When Ormond was left alone he locked the door, and kneeling beside the dead, offered up prayers for the friend he had lost, and there remained some time in stillness and silence, till Sheelah knocked at the door, to let him know that the priest was come. Then retiring, he went to the other end of the house, to be out of the way. The room to which he went was that in which they had been reading the letters just before they went out that morning. There was the pen which Harry had taken from his hand, and the answer just begun.
“Dear General, I hope my young friend, Harry Ormond —”
That hand could write no more! — that warm heart was cold! The certainty was so astonishing, so stupifying, that Ormond, having never yet shed a tear, stood with his eyes fixed on the paper, he knew not how long, till he felt some one touch his hand. It was the child, little Tommy, of whom O’Shane was so fond, and who was so fond of him. The child, with his whistle in his hand, stood looking up at Harry, without speaking. Ormond gazed on him for a few instants, then snatched him in his arms, and burst into an agony of tears. Sheelah, who had let the child in, now came and carried him away. “God be thanked for them tears,” said she, “they will bring relief;” and so they did. The necessity for manly13 exertion14 — the sense of duty — pressed upon Ormond’s recovered reason. He began directly, and wrote all the letters that were necessary to his guardian15 and to Miss O’Faley, to communicate the dreadful intelligence to Dora. The letters were not finished till late in the evening. Sheelah came for them, and leaving the door and the outer door to the hall open, as she came in, Ormond saw the candles lighted, and smelt16 the smell of tobacco and whiskey, and heard the sound of many voices.
“The wake, dear, which is beginning,” said she, hastening back to shut the doors, as she saw him shudder17. “Bear with it, Master Harry,” said she: “hard for you! — but bear with us, dear; ’tis the custom of the country; and what else can we do but what the forefathers18 did? — how else for us to show respect, only as it would be expected, and has always been? — and great comfort to think we done our best for him that is gone, and comfort to know his wake will be talked of long hereafter, over the fires at night, of all the people that is there without — and that’s all we have for it now: so bear with it, dear.”
This night, and for two succeeding nights, the doors of Corny Castle remained open for all who chose to come.
Crowds, as many, and more, than the castle could hold, flocked to King Corny’s wake, for he was greatly beloved.
There was, as Sheelah said, “plenty of cake, and wine, and tea, and tobacco, and snuff — every thing handsome as possible, and honourable19 to the deceased, who was always open-handed and open-hearted, and with open house too.”
His praises, from time to time, were heard, and then the common business of the country was talked of — and jesting and laughter went on — and all night there were tea-drinkings for the women, and punch for the men. Sheelah, who inwardly grieved most, went about incessantly20 among the crowd, serving all, seeing that none, especially them who came from a distance, should be neglected — and that none should have to complain afterwards, “or to say that any thing at all was wanting or niggardly21.” Mrs. Betty, Sheelah’s daughter, sat presiding at the tea-table, giving the keys to her mother when wanted, but never forgetting to ask for them again. Little Tommy took his cake and hid himself under the table, close by his mother, Mrs. Betty; and could not be tempted23 out but by Sheelah, whom he followed, watching for her to go in to Mr. Harry: when the door opened, he held by her gown, and squeezed in under her arm — and when she brought Mr. Harry his meals, she would set the child up at the table with him for company— and to tempt22 him to take something.
Ormond had once promised his deceased friend, that if he was in the country when he died, he would put him into his coffin24. He kept his promise. The child hearing a noise, and knowing that Mr. Harry had gone into the room, could not be kept out; the crowd had left that room, and the child looked at the bed with the curtains looped up with black — and at the table at the foot of the bed, with the white cloth spread over it, and the seven candlesticks placed upon it. But the coffin fixed his attention, and he threw himself upon it, clinging to it, and crying bitterly upon King Corny, his dear King Corny, to come back to him.
It was all Sheelah could do to drag him away: Ormond, who had always liked this boy, felt now more fond of him than ever, and resolved that he should never want a friend.
“You are in the mind to attend the funeral, sir, I think you told me?” said Sheelah.
“Certainly,” replied Ormond.
“Excuse me, then,” said Sheelah, “if I mention — for you can’t know what to do without. There will be high mass, may be you know, in the chapel25. And as it’s a great funeral, thirteen priests will be there, attending. And when the mass will be finished, it will be expected of you, as first of kin6 considered, to walk up first with your offering — whatsoever26 you think fit, for the priests — and to lay it down on the altar; and then each and all will follow, laying down their offerings, according as they can. I hope I’m not too bold or troublesome, sir.”
