Jack Hinton: The Guardsman
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“Oh! blessed Virgin! there’s threason in the camp! hit in the face by a four-pounder, by Jove! Oh! Duke darling! Oh! your Grace! Oh! holy Joseph, look at this! Oh! bad luck to the arthillery, for spoiling a fair fight! Peter” – this was the major of the regiment – “Peter Darcy, gallop into town and lodge informations against the brigade of guns. I’ll be dead before you come back.”
A perfect burst of laughter broke from the opposing ranks, and while his friends crowded round the discomfited leader, the rival bands united in a roar of merriment that for a moment caused a suspension of hostilities. For a moment, I say; for scarcely had the gallant Westropp been conveyed to the rear, when once more the bands struck up their irritating strains, and preparations for a still more deadly encounter were made on every side. The matter now assumed so serious an aspect, that the Duke was obliged himself to interfere, and order both parties off the ground; the Cork deploying towards the lodge, while the brave Louth marched off with banners flying and drums beating in the direction of Knockmaroon.
These movements were conducted with a serio-comic solemnity of the most ludicrous kind; and although the respect for viceregal authority was great, and the military devotion of each party strong, yet neither one nor the other was sufficient to prevent the more violent on both sides from occasionally turning, as they went, to give expression to some taunting allusion or some galling sarcasm, well calculated, did the opportunity permit, to renew the conflict.
A hearty burst of laughter from the Duke indicated pretty clearly how he regarded the matter; and, however the grave and significant looks of others might seem to imply that there was more in the circumstance than mere food for mirth, he shook his sides merrily; and, as his bright eye glistened with satisfaction, and his cheek glowed, he could not help whispering his regret that his station compelled him to check the very best joke he ever witnessed in his life.
“This is hot work, Sir Charles,” said he, wiping his forehead as he spoke; “and, as it is now past three o’clock, and we have a privy council at four, I fear I must leave you.”
“The troops will move past in marching order,” replied Sir Charles, pompously: “will your Grace receive the salute at this point?”
“Wherever you like, Sir Charles; wherever you like. Would to Heaven that some good Samaritan could afford me a little brandy-and-water from his canteen. I say, Hinton, they seem at luncheon yonder in that carriage: do you think your diplomacy could negotiate a glass of sherry for me?”
“If you’ll permit me, my Lord, I’ll try,” said I, as, disengaging myself from the crowd, I set off in the direction he pointed.
As I drew near the carriage – from which the horses had been taken – drawn up beside a clump of beech-trees for the sake of shelter – I was not long in perceiving that it was the same equipage I had so gallantly rescued in the morning from the sabres of the horse police. Had I entertained any fears for the effects of the nervous shock upon the tender sensibilities of Mrs. Paul Rooney, the scene before me must completely have dispelled my uneasiness. Never did a merrier peal of laughter ring from female lungs than hers as I rode forward. Seated in the back of the carriage, the front cushion of which served as a kind of table, sat the lady in question. One hand, resting upon her knee, held a formidable carving-fork, on the summit of which vibrated the short leg of a chicken; in the other she grasped a silver vessel, which, were I to predicate from the froth, I fear I should pronounce to be porter. A luncheon on the most liberal scale, displayed, in all the confusion and disorder inseparable from such a situation, a veal-pie, cold lamb, tongue, chickens, and sandwiches; drinking vessels of every shape and material; a smelling bottle full of mustard, and a newspaper paragraph full of salt. Abundant as were the viands, the guests were not wanting: crowds of infantry officers, flushed with victory or undismayed by defeat, hob-nobbed from the rumble to the box; the steps, the springs, the very splinter-bar had its occupant; and, truly, a merrier party, or a more convivial, it were difficult to conceive.
So environed was Mrs. Rooney by her friends, that I was enabled to observe them some time, myself unseen.
“Captain Mitchell, another wing? Well, the least taste in life of the breast? Bob Dwyer, will ye never have done drawing that cork?”
Now this I must aver was an unjust reproach, inasmuch as to my own certain knowledge he had accomplished three feats of that nature in about as many minutes; and, had the aforesaid Bob been reared from his infancy in drawing corks, instead of declarations, his practice could not have been more expert. Pop, pop, they went; ghig, glug, glug, flowed the bubbling liquor, as sherry, shrub, cold punch, and bottled porter succeeded each other in rapid order. Simpering ensigns, with elevated eyebrows, insinuated nonsense, soft, vapid, and unmeaning as their own brains, as they helped themselves to ham or dived into the pasty; while a young dragoon, who seemed to devote his attention to Mrs. Rodney’s companion, amused himself by constant endeavours to stroke down a growing moustache, whose downy whiteness resembled nothing that I know of save the ill-omened fur one sees on an antiquated apple-pie.
