While bursting through the crowd came a strange, odd-looking figure, in a huntsman's coat and cap, but both so patched and tattered, it was difficult to detect their colour. 'Here's Joe, your honour,' cried he, putting his hand to his mouth at the same moment. 'Tally-ho! ye ho! ye yo!' he shouted, with a mellow cadence I never heard surpassed. 'Yow! yow! yow!' he cried, imitating the barking of dogs, and then uttering a long, low wail, like the bay of a hound, he shouted out, 'Hark away t hark away!' and at the same moment pranced into the thickest of the crowd, upsetting men, women, and children as he went—the curses of some, the cries of others, and the laughter of nearly all ringing through the motley mass, making their misery look still more frightful.
Throwing what silver I had about me amongst them, I made my way towards the hotel—not alone, however, but heading a procession of my ragged friends, who, with loud praises of my liberality, testified their gratitude by bearing me company. Arrived at the porch, I took my luggage from the carrier, and entered the house. Unlike any other hotel I had ever seen, there was neither stir nor bustle, no burly landlord, no buxom landlady, no dapper waiter with napkin on his arm, no pert-looking chambermaid with a bedroom candlestick. A large hall, dirty and unfurnished, led into a kind of bar, upon whose unpainted shelves a few straggling bottles were ranged together, with some pewter measures and tobacco-pipes; while the walls were covered with placards, setting forth the regulations for the Grand Canal Hotel, with a list, copious and abundant, of all the good things to be found therein, with the prices annexed; and a pressing entreaty to the traveller, should he not feel satisfied with his reception, to mention it in a 'book kept for that purpose by the landlord.' I cast my eye along the bill of fare so ostentatiously put forth—I read of rump-steaks and roast-fowls, of red rounds and sirloins, and I turned from the spot resolved to explore farther. The room opposite was large and spacious, and probably destined for the coffee-room, but it also was empty; it had neither chair nor table, and save a pictorial representation of a canal-boat, drawn by some native artist with a burnt stick upon the wall, it had no decoration. Having amused myself with the Lady Caher—such was the vessel called—I again set forth on my voyage of discovery, and bent my steps towards the kitchen. Alas! my success was no better there. The goodly grate, before which should have stood some of that luscious fare of which I had been reading, was cold and deserted; in one corner, it was true, three sods of earth, scarce lighted, supported an antiquated kettle, whose twisted spout was turned up with a misanthropic curl at the misery of its existence. I ascended the stairs, my footsteps echoed along the silent corridor, but still no trace of human habitant could I see, and I began to believe that even the landlord had departed with the larder.
At this moment the low murmur of voices caught my ear. I listened, and could distinctly catch the sound of persons talking together at the end of the corridor. Following along this, I came to a door, at which, having knocked twice with my knuckles, I waited for the invitation to enter. Either indisposed to admit me, or not having heard my summons, they did not reply; so turning the handle gently, I opened the door, and entered the room unobserved. For some minutes I profited but little by this step; the apartment, a small one, was literally full of smoke, and it was only when I had wiped the tears from my eyes three times that I at length began to recognise the objects before me.
Seated upon two low stools, beside a miserable fire of green wood, that smoked, not blazed, upon the hearth, were a man and a woman. Between them a small and rickety table supported a tea equipage of the humblest description, and a plate of fish whose odour pronounced them red herrings. Of the man I could see but little, as his back was turned toward me; but had it been otherwise, I could scarcely have withdrawn my looks from the figure of his companion. Never had my eyes fallen on an object so strange and so unearthly. She was an old woman, so old, indeed, as to have numbered nearly a hundred years; her head, uncovered by cap, or quoif, displayed a mass of white hair that hung down her back and shoulders, and even partly across her face, not sufficiently, however, to conceal two dark orbits, within which her dimmed eyes faintly glimmered; her nose was thin and pointed, and projecting to the very mouth, which, drawn backwards at the angles by the tense muscles, wore an expression of hideous laughter. Over her coarse dress of some country stuff she wore, for warmth, the cast-off coat of a soldier, giving to her uncouth figure the semblance of an aged baboon at a village-show. Her voice, broken with coughing, was a low, feeble treble, that seemed to issue from passages where lingering life had left scarce a trace of vitality; and yet she talked on, without ceasing, and moved her skinny fingers among the tea-cups and knives upon the table, with a fidgety restlessness, as though in search of something.
'There, acushla, don't smoke; don't now! Sure it is the ruin of your complexion. I never see boys take to tobacco this way when I was young.'
'Whisht, mother, and don't be bothering me,' was the cranky reply, given in a voice which, strange to say, was not quite unknown to me.
