Jack Hinton: The Guardsman

‘Down we sat; and, ‘faith, a jollier party rarely met f together. Poor Mr. Green knew but little of Ireland; but we certainly tried to enlighten him; and he drank in wonders with his wine at such a rate that by eleven o’clock he was carried to his room pretty much in the same state as on his arrival the night before, the only difference being, it was Sneyd, not saltwater, this time that filled him.

‘“I like the cockney,” said Oakley; “that fellow’s good fun. I say, Bob, bring him over with you to-morrow to dinner. We halt at Carrick till the detachment comes up.”

‘“Could you call it breakfast?” said I. “There’s a thought just strikes me: we’ll be over in Carrick with you about six o’clock; well have our breakfast, whatever you like to give us, and dine with you about eleven or twelve afterwards.”

‘Oakley liked the project well; and before we parted the whole thing was arranged for the next day.

‘Towards four o’clock in the afternoon of the following day Mr. Green was informed by Daniel that, as we had made an engagement to take an early breakfast some miles off, he ought to be up and stirring; at the same time a pair of candles were brought into the room, hot water for shaving, etc; and the astonished cockney, who looked at his watch, perceived that it was but four.

‘“These are very early people,” thought he. “However, the habits of the country must be complied with.” So saying, he proceeded with his toilette, and at last reached the drawing-room, just as my drag dashed up to the door – the lamps fixed and shining, and everything in readiness for departure.

‘“We‘‘ll have a little shooting, Mr. Green,” said I. “After breakfast, we’ll see what my friend’s preserves offer. I suppose you’re a good shot?”

“‘I can’t say much for my performance; but I’m passionately fond of it.”

‘“Well,” added I, “I believe I can answer for it, you ‘ll have a good day here.”

‘So chatting, we rolled along, the darkness gradually thickening round us, and the way becoming more gloomy and deserted.

‘“It’s strange,” says Mr. Green, after a while; “it’s strange, how very dark it grows before sunrise; for I perceive it’s much blacker now than when we set out.”

‘“Every climate has its peculiarities,” said I; “and now that we ‘re used to this, we like it better than any other. But see there, yonder, where you observe the light in the valley – that’s Carrick. My friend’s house is a little at the side of the town. I hope you ‘ve a good appetite for breakfast.”

‘“Trust me, I never felt so hungry in my life.”

‘“Ah, here they come!” said Oakley, as he stood with a lantern in his hand at the barrack-gate; “here they are! Good-morning, Mr. Green. Bob, how goes it? Heavenly morning!”

‘“Delightful indeed,” said poor Green, though evidently not knowing why.

‘“Come along, boys, now,” said Oakley; “we’ve a great deal before us; though I am afraid, Mr. Green, you will think little of our Irish sporting after your English preserves. However, I have kept a few brace of pheasants, very much at your service, in a snug clover-field near the house. So now to breakfast.”

‘There were about half a dozen of the Fifth at that time in the barrack, who all entered heart and hand into the scheme, and with them we sat down to a capital meal, which, if it was not for a big tea-pot and an urn that figured in the middle of the table, might very well have been called dinner. Poor Mr. Green, who for old prejudice’ sake began with his congo and a muffin, soon afterwards, and by an easy transition, glided into soup and fish, and went the pace with the rest of us. The claret began to circulate briskly, and after a couple of hours the whisky made its appearance. The Englishman, whose attention was never suffered to flag with singular anecdotes of a country, whose eccentricities he already began to appreciate, enjoyed himself to the utmost. He laughed, he drank, he even proposed to sing; and with one hand on Oakley’s shoulder, and the other on mine, he registered a vow to purchase an estate and spend the rest of his days in Ireland. It was now about eleven o’clock, when I proposed that we should have a couple of hours at the woodcocks before luncheon.

‘“Ah, yes,” said Green, rubbing his hands, “let us not forget the shooting. I ‘m passionately fond of sport.”

‘It took some time to caparison ourselves for the field. Shot-bags, flasks, and powder-horns were distributed about, while three brace of dogs caracoled round the room, and increased the uproar. We now sallied forth. It was a dark and starless night – the wind still Mowing a hurricane from the north-east, and not a thing to be seen two yards from where you stood.