As I looked on every side to catch a glance at him whom I should suppose to Mr. Rooney, I was myself detected by the watchful eye of Bob Dwyer, who, at that moment having his mouth full of three hard eggs, was nearly asphyxiated in his endeavours to telegraph my approach to Mrs. Paul.
“The edge-du-cong, by the mortial!” said he, sputtering out the words, as his bloodshot eyes nearly bolted out of his head.
Had I been a Bengal tiger, my advent might have caused less alarm. The officers not knowing if the Duke himself were coming, wiped their lips, resumed their caps and chakos, and sprang to the ground in dismay and confusion: as Mrs. Rooney herself, with an adroitness an Indian juggler might have envied, plunged the fork, drumstick and all, into the recesses of her muff; while with a back hand she decanted the XX upon a bald major of infantry, who was brushing the crumbs from his facings. One individual alone seemed to relish and enjoy the discomfiture of the others: this was the young lady whom I before remarked, and whose whole air and appearance seemed strangely at variance with everything around her. She gave free current to her mirth; while Mrs. Paul, now suddenly restored to a sense of her nervous constitution, fell back in her carriage, and appeared bent upon a scene.
“You caught us enjoying ourselves, Mr. Stilton?”
“Hinton, if you’ll allow me, madam.”
“Ay, to be sure – Mr. Hinton. Taking a little snack, which I am sure you’d be the better for after the fatigues of the day.”
“Eh, au au! a devilish good luncheon,” chimed in a pale sub, the first who ventured to pluck up his courage.
“Would a sandwich tempt you, with a glass of champagne?” said Mrs. Paul, with the blandest of smiles.
“I can recommend the lamb, sir,” said a voice behind.
“Begad, I’ll vouch for the porter,” said the Major. “I only hope it is a good cosmetic.”
“It is a beautiful thing for the hair,” said Mrs. Rooney, half venturing upon a joke.
“No more on that head, ma’am,” said the little Major, bowing pompously.
By this time, thanks to the assiduous attentions of Bob Dwyer, I was presented with a plate, which, had I been an anaconda instead of an aide-decamp, might have satisfied my appetite. A place was made for me in the carriage; and the faithful Bob, converting the skirt of his principal blue into a glass-cloth, polished a wine-glass for my private use.
“Let me introduce my young friend, Mr. Hinton,” said Mrs. Paul, with a graceful wave of her jewelled hand towards her companion. “Miss Louisa Bellew, only daughter of Sir Simon Bellew, of – ” what the place was I could not well hear, but it sounded confoundedly like Killhiman-smotherum – “a beautiful place in the county Mayo. Bob, is it punch you are giving?”
“Most excellent, I assure you, Mrs. Rooney.”
“And how is the Duke, sir? I hope his Grace enjoys good health. He is a darling of a man.”
By-the-by, it is perfectly absurd the sympathy your third or fourth-rate people feel in the health and habits of those above them in station, pleased as they are to learn the most common-place and worthless trifles concerning them, and happy when, by any chance, some accidental similitude would seem to exist even between their misfortunes.
“And the dear Duchess,” resumed Mrs. Rooney, “she’s troubled with the nerves like myself. Ah! Mr. Hinton, what an affliction it is to have a sensitive nature; that’s what I often say to my sweet young friend here. It’s better for her to be the gay, giddy, thoughtless, happy thing she is, than – ” Here the lady sighed, wiped her eyes, flourished her cambric, and tried to look like Agnes in the “Bleeding Nun.” “But here they come. You don’t know Mr. Rooney? Allow me to introduce him to you.”
As she spoke, O’Grady cantered up to the carriage, accompanied by a short, pursy, round-faced little man, who, with his hat set knowingly on one side, and his top-boots scarce reaching to the middle of the leg, bestrode a sharp, strong-boned hackney, with cropped ears and short tail. He carried in his hand a hunting-whip, and seemed, by his seat in the saddle and the easy finger upon the bridle, no indifferent horseman.