'Ay, ay,' said the old crone; 'always the same, never mindin' a word I say; and maybe in a few years I won't be to the fore to look after you and watch you.'
Here the painful thought of leaving a world, so full of its seductions and sweets, seemed too much for her feelings, and she began to cry. Her companion, however, appeared but little affected, but puffed away his pipe at his ease, waiting with patience till the paroxysm was past.
'There, now,' said the old lady, brightening up, 'take away the tay-things, and you may go and take a run on the common; but mind you don't be pelting Jack Moore's goose; and take care of Bryan's sow, she is as wicked as the devil now that she has boneens after her. D'ye hear me, darlin', or is it sick you are? Och, wirra! wirra! What's the matter with you, Corny mabouchal?'
'Corny!' exclaimed I, forgetful of my incognito.
'Ay, Corny, nayther more nor less than Corny himself,' said that redoubted personage, as, rising to his legs, he deposited his pipe upon the table, thrust his hands into his pockets, and seemed prepared to give battle.
'Oh, Corney,' said I, 'I am delighted to find you here. Perhaps you can assist me. I thought this was an hotel.'
'And why wouldn't you think it an hotel? hasn't it a bar and a coffee-room? Isn't the regulations of the house printed, and stuck up on all the walls? Ay, that's what the directors did—put the price on everything, as if one was going to cheat the people. And signs on it, look at the place now! Ugh! the Haythins! the Turks!'
'Yes, indeed, Corny, look at the place now,' glad to have an opportunity to chime in with my friend's opinions.
'Well, and look at it,' replied he, bristling up; 'and what have you to say agin it? Isn't it the Grand Canal Hotel?'
'Yes; but,' said I conciliatingly, 'an hotel ought at least to have a landlord, or a landlady.'
'And what do you call my mother there?' said he, with indignant energy.
'Don't bate Corny, sir! don't strike the child!' screamed the old woman, in an accent of heart-rending terror. 'Sure he doesn't know what he is saying.'
'He is telling me it isn't the Grand Canal Hotel, mother,' shouted Corny in the old lady's ears, while at the same moment he burst into a fit of the most discordant laughter. By some strange sympathy the old woman joined in, and I myself, unable to resist the ludicrous effect of a scene which still had touched my feelings, gave way also, and thus we all three laughed on for several minutes.
Suddenly recovering himself in the midst of his cachin-nations, Corny turned briskly round, fixed his fiery eyes upon me, and said—
'And did you come all the way from town to laugh at my mother and me?'
I hastened to exonerate myself from such a charge, and in a few words informed him of the object of my journey, whither I was going, and under what painful delusion I laboured, in supposing the internal arrangements of the Grand Canal Hotel bore any relation to its imposing exterior.
'I thought I could have dined here?'
'No, you can't,' was the reply, 'av ye're not fond of herrins.'
'And had a bed too?'
'Nor that either, av ye don't like straw.'
'And has your mother nothing better than that?' said I, pointing to the miserable plate of fish.
'Whisht, I tell you, and don't be putting the like in her head: sometimes she hears as well as you or me.' Here he dropped his voice to a whisper. 'Herrins is so cheap that we always make her believe it's Lent—this is nine years now she's fasting.' Here a fit of laughing at the success of this innocent ruse again broke from Corny, in which, as before, his mother joined.
'Then what am I to do,' asked I, 'if I can get nothing to eat here? Is there no other house in the village?'
'No, devil a one.'
'How far is it to Loughrea?'
'Fourteen miles and a bit.'
'I can get a car, I suppose?'
'Ay, if Mary Doolan's boy is not gone back.'
The old woman, whose eyes were impatiently fixed upon me during this colloquy, but who heard not a word of what was going forward, now broke in—
'Why doesn't he pay the bill and go away? Devil a farthing I'll take off it. Sure, av ye were a raal gentleman ye'd be givin' a fippenny-bit to the gossoon there, that sarved you. Never mind, Corny dear, I'll buy a bag of marbles for you at Banagher.'
Fearful of once more giving way to unseasonable mirth I rushed from the room and hurried downstairs; the crowd that had so lately accompanied me was now scattered, each to his several home. The only one who lingered near the door was the poor idiot (for such he was) that wore the huntsman's dress.
'Is the Loughrea car gone, Joe?' said I, for I remembered his name.
'She is, yer honour, she's away.'
'Is there any means of getting over to-night?'
'Barrin' walkin', there's none.'
'Ay; but,' said I, 'were I even disposed for that, I have got my luggage.'
'Is it heavy?' said Joe.
'This portmanteau and the carpet-bag you see there.'
'I'll carry them,' was the brief reply.
