Jack Hinton: The Guardsman

‘It is devilish provoking,’ said I.

‘That it is: and you don’t know the worst of it. I ‘ve got rather a heavy book on the Loughrea race, and shall want a few hundreds in a week or so; and, as nothing renders my friend Paul so sulky as not eating his dinners, it is five-and-twenty per cent, at least out of my pocket, from this confounded contretemps. There goes De Vere. I say, Dudley, whom have we at dinner to-day?’

‘Harrington and the Asgills, and that set,’ replied he, with an insolent shrug of his shoulder.

‘More of it, by Jove,’ said O’Grady, biting his lip. ‘One must be as particular before these people as a young sub. at a regimental mess. There’s not a button of your coat, not a loop of your aiguillette, not a twist of your sword-knot, little Charley won’t note down; and as there is no orderly-book in the drawing-room, he will whisper to his grace before coffee.’

‘Whatabore!’

‘Ay, and to think that all that time we might have been up to the very chin in fun. The Rooneys to-day will outdo even themselves. They’ve got half-a-dozen new lords on trial; all the judges; a live bishop; and, better than all, every pretty woman in the capital. I’ve a devil of a mind to get suddenly ill, and slip off to Paul’s for the dessert.’

‘No, no, that’s out of the question; we must only put up with our misfortunes as well as we can. As for me, the dinner here is, I think, the worst part of the matter.’

‘I estimate my losses at a very different rate. First, there is the three hundred, which I should certainly have had from Paul, and which now becomes a very crooked contingency. Then there’s the dinner and two bottles – I speak moderately – of such burgundy as nobody has but himself. These are the positive bonâ fide losses: then, what do you say to my chance of picking up some lovely girl, with a stray thirty thousand, and the good taste to look out for a proper fellow to spend it with? Seriously, Jack, I must think of something of that kind one of these days. It’s wrong to lose time; for, by waiting, one’s chances diminish, while becoming more difficult to please. So you see what a heavy blow this is to me: not to mention my little gains at short-whist, which in the half-hour before supper I may fairly set down as a fifty.’

‘Yours is a very complicated calculation; for, except the dinner, and I suppose we shall have as good a one here, I have not been able to see anything but problematic loss or profit.’

‘Of course you haven’t: your English education is based upon grounds far too positive for that; but we mere Irish get a habit of looking at the possible as probable, and the probable as most likely. I don’t think we build castles more than our neighbours, but we certainly go live in them earlier; and if we do, now and then, get a chill for our pains, why we generally have another building ready to receive us elsewhere for change of air.’

‘This is, I confess, somewhat strange philosophy.’

‘To be sure it is, my boy; for it is of pure native manufacture. Every other people I ever heard of deduce their happiness from their advantages and prosperity. As we have very little of one or the other, we extract some fun out of our misfortunes; and, what between laughing occasionally at ourselves, and sometimes at our neighbours, we push along through life right merrily after all. So now, then, to apply my theory: let us see what we can do to make the best of this disappointment. Shall I make love to Lady Asgill? Shall I quiz Sir Charles about the review? Or can you suggest anything in the way of a little extemporaneous devilry, to console us for our disappointment? But, come along, my boy, we’ll take a canter; I want to show you Moddiridderoo. He improves every day in his training; but they tell me there is only one man can sit him across a country, a fellow I don’t much fancy, by-the-bye; but the turf, like poverty, leads us to form somewhat strange acquaintances. Meanwhile, my boy, here come the nags; and now for the park till dinner.’

During our ride O’Grady informed me that the individual to whom he so slightly alluded was a Mr. Ulick Burke, a cousin of Miss Bellew. This individual, who by family and connections was a gentleman, had contrived by his life and habits to disqualify himself from any title to the appellation in a very considerable degree. Having squandered the entire of his patrimony on the turf, he had followed the apparently immutable law on such occasions, and ended by becoming a hawk, where he had begun as a pigeon. For many years past he had lived by the exercise of those most disreputable sources, his own wits. Present at every racecourse in the kingdom, and provided with that undercurrent of information obtainable from jockeys and stable-men, he understood all the intrigue, all the low cunning of the course: he knew when to back the favourite, when to give, when to take the odds; and, if upon any occasion he was seen to lay heavily against a well-known horse, the presumption became a strong one, that he was either ‘wrong’ or withdrawn. But his qualifications ended not here; for he was also that singular anomaly in our social condition – a gentleman-rider, ready upon any occasion to get into the saddle for any one that engaged his services; a flat race, or a steeplechase, all the same to him. His neck was his livelihood, and to support, he must risk it. A racing-jacket, a pair of leathers and tops, a heavy-handled whip, and a shot-belt, were his stock-in-trade, and he travelled through the world a species of sporting Dalgetty, minus the probity which made the latter firm to his engagements, so long as they lasted. At least, report denied the quality to Mr. Burke; and those who knew him well scrupled not to say that fifty pounds had exactly twice as many arguments in its favour as five-and-twenty.