“Mr. Rooney,” said the lady, drawing herself up with a certain austerity of manner, “I wish you to make the acquaintance of Mr. Hinton, the aide-de-camp to his Grace.”
Mr. Rooney lifted his hat straight above his head, and replaced it a little more obliquely than before over his right eye.
“Delighted, upon my honour – faith, quite charmed – hope you got something to eat – there never was such a murthering hot day – Bob Dwyer, open a bottle of port – the Captain is famished.”
“I say, Hinton,” called out O’Grady, “you forgot the Duke, it seems; he told me you’d gone in search of some sherry, or something of the kind; but I can readily conceive how easily a man may forget himself in such a position as yours.”
Here Mrs. Paul dropped her head in deep confusion, Miss Bellew looked saucy, and I, for the first time remembering what brought me there, was perfectly overwhelmed with shame at my carelessness.
“Never mind, boy, don’t fret about it, his Grace is the most forgiving man in the world; and when he knows where you were – ”
“Ah, Captain!” sighed Mrs. Rooney.
“Master Phil, it’s yourself can do it,” murmured Paul, who perfectly appreciated O’Grady’s powers of “blarney,” when exercised on the susceptible temperament of his fair spouse.
“I’ll take a sandwich,” continued the Captain. “Do you know, Mrs. Rooney, I’ve been riding about this half-hour to catch my young friend, and introduce him to you; and here I find him comfortably installed, without my aid or assistance. The fact is, these English fellows have a nattering, insinuating way of their own there’s no coming up to. Isn’t that so, Miss Bellew?”
“Very likely,” said the young lady, who now spoke for the first time; “but it is so very well concealed that I for one could never detect it.”
This speech, uttered with a certain pert and saucy air, nettled mc for the moment; but as no reply occurred to me, I could only look at the speaker a tacit acknowledgment of her sarcasm; while I remembered, for the first time, that, although seated opposite my very attractive neighbour, I had hitherto not addressed to her a single phrase of even common-place attention.
“I suppose you put up in the Castle, sir?” said Mr. Rooney.
“Yes, two doors lower down than Mount O’Grady,” replied the Captain for me. “But come, Hinton, the carriages are moving, we must get back as quick as we can. Good-by, Paul Adieu, Mrs. Rooney, Miss Bellew, good morning.”
It was just at the moment when I had summoned up my courage to address Miss Bellew, that O’Grady called me away: there was nothing for it, however, but to make my adieus; while, extricating myself from the débris of the luncheon, I once more mounted my horse, and joined the viceregal party as they drove from the ground.
“I’m delighted you know the Rooneys,” said O’Grady, as we drove along; “they are by far the best fun going. Paul good, but his wife superb!”
“And the young lady?” said I.
“Oh, a different kind of thing altogether. By-the-by, Hinton, you took my hint, I hope, about your English manner?”
“Eh – why – how – what did you mean?”
“Simply, my boy, that your Coppermine-river kind of courtesy may be a devilish fine thing in Hyde Park or St. James’s, but will never do with us poor people here. Put more warmth into it, man. Dash the lemonade with a little maraschino; you’ll feel twice as comfortable yourself, and the girls like you all the better. You take the suggestion in good part, I’m sure.”
“Oh, of course,” said I, somewhat stung that I should get a lesson in manner where I had meant to be a model for imitation; “if they like that kind of thing, I must only conform.”
CHAPTER VII. THE ROONEYS
I cannot proceed further in this my veracious history without dwelling a little longer upon the characters of the two interesting individuals I have already presented to my readers as Mr. and Mrs. Rooney.
Paul Rooney, attorney-at-law, 42, Stephen’s-green, north, was about as well known in his native city of Dublin as Nelson’s Pillar. His reputation, unlimited by the adventitious circumstances of class, spread over the whole surface of society; and, from the chancellor down to the carman, his claims were confessed.
It is possible that, in many other cities of the world, Mr. Rooney might have been regarded as a common-place, every-day personage, well to do in the world, and of a free-and-easy character, which, if it left little for reproach, left still less for remark: but in Ireland, whether it was the climate or the people, the potteen or the potatoes, I cannot say, but certainly he “came out,” as the painters call it, in a breadth of colour quite surprising.
The changeful character of the skies has, they tell us, a remarkable influence in fashioning the ever-varying features of Irish temperament; and, certainly, the inconstant climate of Dublin had much merit if it produced in Mr. Rooney the versatile nature he rejoiced in.