‘“Glorious weather!” said Oakley.

‘“A delicious morning!” cried another. “When those clouds blow over we shall have no rain.”

‘“That’s a fine line of country, Mr. Green,” said I.

‘“Eh? what? a fine what? I can see nothing – it’s pitch dark.”

‘“Ah, I forgot,” said I. “How stupid we were, Oakley, not to remember that Mr. Green was not used to our climate! We can see everything, you know; but come along, you’ll get better by-and-by.”

‘With this we hurried him down a lane, through a hedge, and into a ploughed field; while on every side of him pop, pop went the guns, accompanied by exclamations of enthusiastic pleasure and delight.

‘“There they go – mark! That’s yours, Tom! Well done – cock pheasant* by Jove! Here, Mr. Green! this way, Mr. Green! that dog is pointing – there, there! don’t you see there?” said I, almost lifting the gun to his shoulder, while poor Mr. Green, almost in a panic of excitement and trepidation, pulled both triggers, and nearly fell back with the recoil.

‘“Splendid shot, begad! – killed both,” said Oakley. “Ah, Mr. Green, we have no chance with you. Give him another gun at once.”

‘“I should like a little brandy,” said Mr. Green, “for my feet are wet.”

‘I gave him my flask, which he emptied at a pull; while, at the same time, animated with fresh vigour, he tramped manfully forward, without fear or dread. The firing still continued hotly around us; and as Mr. Green discharged his piece whenever he was bid, we calculated that in about an hour and a half he had fired above a hundred and fifty times. Wearied and fatigued by his exertions, at length he sat down upon a bank, while one of the gamekeepers covered the ground about him with ducks, hens, and turkey-cooks, as the spoils of his exertions.

‘At Oakley’s proposal we now agreed to go back to luncheon, which I need not tell you was a hot supper, followed by mulled claret and more punch. Here the cockney came out still better than before. His character as a sportsman raised him in his own esteem, and he sang “The Poacher” for two hours, until he fell fast asleep on the carpet. He was then conveyed to bed, where, as on the former day, he slept till late in the afternoon.

‘Meanwhile, I had arranged another breakfast-party at Ross, where we arrived about seven o’clock in the evening – and so on for the rest of the week, occasionally varying the amusement by hunting, fishing, or coursing.

‘At last poor Mr. Green, when called on one morning to dress, sent down Dan with his compliments that he wished to speak to me. I went to him at once, and found him sitting up in his bed.

‘“Ah, Mr. Manon,” said he, “this will never do; it’s a pleasant life, no doubt, but I never could go On with it. Will you tell me one thing – do you never see the sun here?”

‘“Oh, bless you! yes,” said I; “repeatedly. He was out for two hours on last Patrick’s Day, and we have him now and then, promiscuously!”

‘“How very strange, how very remarkable,” said he, with a sigh, “that we in England should know so little of all this! But, to tell you the truth, I don’t think I ever could get used to Lapland – it’s Ireland I mean; I beg your pardon for the mistake. And now, may I ask you another question – Is this the way you always live?”

‘“Why, pretty much in this fashion; during the hazy season we go about to one another’s houses, as you see; and one gets so accustomed to the darkness – ”

‘“Ah, now, don’t tell me that! I know I never could – it’s no use my trying it. I ‘m used to the daylight; I have seen it, man and boy, for about fifty years, and I never could grope about this way. Not but that I am very grateful to you for all your hospitality; but I had rather go home.”

‘“You’ll wait for morning, at all events,” said I; “you will not leave the house in the dead of the night?”

‘“Oh, indeed, for the matter of that, it doesn’t signify much; night and day is much about the same thing in this country.”

‘And so he grew obstinate, and notwithstanding all I could say, insisted on his departure; and the same evening he sailed from the quay of Waterford, wishing me every health and happiness, while he added, with a voice of trembling earnestness —

‘“Yes, Mr. Mahon, pardon me if I am wrong, but I wish to heaven you had a little more light in Ireland!”’

I am unable to say how far the good things of Major Mahon’s table seasoned the story I have just related; but I confess I laughed at it loud and long, a testimony on my part which delighted the Major’s heart; for, like all anecdote-mongers, he was not indifferent to flattery.

