah safe on her stone bench at the chicken-yard door, and, much against her will, he left her before she had told or hinted to him all she did know--and all she did not know.

The flattering delight that played about our young hero's head had increased, was increasing, and ought to be diminished. Of this he was sensible. It should never come near his heart--of that he was determined; he would exactly follow the letter and spirit of his benefactor's commands--he would always consider Dora as a married woman; but the prospect of there being some temptation, and some struggle, was infinitely agreeable to our young hero--it would give him something to do, something to think of, something to feel.

It was much in favour of his resolution, that Dora really was not at all the kind of woman he had pictured to himself, either as amiable or charming: she was not in the least like his last patterns of heroines, or any of his approved imaginations of the _beau ideal_. But she was an exceedingly pretty girl; she was the only very pretty and tolerably accomplished girl immediately near him. A dangerous propinquity!

CHAPTER XII.

White Connal and his father--we name the son first, because his superior wealth inverting the order of nature, gave him, in his own opinion, the precedency on all occasions--White Connal and his father arrived at Corny Castle. King Corny rejoiced to see his old friend, the elder Connal; but through all the efforts that his majesty made to be more than civil to the son, the degenerate grazier, his future son-in-law, it was plain that he was only keeping his promise, and receiving such a guest as he ought to be received.

Mademoiselle decided that old Connal, the father, was quite a gentleman, for he handed her about, and in his way had some politeness towards the s.e.x; but as for the son, her abhorrence must have burst forth in plain English, if it had not exhaled itself safely in French, in every exclamation of contempt which the language could afford. She called him _bete!_ and _grand bete!_ by turns, _butor! ane!_ and _grand butor!--nigaud!_ and _grand nigaud!_--p.r.o.nounced him to be "Un homme qui ne dit rien--d'ailleurs un homme qui n'a pas l'air comme il faut--un homme, enfin, qui n'est pas presentable--meme en fait de mari."

Dora looked unutterable things; but this was not unusual with her. Her scornful airs, and short answers, were not more decidedly rude to White Connal than to others; indeed she was rather more civil to him than to Ormond. There was nothing in her manner of keeping Connal at a distance, beyond what he, who had not much practice or skill in the language of female coquetry, might construe into maiden coyness to the acknowledged husband lover.

It seemed as if she had some secret hope, or fear, or reason, for not coming to open war: in short, as usual, she was odd, if not unintelligible. White Connal did not disturb himself at all to follow her doublings: his pleasure was not in the chase--he was sure the game was his own.

Be bold, but not too bold, White Connal!--be negligent, but not too negligent, of the destined bride. 'Tis bad, as you say, to be spoiling a _wife_ before marriage; but what if she should never _be_ your wife?

thought some.

That was a contingency that never had occurred to White Connal. Had he not horses, and saddles, and bridles, and bits, finer than had ever been seen before in the Black Islands? And had he not thousands of sheep, and hundreds of oxen? And had he not the finest pistols, and the most famous fowling-pieces? And had he not thousands in paper, and thousands in gold; and if he lived, would he not have tens of thousands more? And had he not brought with him a plan of Connal's-town, the name by which he dignified a snug slated lodge he had upon one of his farms--an elevation of the house to be built, and of the offices that had been built?

He had so. But it happened one day, when Connal was going to ride out with Dora, that just as he mounted, her veil fluttering before his horse's eyes, startled the animal; and the awkward rider being unable to manage him, King Corny begged Harry Ormond to change horses with him, that Mr. Connal might go quietly beside Dora, "who was a bit of a coward."

Imprudent father! Harry obeyed--and the difference between the riders and the gentlemen was but too apparent. For what avails it that you have the finest horse, if another ride him better? What avails it that you have the finest saddle, if another become it better? What use to you your Wogden pistols, if another hit the mark you miss? What avails the finest fowling-piece to the worst sportsman? The thousands upon thousands to him who says but little, and says that little ill? What avail that the offices at Connal's town be finished, dog-kennel and all? or what boots it that the plan and elevation of Connal's-town be unrolled, and submitted to the fair one's inspection and remarks, if the fair disdain to inspect, and if she remark only that a cottage and love are more to her taste? White Connal put none of these questions to himself--he went on his own way. Faint heart never won fair lady. Then no doubt he was in a way to win, for his heart never quailed, his colour never changed when he saw his fair one's furtive smiles, or heard her aunt's open praises of the youth, by whom riding, dancing, shooting, speaking, or silent, he was always eclipsed. Connal of Connal's-town despised Harry Ormond of no-town--viewed him with scornful, but not with jealous eyes: idle jealousies were far from Connal's thoughts--he was intent upon the n.o.ble recreation of c.o.c.k-fighting. c.o.c.k-fighting had been the taste of his boyish days, before he became a money-making man; and at every interval of business, at each intermission of the pa.s.sion of avarice, when he had leisure to think of amus.e.m.e.nt, this his first idea of pleasure recurred. Since he came to Corny Castle, he had at sundry times expressed to his father his "hope in Heaven, that before they would leave the Black Islands, they should get some good _fun_, c.o.c.k-fighting; for it was a poor case for a man that is not used to it, to be tied to a woman's ap.r.o.n-strings, twirling his thumbs all the mornings, for form's sake."

There was a strolling kind of gentleman in the Islands, a Mr. O'Tara, who was a famous c.o.c.k-fighter. O'Tara came one day to dine at Corny Castle. The kindred souls found each other out, and an animated discourse across the table commenced concerning c.o.c.ks. After dinner, as the bottle went round, the rival c.o.c.k-fighters, warmed to enthusiasm in praise of their birds. Each relating wonders, they finished by proposing a match, laying bets and despatching messengers and hampers for their favourites. The c.o.c.ks arrived, and were put in separate houses, under the care of separate feeders.