So much then in brief concerning a character to whom I shall hereafter have occasion to recur; and now to my own narrative.

O’Grady’s anticipations as to the Castle dinner were not in the least exaggerated; nothing could possibly be more stiff or tiresome; the entertainment being given as a kind of ex officio civility, to the commander-of-the-forces and his staff, the conversation was purely professional, and never ranged beyond the discussion of military topics, or such as bore in any way upon the army. Happily, however, its duration was short. We dined at six, and by half-past eight we found ourselves at the foot of the grand staircase of the theatre in Crow Street, with Mr. Jones in the full dignity of his managerial costume waiting to receive us.

‘A little late, I fear, Mr. Jones,’ said his grace with a courteous smile. ‘What have we got?’

‘Your Excellency selected the Inconstant, said the obsequious manager; while a lady of the party darted her eyes suddenly towards the duke, and with a tone of marked sarcastic import, exclaimed —

‘How characteristic!’

‘And the after-piece, what is it?’ said the duchess, as she fussed her way upstairs.

‘Timour the Tartar, your grace.’

The next moment the thundering applause of the audience informed us that their Excellencies had taken their places. Cheer after cheer resounded through the building, and the massive lustre itself shook under the deafening acclamations of the audience. The scene was truly a brilliant one. The boxes presented a perfect blaze of wealth and beauty; nearly every person in the pit was in full dress; to the very ceiling itself the house was crammed. The progress of the piece was interrupted, while the band struck up ‘God Save the King,’ and, as I looked upon the brilliant dress-circle, I could not but think that O’Grady had been guilty of some exaggeration when he said that Mrs. Rooney’s ball was to monopolise that evening the youth and the beauty of the capital The National Anthem over, ‘Patrick’s Day’ was called for loudly from every side, and the whole house beat time to the strains of their native melody, with an energy that showed it came as fully home to their hearts as the air that preceded it. For ten minutes at least the noise and uproar continued; and, although his grace bowed repeatedly, there seemed no prospect to an end of the tumult, when a voice from the gallery called out, ‘Don’t make a stranger of yourself, my lord; take a chair and sit down.’ A roar of laughter, increased as the duke accepted the suggestion, shook the house; and poor Talbot, who all this time was kneeling beside Miss Walstein’s chair, was permitted to continue his ardent tale of love, and take up the thread of his devotion where he had left it twenty minutes before.

While O’Grady, who sat in the back of the box, seemed absorbed in his chagrin and disappointment, I myself became interested in the play, which was admirably performed; and Lord Dudley, leaning affectedly against a pillar, with his back towards the stage, scanned the house with his vapid, unmeaning look, as though to say they were unworthy of such attention at his hands.

The comedy was at length over, and her grace, with the ladies of her suite, retired, leaving only the Asgills and some members of the household in the box with his Excellency. He apparently was much entertained by the performance, and seemed most resolutely bent on staying to the last. Before the first act, however, of the after-piece was over, many of the benches in the dress-circle became deserted, and the house altogether seemed considerably thinner.

‘I say, O’Grady,’ said he, ‘what are these good people about? There seems to be a general move among them. Is there anything going on?’

‘Yes, your grace,’ said Phil, whose impatience now could scarcely be restrained, ‘they are going to a great ball in Stephen’s Green; the most splendid thing Dublin has witnessed these fifty years.’

‘Ah, indeed! Where is it? Who gives it?’ ‘Mr. Rooney, sir, a very well-known attorney, and a great character in the town.’