'You 'll not be able, my poor fellow,' said I.
'Ay, and you on the top of them.'
'You don't know how heavy I am,' said I laughingly.
'Begorra, I wish you was heavier.'
'And why so, Joe?'
'Because one that was so good to the poor is worth his weight in goold any day.'
I do not pretend to say whether it was the flattery, or the promise these words gave me of an agreeable companion en route; but, certain it is, I at once closed with his proposal, and, with a ceremonious bow to the Grand Canal Hotel, took my departure, and set out for Loughrea.
CHAPTER XXI. LOUGHREA
With the innate courtesy of his country, my humble companion endeavoured to lighten the road by song and story. There was not a blackened gable, not a ruined tower, not even a well we passed, without its legend. The very mountains themselves, that reared their mighty peaks towards the clouds, had their tale of superstitious horror; and, though these stories were simple in themselves, there was something in the association of the scene, something in the warm fervour of his enthusiasm that touched and thrilled my heart.
Like a lamp, whose fitful glare flickers through the gloomy vault of some rocky cavern, too feeble to illumine it, but yet calling up wild and goblin shapes on every side, and peopling space with flickering spectres, so did the small modicum of intellect this poor fellow possessed enable him to look at life with strange, distorted views. Accustomed to pass his days in the open air—the fields, the flowers, the streams, his companions—he had a sympathy in the eddying current that flowed on beneath—in the white cloud that rolled above him. Happy—for he had no care—he journeyed about from one county to another. In the hunting season he would be seen lounging about a kennel, making or renewing his intimacy with the dogs, who knew and loved him; then he was always ready to carry a drag, to stop an earth, or do a hundred other of those minor services that are ever wanted. Many who lived far from a post-town knew the comfort of falling in with poor 'Tipperary Joe.' for such was he called. Not more fleet of foot than honest in heart, oftentimes was a letter intrusted to his keeping that with any other messenger would have excited feelings of anxiety. His was an April-day temperament—ever varying, ever changing. One moment would he tell, with quivering lip and broken voice, some story of wild and thrilling interest; the next, breaking suddenly off, he would burst out into some joyous rant, generally ending in a loud 'tally-ho,' in which all his enthusiasm would shine forth, and in his glistening eye and flushed cheek one could mark the pleasure that stirred his heart He knew every one, not only in this, but in the surrounding counties; and they stood severally classed in his estimation by their benevolence to the poor, and their prowess in the hunting-field. These, with him, were the two great qualities of mankind. The kind man, and the bold rider, made his beau-ideal of all that was excellent, and it was strange to watch with what ingenuity he could support his theory.
'There's Burton Pearse—that's the darling of a man!
It's he that's good to the poor, and takes his walls flying. It isn't a lock of bacon or a bag of meal he cares for—be-gorra, it's not that, nor a double ditch would ever stop him. Hurroo! I think I'm looking at him throwing up his whip-hand this way, going over a gate and calling out to the servant, “Make Joe go in for his dinner, and give him half-a-crown”—devil a less! And then there's Mr. Power of Kilfane—maybe your honour knows him? Down in Kilkenny, there. He's another of them—one of the right sort. I wish you see him facing a leap—a little up in his stirrups, just to look over and see the ground, and then—hoo! he's across and away. A beautiful place he has of it, and an elegant pack of dogs, fourteen hunters in the stable, and as pleasant a kitchen as ever I broke my fast in. The cook's a mighty nice woman—a trifle fat, or so; but a good sowl, and a raal warrant for an Irish stew.' 'And Mr. Ulick Burke, Joe, do you know him?' 'Is it blazing Burke? Faix, I do know him! I was as near him as I am to you when he shot Matt Callanan at the mills. “There, now,” says he, when he put a ball in his hip, and lamed him for life, “you were always fond of your trade, and I'll make you a hopper.” And sure enough, this is the way he goes ever since.'
'He is a good horseman, they tell me, Joe?' 'The best in Ireland; for following the dogs, flat race, or steeplechase, show me his equal. Och! it's himself has the seat in a saddle. Mighty short he rides with his knees up, this way, and his toes out. Not so purty to look at, till you are used to it; but watch him fingering his baste—feeling his mouth with the snaffle—never tormenting, but just letting him know who is on his back. It 's raal pleasure to look at him; and then to see him taking a little canter before he sets off, with his hand low, and just tickling the flanks with his spurs, to larn the temper of the horse. May I never! if it isn't a heavenly sight!' 'You like Mr. Burke, then, I see, Joe?' 'Like him! Who wouldn't like him a-horseback? Isn't he the moral of a rider, that knows his baste better than I know my Hail Mary? But see him afoot, he's the greatest divil from here to Croaghpatrick—nothing civiller in his mouth than a curse and a “bloody end” to ye! Och! it's himself hates the poor, and they hate him; the beggars run away from him as if he was the police; and the blind man that sits on Banagher Bridge takes up his bags, and runs for the bare life the minit he hears the trot of his horse. Isn't it a wonder how he rides so bowld with all the curses over him? Faix, myself wouldn't cross that little stream there, if I was like him. Well, well, he'll have a hard reckoning at last. He's killed five men already, and wounded a great many more; but they say he won't be able to go on much further, for when he kills another the divil's to come for him. The Lord be about us! by rason he never let's any one kill more nor six.'