Ormond thanked her for her kindness — and felt it was real kindness. He, consequently, did all that was expected from him handsomely. After the masses were over, the priests, who could not eat any thing before they said mass, had breakfast and dinner joined. Sheelah took care “the clergy was well served.” Then the priests — though it was not essential that all should go, did all, to Sheelah’s satisfaction, accompany the funeral the whole way, three long miles, to the burying-place of the O’Shanes; a remote old abbey-ground, marked only by some scattered27 trees, and a few sloping grave-stones. King Corny’s funeral was followed by an immense concourse of people, on’ horseback and on foot; men, women, and children: when they passed by the doors of cabins, a set of the women raised the funeral cry — not a savage28 howl, as is the custom in some parts of Ireland, but chanting a melancholy29 kind of lament3, not without harmony, simple and pathetic. Ormond was convinced, that in spite of all the festivity at the wake, which had so disgusted him, the poor people mourned sincerely for the friend they had lost.
We forgot to mention that Dr. Cambray went to the Black Islands the day after O’Shane’s death, and did all he could to prevail upon Ormond to go to his house while the wake was going on, and till the funeral should be over. But Ormond thought it right to stay where he was, as none of the family were there, and there was no way in which he could so strongly mark, as Sheelah said, his respect for the dead. Now that it was all over, he had at least the consolation30 of thinking that he had not shrunk from any thing that was, or that he conceived to be, his duty. Dr. Cambray was pleased with his conduct, and at every moment he could spare went to see him, doing all he could to console him, by strengthening in Ormond’s mind the feelings of religious submission31 to the will of Heaven, and of pious32 hope and confidence. Ormond had no time left him for the indulgence of sorrow — business pressed upon him.
Cornelius O’Shane’s will, which Sir Ulick blamed Harry for not mentioning in the first letter, was found to be at his banker’s in Dublin. All his property was left to his daughter, except the farm, which he had given to Ormond; this was specially7 excepted, with legal care: also a legacy33 of five hundred pounds was left to Harry; a trifling34 bequest35 to Sir Ulick, being his cousin; and legacies36 to servants. Miss O’Faley was appointed sole executrix — this gave great umbrage37 to Sir Ulick O’Shane, and appeared extraordinary to many people; but the will was in due form, and nothing could be done against it, however much might be said.
Miss O’Faley, without taking notice of any thing Ormond said of the money, which had been lodged38 in the bank to pay for his commission, wrote as executrix to beg of him to do various business for her — all which he did; and fresh letters came with new requests, inventories39 to be taken, things to be sent to Dublin, money to be received and paid, stewards’ and agents’ accounts to be settled, business of all kinds, in short, came pouring in — upon him, a young man unused to it, and with a mind peculiarly averse40 from it at this moment. But when he found that he could be of service to any one belonging to his benefactor41, he felt bound in gratitude42 to exert himself to the utmost. These circumstances, however disagreeable, had an excellent effect upon his character, giving him habits of business which were ever afterwards of use to him. It was remarkable43 that the only point in his letters which had concerned his own affairs still continued unanswered. Another circumstance hurt his feelings — instead of Miss O’Faley’s writing to make her own requests, Mr. Connal was soon deputed by Mademoiselle to write for her. He spoke44 of the shock the ladies had felt, and the distressing45 circumstances in which they were; all in commonplace phrases, which Ormond despised, and from which he could judge nothing of Dora’s real feelings.
“The marriage must, of course,” Mr. Connal said, “be put off for some time; and as it would be painful to the ladies to return to Corny Castle, he had advised their staying in Dublin; and they and he feeling assured that, from Mr. Ormond’s regard for the family, they might take the liberty of troubling him, they requested so and so, and the executrix begged he would see this settled and that settled at last, with gradually forgotten apologies, falling very much into the style of a person writing to an humble46 friend or dependent, bound to consider requests as commands.”
Our young hero’s pride was piqued47 on the one side, as much as his gratitude was alive on the other.
Sir Ulick O’Shane wrote to Harry that he was at this time peculiarly engaged with affairs of his own. He said, that as to the material point of the money lodged for the commission, he would see the executrix, and do what he could to have that settled; but as to all lesser48 points, Sir Ulick said, he really had not leisure to answer letters at present. He enclosed a note to Dr. Cambray, whom he recommended it to his ward5 to consult, and whose advice and assistance he now requested for him in pressing terms.