‘How good! And he does the thing well?’ ‘He flatters himself that he rivals your grace.’ ‘Better still! But who has he? What are his people?’ ‘Every one; there is nothing too high, nothing too handsome, nothing too distinguished for him. His house, like the Holyhead packet, is open to all comers, and the consequence is, his parties are by far the pleasantest thing going. One has such strange rencontres, sees such odd people, hears such droll things; for, besides having everything like a character in the city, the very gravest of Mr. Rooney’s guests seems to feel his house as a place to relax and unbend in. Thus, I should not be the least surprised to see the Chief-Justice and the Attorney-General playing small plays, nor the Bishop of Cork dancing Sir Roger de Coverley.’

‘Glorious fun, by Jove! But why are you not there, lads? Ah, I see; on duty. I wish you had told me. But come, it is not too late yet. Has Hinton got a card?’

‘Yes, your grace.’

‘Well, then, don’t let me detain you any longer. I see you are both impatient; and ‘faith, if I must confess it, I half envy you; and mind and give me a full report of the proceedings to-morrow morning.’

‘How I wish your grace could only witness it yourself!’

‘Eh? Is it so very good, then?’

‘Nothing ever was like it; for, although the company is admirable, the host and hostess are matchless.’

‘Egad! you’ve quite excited my curiosity. I say, O’Grady, would they know me, think ye? Have you no uncle or country cousin about my weight and build?’

‘Ah, my lord, that is out of the question; you are too well known to assume an incognito. But still, if you wish to see it for a few minutes, nothing could be easier than just to walk through the rooms and come away. The crowd will be such, the thing is quite practicable, done in that way.’

‘By Jove, I don’t know; but if I thought – To be sure, as you say, for five minutes or so one might get through. Come, here goes; order up the carriages. Now mind, O’Grady, I am under your management. Do the thing as quietly as you can.’

Elated at the success of his scheme, Phil scarcely waited for his grace to conclude, but sprang down the box-lobby to give the necessary orders, and was back again in an instant.

‘Don’t you think I had better take this star off?’

‘Oh no, my lord, it will not be necessary. By timing the thing well, we’ll contrive to get your grace into the midst of the crowd without attracting observation. Once there, the rest is easy enough.’

Many minutes had not elapsed ere we reached the corner of Grafton Street. Here we became entangled with the line of carriages, which extended more than half-way round Stephen’s Green, and, late as was the hour, were still thronging and pressing onwards towards the scene of festivity. O’Grady, who contrived entirely to engross his grace’s attention by many bits of the gossip and small-talk of the day, did not permit him to remark that the viceregal liveries and the guard of honour that accompanied us enabled us to cut the line of carriages, and taking precedence of all others, arrive at the door at once. Indeed, so occupied was the duke with some story at the moment, that he was half provoked as the door was flung open, and the clattering clash of the steps interrupted the conversation.

‘Here we are, my lord,’ said Phil.

‘Well, get out, O’Grady. Lead on. Don’t forget it is my first visit here; and you, I fancy, know the map of the country.’

The hall in which we found ourselves, brilliantly lighted and thronged with servants, presented a scene of the most strange confusion and tumult; for, such was the eagerness of the guests to get forward, many persons were separated from their friends: turbaned old ladies called in cracked voices for their sons to rescue them, and desolate daughters seized distractedly the arm nearest them, and implored succour with an accent as agonising as though on the eve of shipwreck. Mothers screamed, fathers swore, footmen laughed, and high above all came the measured tramp of the dancers overhead, while fiddles, French horns, and dulcimers scraped and blew their worst, as if purposely to increase the inextricable and maddening confusion that prevailed.

‘Sir Peter and Lady Macfarlane!’ screamed the servant at the top of the stairs.

‘Counsellor and Mrs. Blake!’

‘Captain O’Ryan of the Rifles!’

‘Lord Dumboy – ’

‘Dunboyne, you villain!’

‘Ay, Lord Dunboyne and five ladies!’

Such were the announcements that preceded us as we wended our way slowly on, while I could distinguish Mr. Rooney’s voice receiving and welcoming his guests, for which purpose he used a formula, in part derived from the practice of an auction-room.

‘Walk in, ladies and gentlemen, walk in. Whist, tea, dancing, negus, and blind-hookey – delighted to see you – walk in’; and so, da capo, only varying the ritual when a lord or a baronet necessitated a change of title.

‘You’re quite right, O’Grady; I wouldn’t have lost this for a great deal,’ whispered the duke.