About ten o’clock, on every morning during term, might be seen a shrewd, cunning-looking, sly little fellow, who, with pursed-up lips and slightly elevated nose, wended his way towards the Four Courts, followed by a ragged urchin with a well-filled bag of purple stuff. His black coat, drab shorts, and gaiters, had a plain and business-like cut; and the short, square tie of his white cravat had a quaint resemblance to a flourish on a deed; the self-satisfied look, the assured step, the easy roll of the head – all bespoke one with whom the world was thriving; and it did not need the additional evidence of a certain habit he had of jingling his silver in his breeches-pocket as he went, to assure you that Rooney was a warm fellow, and had no want of cash.
Were you to trace his steps for the three or four hours that ensued, you would see him bustling through the crowded hall of the Four Courts – now, whispering some important point to a leading barrister, while he held another by the gown lest he should escape him; now, he might be remarked seated in a niche between the pillars, explaining some knotty difficulty to a western client, whose flushed cheek and flashing eye too plainly indicated his impatience of legal strategy, and how much more pleased he would feel to redress his wrongs in his own fashion; now brow-beating, now cajoling, now encouraging, now condoling, he edged his way through the bewigged and dusty throng, not stopping to reply to the hundred salutations he met with, save by a knowing wink, which was the only civility he did not put down at three-and-fourpence. If his knowledge of law was little, his knowledge of human nature – at least of such of it as Ireland exhibits – was great; and no case of any importance could come before a jury, where Paul’s advice and opinion were not deemed of considerable importance. No man better knew all the wiles and twists, all the dark nooks and recesses of Irish character. No man more quickly could ferret out a hoarded secret; no one so soon detect an attempted imposition. His was the secret police of law: he read a witness as he would a deed, and detected a flaw in him to the full as easily.
As he sat near the leading counsel in a cause, he seemed a kind of middle term between the lawyer and the jury. Marking by some slight but significant gesture every point of the former, to the latter he impressed upon their minds every favourable feature of his client’s cause; and twelve deaf men might have followed the pleadings in a cause through the agency of Paul’s gesticulations. The consequence of these varied gifts was, business flowed in upon him from every side, and few members of the bar were in the receipt of one-half his income.
Scarcely, however, did the courts rise, when Paul, shaking from his shoulders the learned dust of the Exchequer, would dive into a small apartment which, in an obscure house in Mass-lane, he dignified by the name of his study. Short and few as were his moments of seclusion, they sufficed to effect in his entire man a complete and total change. The shrewd little attorney, that went in with a nisi prius grin, came out a round, pleasant-looking fellow, with a green coat of jockey cut, a buff waistcoat, white cords, and tops; his hat set jauntily on one side, his spotted neckcloth knotted in bang-up mode, – in fact, his figure the beau idéal of a west-country squire taking a canter among his covers before the opening of the hunting.
His grey eyes, expanded to twice their former size, looked the very soul of merriment; his nether lip, slightly dropped, quivered with the last joke it uttered. Even his voice partook of the change, and was now a rich, full, mellow Clare accent, which, with the recitative of his country, seemed to Italianise his English. While such was Paul, his accessoires– as the French would call them – were in admirable keeping: a dark chesnut cob, a perfect model of strength and symmetry, would be led up and down by a groom, also mounted upon a strong hackney, whose flat rib and short pastern showed his old Irish breeding; the well-fitting saddle, the well-balanced stirrup, the plain but powerful snaffle, all looked like the appendages of one whose jockeyism was no assumed feature; and, indeed, you had only to see Mr. Rooney in his seat, to confess that he was to the full as much at home there as in the Court of Chancery.
