“That’s true,” said Corny.
He walked off to his workshop, and took down his fowling-piece to put the finishing stroke to his work for the next day, which was to be the first day of partridge-shooting: he looked forward with delight—anticipating the gratification he should have in going out shooting with Harry, and trying his new fowling-piece. “But I won’t go out to-morrow till the post has come in; for my mind couldn’t enjoy the sport till I was satisfied whether the answer could come about your commission, Harry: my mind misgives me—that is, my calculation tells me, that it will come to-morrow.”
Good Corny’s calculations were just: the next morning the little post-boy brought answers to various letters which he had written about Ormond—one to Ormond from Sir Ulick O’Shane, repeating his approbation of his ward’s going into the army, approving of all the steps Cornelius had taken—especially of his intention of paying for the commission.
“All’s well,” Cornelius said. The next letter was from Cornelius’s banker, saying that the five hundred pound was lodged, ready. “All well.” The army-agent wrote, “that he had commissions in two different regiments, waiting Mr. O’Shane’s choice and orders per return of post, to purchase in conformity.”—“That’s all well.” General Albemarle’s answer to Mr. O’Shane’s letter was most satisfactory: in terms that were not merely officially polite, but kind, “he assured Mr. O’Shane that he should, as far as it was in his power, pay attention to the young gentleman, whom Mr. O’Shane had so strongly recommended to his care, and by whose appearance and manner the general said he had been prepossessed, when he saw him some months ago at Corny Castle. There was a commission vacant in his son’s regiment, which he recommended to Mr. Ormond.”
“The very thing I could have wished for you, my dear boy—you shall go off the day after to-morrow—not a moment’s delay—I’ll answer the letters this minute.”
But Harry reminded him that the post did not go out till the next day, and urged him not to lose this fine day—this first day of the season for partridge shooting.
“Time enough for my business after we come home—the post does not go out till morning.”
“That’s true: come off, then—let’s enjoy the fine day sent us; and my gun, too—I forgot; for I do believe, Harry, I love you better even than my gun,” said the warm-hearted Corny. “Call Ormond. Moriarty; let us have him with us—he’ll enjoy it beyond all: one of the last day’s shooting with his own Prince Harry!—but, poor fellow, we’ll not tell him that.”
Moriarty and the dogs were summoned, and the fineness of the day, and the promise of good sport, put Moriarty in remarkably good spirits. By degrees King Corny’s own spirits rose, and he forgot that it was the last day with Prince Harry, and he enjoyed the sport. After various trials of his new fowling-piece, both the king and the prince agreed that it succeeded to admiration. But even in the midst of his pride in his success, and his joy in the sport, his superior fondness for Harry prevailed, and showed itself in little, almost delicate instances of kindness, which could hardly have been expected from his unpolished mind. As they crossed a bog, he stooped every now and then, and plucked different kinds of bog-plants and heaths.
“Here, Harry,” said he, “mind these for Dr. Cambray. Remember yesterday his mentioning that a daughter of his was making a botanical collection, and there’s Sheelah can tell you all the Irish names and uses. Some I can note for you myself; and here, this minute—by great luck! the very thing he wanted!—the andromeda, I’ll swear to it: throw away all and keep this—carry it to her to-morrow—for I will have you make a friend of that Dr. Cambray; and no way so sure or fair to the father’s heart as by proper attention to the daughter—I know that by myself. Hush, now, till I have that partridge!—Whirr!—Shot him clean, my dear gun!—Was not that good, Harry?”