‘Now, my lord, permit me,’ said Phil. ‘Hinton and I will engage Mr. Rooney in conversation, while your grace can pass on and mix with the crowd.’

‘Walk in, walk in, ladies and – Ah! how are you, Captain? This is kind of you – Mr. Hinton, your humble servant – Whist, dancing, blind-hookey, and negus – walk in – and, Captain Phil,’ added he in a whisper, ‘a bit of supper by-and-by below-stairs.’

‘I must tell you an excellent thing, Rooney, before I forget it,’ said O’Grady, turning the host’s attention away from the door as he spoke, and inventing some imaginary secret for the occasion; while I followed his grace, who now was so inextricably jammed up in the dense mob that any recognition of him would have been very difficult, if not actually impossible.

For some time I could perceive that the duke’s attention was devoted to the conversation about him. Some half-dozen ladies were carrying on a very active and almost acrimonious controversy on the subject of dress; not, however, with any artistic pretension of regulating costume or colour, not discussing the rejection of an old or the adoption of a new mode, but with a much more practical spirit of inquiry they were appraising and valuing each other’s finery, in the most sincere and simple way imaginable.

‘Seven-and-sixpence a yard, my dear; you ‘ll never get it less, I assure you.’ ‘That’s elegant lace, Mrs. Mahony; was it run, ma’am?’ Mrs. Mahony bridled at the suggestion, and replied that, though neither her lace nor her diamonds were Irish – ‘Six breadths, ma’am, always in the skirt,’ said a fat, little, dumpy woman, holding up her satin petticoat in evidence.

‘I say, Hinton,’ whispered the duke, ‘I hope they won’t end by an examination of us. But what the deuce is going on here?’

This remark was caused by a very singular movement in the room. The crowd which had succeeded to the dancers, and filled the large drawing-room from end to end, now fell back to either wall, leaving a space of about a yard wide down the entire centre of the room, as though some performance was about to be enacted or some procession to march there.

‘What can it be?’ said the duke; ‘some foolery of O’Grady’s, depend upon it; for look at him up there talking to the band.’

As he spoke, the musicians struck up the grand march in Blue Beard, and Mrs. Paul Rooney appeared in the open space, in all the plenitude of her charms – a perfect blaze of rouge, red feathers, and rubies – marching in solemn state. She moved along in time to the music, followed by Paul, whose cunning eyes twinkled with more than a common shrewdness, as he peered here and there through the crowd. They came straight towards where we were standing; and while a whispered murmur ran through the room, the various persons around us drew back, leaving the duke and myself completely isolated. Before his grace could recover his concealment, Mrs. Rooney stood before him. The music suddenly ceased; while the lady, disposing her petticoats as though the object were to conceal all the company behind her, curtsied down to the very floor.

‘Ah, your grace,’ uttered in an accent of the most melting tenderness, were the only words she could speak, as she bestowed a look of still more speaking softness. ‘Ah, did I ever hope to see the day when your Highness would honour – ’

‘My dear madam,’ said the duke, taking her hand with great courtesy, ‘pray don’t overwhelm me with obligations. A very natural, I hope a very pardonable desire, to witness hospitality I have heard so much of, has led me to intrude thus uninvited upon you. Will you allow me to make Mr. Rooney’s acquaintance?’

Mrs. Rooney moved gracefully to one side, waving her hand with the air of a magician about to summons an attorney from the earth, when suddenly a change came over his grace’s features; and, as he covered his mouth with his handkerchief, it was with the greatest difficulty he refrained from an open burst of laughter. The figure before him was certainly not calculated to suggest gravity.

Mr. Paul Rooney for the first time in his life found himself the host of a viceroy, and, amid the fumes of his wine and the excitement of the scene, entertained some very confused notion of certain ceremonies observable on such occasions. He had read of curious observances in the East, and strange forms of etiquette in China, and probably, had the Khan of Tartary dropped in on the evening in question, his memory would have supplied him with some hints for his reception; but, with the representative of Britannic Majesty, before whom he was so completely overpowered, he could not think of, nor decide upon anything. A very misty impression flitted through his mind, that people occasionally knelt before a Lord Lieutenant; but whether they did so at certain moments, or as a general practice, for the life of him he could not tell. While, therefore, the dread of omitting a customary etiquette weighed with him on the one hand, the fear of ridicule actuated him on the other; and thus he advanced into the presence with bent knees and a supplicating look eagerly turned towards the duke, ready at any moment to drop down or stand upright before him as the circumstances might warrant.