In consequence of this direct application from the young gentleman’s guardian, Dr. Cambray felt himself authorized49 and called upon to interfere50, where, otherwise, delicacy51 might have prevented him. It was fortunate for Ormond that he had Dr. Cambray’s counsel to guide him, or else he would, in the first moments of feeling, have yielded too much to the suggestions of both gratitude and pride.
In the first impulse of generous pride, Ormond wanted to give up the farm which his benefactor had left him, because he wished that no possible suspicion of interested motives52 having influenced his attachment53 to Cornelius O’Shane should exist, especially with Mr. Connal, who, as the husband of Dora, would soon be the lord of all in the Black Islands.
On the other hand, when Mr. Connal wrote to him, that the executrix, having no written order from the deceased to that effect, could not pay the five hundred pounds, lodged in the bank, for his commission, Ormond was on the point of flying out with intemperate54 indignation. “Was not his own word sufficient? Was not the intention of his benefactor apparent from the letters? Would not this justify55 any executor, any person of common sense or honour?”
Dr. Cambray, his experienced and placid56 counsellor, brought all these sentiments to due measure by mildly showing what was law and justice, and what was fit and proper in each case; putting jealous honour, and romantic generosity57, as they must be put, out of the question in business.
He prevented Ormond from embroiling58 himself with Connal about the legacy, and from giving up his farm. He persuaded him to decline having any thing to do with the affairs of the Black Islands.
A proper agent was appointed, who saw Ormond’s accounts settled and signed, so that no blame or suspicion could rest upon him.
“There seems no probability, Mr. Ormond,” said Dr. Cambray, “of your commission being immediately purchased. Your guardian, Sir Ulick O’Shane, will be detained some time longer, I understand, in Dublin. You are in a desolate59 situation here — you have now done all that you ought to do — leave these Black Islands, and come to Vicar’s Dale: you will find there a cheerful family, and means of spending your time more agreeably, perhaps more profitably, than you can have here. I am sensible that no new friends can supply to you the place of him you have lost; but you will find pleasure in the perception, that you have, by your own merit, attached to you one friend in me, who will do all in his power to soothe60 and serve you. — Will you trust yourself to me?” added he, smiling, “You have already found that I do not flatter. Will you come to us? — The sooner the better — to-morrow, if you can.”
It scarcely need be said, that this invitation was most cordially accepted. Next day Ormond was to leave the Black Islands. Sheelah was in despair when she found he was going: the child hung upon him so that he could hardly get out of the house, till Moriarty promised to return for the boy, and carry him over in the boat often, to see Mr. Ormond. Moriarty would not stay in the islands himself, he said, after Harry went: he let the cabin and little tenement61 which O’Shane had given him, and the rent was to be paid him by the agent. Ormond went, for the last time, that morning, to Ormond’s Vale, to settle his own affairs there: he and Moriarty took an unusual path across this part of the island to the waterside, that they might avoid that which they had followed the last time they were out, on the day of Corny’s death. They went, therefore, across a lone12 tract62 of heath-bog63, where, for a considerable time, they saw no living being.
On this bog, of which Cornelius O’Shane had given Moriarty a share, the grateful poor fellow had, the year before, amused himself with cutting in large letters of about a yard long the words
“LONG LIVE KING CORNY.”
He had sowed the letters with broom-seed in the spring, and had since forgotten ever to look at them; but they were now green, and struck the eye.
“Think then of this being all the trace that’s left of him on the face of the earth!” said Moriarty. “I’m glad that I did even that same.”
After crossing this lone bog, when they came to the waterside, they found a great crowd of people, seemingly all the inhabitants of the islands, assembled there, waiting to take leave of Master Harry; and each of them was cheered by a kind word and a look, before they would let him step into the boat.
“Ay, go to the continent,” said Sheelah, “ay, go to fifty continents, and in all Ireland you’ll not find hearts warmer to you than those of the Black Islands, that knows you best from a child, Master Harry dear.”
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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niggardly
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| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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consolation
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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bequest
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| n.遗赠；遗产，遗物 | |
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legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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umbrage
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| n.不快；树荫 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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inventories
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| n.总结( inventory的名词复数 )；细账；存货清单（或财产目录）的编制 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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intemperate
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| adj.无节制的，放纵的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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embroiling
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| v.使（自己或他人）卷入纠纷( embroil的现在分词 ) | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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