"What can have become of all the people?" said Ormond: "it is not the workmen's dinner-hour, and they are gone from the work at the lighthouse; and the horses and cars are left without any one with them."

He went on a few paces, and saw a boy who seemed to be left to watch the horses, and who looked very melancholy. The boy did not speak as Ormond came up. "What is the matter?" said Ormond: "something dreadful has happened--speak!"

"Did not you hear it, sir?" said the boy: "I'd be loth to tell it you."

"Has any thing happened to--"

"Sir Herbert--ay--the worst that could. Running to stop one of them villains that was making off with something from the wreck, he dropped sudden as if he was shot, and--when they went to lift him up--But you'll drop yourself, sir," said the boy.

"Give him some of the water out of the bucket, can't ye?"

"Here's my cap," said the serjeant. Ormond was made to swallow the water, and, recovering his senses, heard one of the soldiers near him say, "'Twas only a faint Sir Herbert took, I'll engage."

The thought was new life to Ormond: he started up, mounted his horse, and galloped off--saw no creature on the road--found a crowd at the gate of the avenue--the crowd opened to let him pa.s.s, many voices calling as he pa.s.sed to beg him to _send out word_. This gave him fresh hopes, since nothing certain was known: he spurred on his horse; but when he reached the house, as he was going to Sir Herbert's room he was met by Sir Herbert's own man, O'Reilly. The moment he saw O'Reilly's face, he knew there was no hope--he asked no question: the surgeon came out, and told him that in consequence of having broke a blood-vessel, which bled internally, Sir Herbert had just expired--his mother and sister were with him. Ormond retired--he begged the servants would write to him at Dr. Cambray's--and he immediately went away.

Two days after he had a note from O'Reilly, written in haste, at a very early hour in the morning, to say that he was just setting out with the hea.r.s.e to the family burial-place at Herbert--it having been thought best that the funeral should not be in this neighbourhood, on account of the poor people at Annaly being so exasperated against those who were thought to be the immediate occasion of his death. Sir Herbert's last orders to O'Reilly were to this effect--"to _take care_, and to have every thing done as privately as possible."

No pomp of funeral was, indeed, necessary for such a person. The great may need it--the good need it not: they are mourned in the heart, and they are remembered without vain pageantry. If public sorrow can soothe private grief--and surely in some measure it must--the family and friends of this young man had this consolation; but they had another and a better.

It is the triumph of religion and of its ministers to be able to support the human heart, when all other resources are of little avail. Time, it is true, at length effaces the recollection of misfortune, and age deadens the sense of sorrow. But that power to console is surely far superior in its effect, more worthy of a rational and a social being, which operates--not by contracting or benumbing our feelings and faculties, but by expanding and enn.o.bling them--inspiring us, not with stoic indifference to the pains and pleasures of humanity, but with pious submission to the will of Heaven--to the order and orderer of the universe.

CHAPTER XXVI.

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 compet.i.tion, 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 c.o.xcomb 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 c.o.xcomb, for a c.o.xcomb he certainly is."

"An insufferable c.o.xcomb!" cried Ormond.

"But a c.o.xcomb _in fashion_," said Sir Ulick; "and a c.o.xcomb in fashion is a useful connexion. He did not fable about Versailles--I have made particular inquiries from our amba.s.sador at Paris, and he writes me word that Connal is often at court--_en bonne odeur_ at Versailles.

The amba.s.sador 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 grat.i.tude, 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, a.s.surance 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 pa.s.sionate 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."