Entering at once into the spirit of the scene, the duke bowed with the most formal courtesy, while he vouchsafed to Mr. Rooney some few expressions of compliment. At the same time, drawing Mrs. Rooney’s arm within his own, he led her down the room, with a grace and dignity of manner no one was more master of than himself. As for Paul, apparently unable to stand upright under the increasing load of favours that fortune was showering upon his head, he looked over his shoulder at Mrs. Rooney, as she marched off in triumph, with the same exuberant triumph Young used to throw into Othello, as he passionately exclaims —

‘Excellent wench I perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee!’

Not but that, at the very moment in question, the object of it was most ungratefully oblivious of Mr. Rooney and his affection.

Had Mrs. Paul Rooney been asked on the morning after her ball, what was her most accurate notion of Elysian bliss, she probably would have answered – leaning upon a viceroy’s arm in her own ball-room, under the envious stare and jealous gaze of eight hundred assembled guests. Her flushed look, her flashing eye, the trembling hand with which she waved her fan, the proud imperious step, all spoke of triumph. In fact, such was the halo of reverence, such the reflected brightness the representative of monarchy then bore, she felt it a prouder honour to be thus escorted, than if the Emperor of all the Russias had deigned to grace her mansion with his presence. How she loved to run over every imaginable title she conceived applicable to his rank, ‘Your Royal Highness,’ ‘Your Grace,’ ‘Your noble Lordship,’ varying and combining them like a a child who runs his erring fingers over the keys of a pianoforte, and is delighted with the efforts of his skill.

While this kingly scene was thus enacting, the ballroom resumed its former life and vivacity. This indeed was owing to O’Grady. No sooner had his scheme succeeded of delivering up the duke into the hands of the Rooneys, than he set about restoring such a degree of turmoil, tumult, noise, and merriment, as, while it should amuse his grace, would rescue him from the annoyance of being stared at by many who never had walked the boards with a live viceroy.

‘Isn’t it gloriously done, Hinton?’ he whispered in my ear as he passed. ‘Now lend me your aid, my boy, to keep the whole thing moving. Get a partner as quick as you can, and let us try if we can’t do the honours of the house, while the master and mistress are basking in the sunshine of royal favour.’

As he spoke, the band struck up ‘Haste to the Wedding!’ The dancers assumed their places – Phil himself flying hither and thither, arranging, directing, ordering, countermanding, providing partners for persons he had never seen before, and introducing individuals of whose very names he was ignorant.

‘Push along, Hinton,’ said he; ‘only set them going. Speak to every one – half the men in the room answer to the name of “Bob,” and all the young ladies are “Miss Magees.” Then go it, my boy; this is a great night for Ireland!’

This happy land, indeed, which, like a vast powder-magazine, only wants but the smallest spark to ignite it, is always prepared for an explosion of fun. No sooner than did O’Grady, taking out the fattest woman in the room, proceed to lead her down the middle to the liveliest imaginable country-dance, than at once the contagious spirit flew through the room, and dancers pressed in from every side. Champagne served round in abundance, added to the excitement; and, as eight-and-thirty couple made the floor vibrate beneath them, such a scene of noise, laughter, uproar, and merriment ensued, as it were difficult to conceive or describe.

CHAPTER X. A FINALE TO AN EVENING

A ball, like a battle, has its critical moment: that one short and subtle point, on which its trembling fate would seem to hesitate, ere it incline to this side or that. In both, such is the time for generalship to display itself – and of this my friend O’Grady seemed well aware; for, calling up his reserve for an attack in force, he ordered strong negus for the band; and ere many minutes, the increased vigour of the instruments attested that the order had been attended to.

‘Right and left!’ ‘Hands across!’ ‘Here we are!’ ‘This way, Peter!’ ‘Ah! Captain, you ‘re a droll crayture!’ ‘Move along, alderman!’ ‘That negus is mighty strong!’ ‘The Lord grant the house is – ’

Such and such like phrases broke around me, as, under the orders of the irresistible Phil, I shuffled down the middle with a dumpy little school-girl, with red hair and red shoes; which, added to her capering motion, gave her a most unhappy resemblance to a cork fairy.