From this to the hour of a late dinner, the Phoenix Park became his resort. There, surrounded by a gay and laughing crowd, Paul cantered along, amusing his hearers with the last mot from the King’s Bench, or some stray bit of humour or fun from a case on circuit. His conversation, however, principally ran on other topics: the Curragh Meeting, the Loughrea Steeple-chase, the Meath Cup, or Lord Boyne’s Handicap; with these he was thoroughly familiar. He knew the odds of every race, could apportion the weights, describe the ground, and, better than all, make rather a good guess at the winner. In addition to these gifts, he was the best judge of a horse in Ireland; always well mounted, and never without at least two hackneys in his stable, able to trot their fifteen Irish miles within the hour. Such qualities as these might be supposed popular ones in a country proverbially given to sporting; but Mr. Rooney had other and very superior powers of attraction, – he was the Amphitryou of Dublin. It was no figurative expression to say that he kept open house. Déjeuners, dinners, routs, and balls followed each other in endless succession. His cook was French, his claret was Sneyd’s; he imported his own sherry and Madeira, both of which he nursed with a care and affection truly parental. His venison and black-cock came from Scotland; every Holyhead packet had its consignment of Welsh mutton; and, in a word, whatever wealth could purchase, and a taste, nurtured as his had been by the counsel of many who frequented his table, could procure, such he possessed in abundance, his greatest ambition being to outshine in splendour, and surpass in magnificence, all the other dinner-givers of the day, filling his house with the great and titled of the land, who ministered to his vanity with singular good-nature, while they sipped his claret, and sat over his Burgundy. His was indeed a pleasant house. The bons vivants liked it for its excellent fare, the perfection of its wines, the certainty of finding the first rarity of the season before its existence was heard of at other tables; the lounger liked it for its ease and informality; the humorist, for the amusing features of its host and hostess; and not a few were attracted by the gracefulness and surpassing loveliness of one who, by some strange fatality of fortune, seemed to have been dropped down into the midst of this singular ménage.
Of Mr. Rooney, I have only further to say that, hospitable as a prince, he was never so happy as at the head of his table; for, although his natural sharpness could not but convince him of the footing which he occupied among his high and distinguished guests, yet he knew well there are few such levellers of rank as riches, and he had read in his youth that even the lofty Jove himself was accessible by the odour of a hecatomb.
Mrs. Rooney – or, as she wrote herself upon her card, Mrs. Paul Rooney (there seemed something distinctive in the prenom.) – was a being of a very different order. Perfectly unconscious of the ridicule that attaches to vulgar profusion, she believed herself the great source of attraction of her crowded staircase and besieged drawing-room. True it was, she was a large and very handsome woman. Her deep, dark, brown eyes, and brilliant complexion, would have been beautiful, had not her mouth somewhat marred their effect, by that coarse expression which high living and a voluptuous life is sure to impress upon those not born to be great. There is no doubt of it, the mouth is your thorough-bred feature. You will meet eyes as softly beaming, as brightly speaking, among the lofty cliffs of the wild Tyrol, or in the deep valleys of the far west; I have seen, too, a brow as fairly pencilled, a nose no Grecian statue could surpass, a skin whose tint was fair and transparent as the downy rose-leaf, amid the humble peasants of a poor and barren land; but never have I seen the mouth whose clean-cut lip and chiselled arch betokened birth. No; that feature would seem the prerogative of the highly born; fashioned to the expression of high and holy thoughts; moulded to the utterance of ennobling sentiment, or proud desire. Its every lineament tells of birth and blood.
Now, Mrs. Rooney’s mouth was a large and handsome one, her teeth white and regular withal, and, when at rest, there was nothing to find fault with; but let her speak – was it her accent? – was it the awful provincialism of her native city? – was it that strange habit of contortion any patois is sure to impress upon the speaker? – I cannot tell, but certainly it lent to features of very considerable attraction a vulgarising character of expression.
It was truly provoking to see so handsome a person mar every effect of her beauty by some extravagant display. Dramatising every trivial incident in life, she rolled her eyes, looked horror-struck or happy, sweet or sarcastic, lofty or languishing, all in one minute. There was an eternal play of feature of one kind or other; there was no rest, no repose. Her arms – and they were round, and fair, and well-fashioned – were also enlisted in the service; and to a distant observer Mrs. Rooney’s animated conversation appeared like a priest performing mass.
And that beautiful head, whose fair and classic proportions were balanced so equally upon her white and swelling throat, how tantalising to know it full of low and petty ambitions, of vulgar tastes, of contemptible rivalries, of insignificant triumph. To see her, amid the voluptuous splendour and profusion of her gorgeous house, resplendent with jewellery, glistening in all the blaze of emeralds and rubies; to watch how the poisonous venom of innate vulgarity had so tainted that fair and beautiful form, rendering her an object of ridicule who should have been a thing to worship. It was too bad; and, as she sat at dinner, her plump but taper fingers grasping a champagne glass, she seemed like a Madonna enacting the part of Moll Flagon.