‘The moral particularly pleases me,’ said I.

‘Ah, but the whole thing’s true as I am here. Whisht! there’s somebody at the door. Come in, whoever you are.’

At these words the door cautiously opened, and a boy of about twelve years of age entered. He carried a bundle under one arm, and held a letter in his hand.

‘Oh, here it is,’ said Father Tom. ‘Come here, Patsey, my boy, here’s the penny I promised you. There, now, don’t make a bad use of your money.’

The little fellow’s eyes brightened, and with a happy smile and a pull of his forelock for a bow, left the room delighted.

‘Twelve miles – ay, and long miles too – in less than three hours! Not bad travelling, Captain, for a bit of a gossoon like that.’

‘And for a penny!’ said I, almost startled with surprise.

‘To be sure,’ said the priest, as he cut the cord of the package, and opened it on the table. ‘Here we are! as nate a jacket as ever I set my eyes on, green and white, with a cap of the same.’ So saying, he unfolded the racing-costume, which, by the desire of both parties, I was obliged immediately to try on. ‘There, now,’ resumed he; ‘turn about; it fits you like your skin.’

‘It looks devilish well, upon my word,’ said the Major. ‘Put on the cap; and see too, he has sent a whip – that was very thoughtful of Dillon. But what’s this letter here? for you, I think, Mr. Hinton.’

The letter was in a lady’s hand; I broke the seal and read as follows: —

‘Mount Brown, Wednesday Evening.’

‘Dear Sir, – My uncle Dillon requests that you will give us the pleasure of your company to dinner to-morrow at six o’clock. I have taken the liberty to tell him that as we are old acquaintances you will perhaps kindly overlook his not having visited you to-day; and I shall feel happy if, by accepting the invitation, you will sustain my credit on this occasion.

‘He desires me to add that the racing-jacket, etc, are most perfectly at your service, as well as any articles of horse-gear you may be in want of. – Believe me, dear sir, truly yours, Louisa Bellow.’

A thrill of pleasure ran through me as I read these lines; and, notwithstanding my efforts to conceal my emotion from my companions, they but too plainly saw the excitement I felt.

‘Something agreeable there! You don’t look, Mr. Hinton, as if that were a latitat or a bill of costs you were reading.’

‘Not exactly,’ said I, laughing. ‘It is an invitation to dinner from Mount Brown – wherever that may be.’

‘The best house in the county,’ said the Major; ‘and a good fellow he is, Hugh Dillon. When is it for?’

‘To-morrow at six.’

‘Well, if he has not asked me to meet you, I ‘ll invite myself, and we ‘ll go over together.’

‘Agreed,’ said I. ‘But how shall I send back the answer?’

The Major promised to send his servant over with the reply, which I penned at once.

‘Just tell Hugh,’ said the Major, ‘that I’ll join you.’

I blushed, stammered, and looked confused. ‘I am not writing to Mr. Dillon,’ said I, ‘for the invitation came through a lady of the family, Miss Bellew – his niece, I believe.’

‘Whew!’ said the Major, with a long whistle. ‘Is it there we are! Oh, by the powers, Mr. Hinton! that’s not fair – to come down here not only to win our money in a steeplechase, but to want to carry off the belle of our county besides. That ‘ll never do.’

‘She doesn’t belong to you at all,’ said Father Tom; ‘she is a parishioner of mine, and so were her father and grandfather before her. And moreover than that, she is the prettiest girl, and the best too, in the county she lives in – and that’s no small praise, for it’s Galway I’m talking of. And now here’s a bumper to her, and who ‘ll refuse it?’

‘Not I, certainly.’

‘Nor I,’ said the Major, as we drank to her health with all the honours.

‘Now for another jug,’ quoth the Major, as he moved towards the fireplace in search of the kettle.

‘After that toast, not another drop,’ said I resolutely.

‘Well said!’ chimed in the priest; ‘may I never, if that wasn’t very Irish!’

Firmly resisting all the Major’s solicitations to resume my place at the table, I wished both my friends goodnight; and having accepted Bob Mahon’s offer of a seat in his tax-cart to the race, I shook their hands warmly, and took my leave.