Moriarty Carroll, who was curious, and something of a sportsman, had a mind to have a peep at the c.o.c.ks. Opening the door of one of the buildings hastily, he disturbed the c.o.c.k, who taking fright, flew about the barn with such violence, as to tear off several of his feathers, and very much to deface his appearance. Unfortunately, at this instant, White Connal and Mr. O'Tara came by, and finding what had happened, abused Moriarty with all the vulgar eloquence which anger could supply. Ormond, who had been with Moriarty, but who had no share in the disaster, endeavoured to mitigate the fury of White Connal and apologized to Mr. O'Tara: O'Tara was satisfied!--shook hands with Ormond, and went off. But White Connal's anger lasted longer: for many reasons he disliked Ormond; and thinking from Harry's gentleness, that he might venture to insult him, returned to the charge, and becoming high and brutal in his tone, said that "Mr. Ormond had committed an ungentlemanlike action, which it was easier to apologize for than to defend." Harry took fire, and instantly was much more ready than his opponent wished to give any other satisfaction that Mr. Connal desired.

Well, "Name his hour--his place." "To-morrow morning, six o'clock, in the east meadow, out of reach and sight of all," Ormond said; or he was ready at that instant, if Mr. Connal pleased: he hated, he said, to bear malice--he could not sleep upon it.

Moriarty now stepping up privately, besought Mr. Connal's "honour, for Heaven and earth's sake, to recollect, if he did not know it, what a desperate good shot Mr. Harry notoriously was always."

"What, you rascal! are you here still?" cried White Connal: "Hold your peace! How dare you speak between gentlemen?"

Moriarty begged pardon and departed. The hint he had given, however, operated immediately upon White Connal.

"This scattered-brained young Ormond," said he to himself, "desires nothing better than to fight. Very natural--he has nothing to lose in the world but his bare life: neither money, nor landed property as I have to quit, in leaving the world--unequal odds. Not worth my while to stand his shot, for the feather of a c.o.c.k," concluded Connal, as he pulled to pieces one of the feathers, which had been the original cause of all the mischief.

Thus cooled, and suddenly become reasonable, he lowered his tone, declaring that he did not mean to say any thing in short that could give offence, nothing but what it was natural for any man in the heat of pa.s.sion to say, and it was enough to put a man in a pa.s.sion at first sight to see his favourite bird disfigured. If he had said any thing too strong, he hoped Mr. Ormond would excuse it.

Ormond knew what the heat of pa.s.sion was, and was willing to make all proper allowances. White Connal made more than proper apologies; and Ormond rejoiced that the business was ended. But White Connal, conscious that he had first bullied, then quailed, and that if the story were repeated, it would tell to his disadvantage, made it his anxious request that he would say nothing to Cornelius O'Shane of what had pa.s.sed between them, lest it should offend Cornelius, who he knew was so fond of Mr. Ormond. Harry eased the gentleman's mind, by promising that he would never say a word about the matter. Mr. Connal was not content till this promise was solemnly repeated. Even this, though it seemed quite to satisfy him at the time, did not afterwards relieve Connal from the uneasy consciousness he felt in Ormond's company. He could bear it only the remainder of this day. The next morning he left the Black Islands, having received letters of business, he said, which required his immediate presence at Connal's-town. Many at Corny Castle seemed willing to dispense with his further stay, but King Corny, true to his word and his character, took leave of him as his son-in-law, and only, as far as hospitality required, was ready to "speed the parting guest." At parting, White Connal drew his future father-in-law aside, and gave him a hint, that he had better look sharp after that youth he was fostering.

"Harry Ormond, do you mean?" said O'Shane.

"I do," said Connal: "but, Mr. O'Shane, don't go to mistake me, I am not jealous of the man--not capable--of such a fellow as that--a wild scatterbrains, who is not worth a sixpence scarce--I have too good an opinion of Miss Dora. But if I was in your place, her father, just for the look of the thing in the whole country, I should not like it: not that I mind what people say a potato skin; but still, if I was her father, I'd as soon have the devil an inmate and intimate in my house, nuzzling in my daughter's ear behind backs."

Cornelius O'Shane stoutly stood by his young friend.

He never saw Harry Ormond _muzzling_--behind backs, especially--did not believe any such thing: all Harry said and did was always above-board, and before faces, any way. "In short," said Cornelius, "I will answer for Harry Ormond's honour with my own honour. After that, 'twould be useless to add with my life, if required--that of course; and this ought to satisfy any son-in-law, who was a gentleman--none such could glance or mean to reflect on Dora."

Connal, perceiving he had overshot himself, made protestations of his innocence of the remotest intention of glancing at, or reflecting upon, or imagining any thing but what was perfectly angelic and proper in Miss Dora--Miss O'Shane.

"Then that was all as it should be," Mr. O'Shane said, "so far: but another point he would not concede to mortal man, was he fifty times his son-in-law promised, that was, his own right to have who he pleased and _willed_ to have, at his own castle, his inmate and his intimate."

"No doubt--to be sure," Connal said: "he did not mean--he only meant--he could not mean--in short, he meant nothing at all, only just to put Mr.

O'Shane on his guard--that was all he meant."

"Phoo!" said Cornelius O'Shane; but checking the expression of his contempt for the man, he made an abrupt transition to Connal's horse, which had just come to the door.

"That's a handsome horse! certainly you are well mounted, Mr. Connal."

O'Shane's elision of contempt was beyond Mr. Connal's understanding or feeling.

"Well mounted! certainly I am _that_, and ever will be, while I can so well afford it," said Connal, mounting his horse; and identifying himself with the animal, he sat proudly, then bowing to the ladies, who were standing at an open window, "Good day to ye, ladies, till October, when I hope--"