Thus chatting away, the road passed over; and as the sun was setting we came in sight of the town, now not above a mile distant.
'That's Loughrea you see there—it's a mighty fine place,' said Joe. 'There's slate houses, and a market and a barrack; but you 'll stop a few days in the town?'
'Oh, certainly; I wish to see this race.'
'That will be the fine race. It is a great country entirely—every kind of fence, gates, ditches, and stone walls, as thick as they can lie. I'll show you all the course, for I know it well, and tell you the names of all the gentlemen, and the names of their horses, and their servants; and I'll bring you where you 'll see the whole race, from beginning to end, without stirring an inch. Are you going to bet any money?'
'I believe not, Joe; but I'm greatly interested for a friend.'
'And who is he?'
'Captain O'Grady.'
'Master Phil! Tare-an'-ages! are you a friend of Master Phil's? Arrah, why didn't you tell me that before? Why didn't you mintion his name to me? Och! isn't myself proud this evening to be with a friend of the Captain's. See now, what's your name?'
'Hinton,' said I.
'Ay, but your Christian name?'
'They who know me best call me Jack Hinton.'
'Musha! but I'd like to call you Jack Hinton just for this once. Now, will you do one thing for me?'
'To be sure, Joe; what is it?'
'Make them give me a half-pint to drink your health and the Captain's; for, faix, you must be the right sort, or he wouldn't keep company with you. It's just like yesterday to me the day I met him, down at Bishop's Loch. The hounds came to a check, and a hailstorm came on, and all the gentlemen went into a little shebeen house for shelter. I was standing outside, as it may be here, when Master Phil saw me. “Come in, Joe,” says he; “you 're the best company, and the pleasantest fellow over a mug of egg-nip.” And may I never! if he didn't make me sit down fornint him at a little table, and drink two quarts of as beautiful flip as ever I tasted. And Master Phil has a horse here, ye tell me—what's his name?'
'That, Joe, I am afraid I can't pronounce for you; it's rather beyond my English tongue; but I know that his colour's grey, and that he has one cropped ear.'
'That's Moddiridderoo!' shouted Joe, as throwing my portmanteau to the ground, he seated himself leisurely on it, and seemed lost in meditation.
'Begorra,' said he at length, 'he chose a good-tempered one, when he was about it! there never was such a horse foaled in them parts. Ye heard what he did to Mr. Shea, the man that bred him? He threw him over a wall, and then jumped after him; and if it wasn't that his guardian-angel made his leather breeches so strong, he'd have ate him up entirely! Sure, there's no one can ride him barrin' the man I was talkin' of.'
'Well, Joe, I believe Mr. Burke is to ride him.'
'Musha! but I am sorry for it!'
'And why so? You seem to think highly of his horsemanship.'
'There's no mistaken that, ay it was fair; but then, you see, he has as many tricks in him as the devil. Sometimes he 'll break his stirrup leather, or he 'll come in a pound too heavy, or he'll slip the snaffle out of the mouth; for he doesn't care for his neck. Once I see him stake his baste, and bring him in dead lame.'
Here ended our conversation; for by this time we entered the town, and proceeded to Mrs. Doolan's. The house was full, or the apartments bespoke; and I was turning away in disappointment, when I accidentally overheard the landlady mention the two rooms ordered by Captain O'Grady. A little explanation ensued, and I discovered, to my delight, that these were destined for me by my friend, who had written sometime before to secure them. A few minutes more saw me comfortably installed in the little inn, whose unpretending exterior and cheerful comfort within doors were the direct antithesis to the solemn humbug I had left at Shannon Harbour.
Under Joe's auspices—for he had established himself as my own man—tea and rashers made their appearance. My clothes were unpacked and put by; and as he placed my dressing-gown and slippers in readiness before the fire, I could not help observing the servant-like alacrity of his manner, perfect in everything, save in his habit of singing to himself as he went, which I can't say, however, that I disliked, and certainly never dreamed of checking. Having written a few lines to Mr. Burke, expressing my desire for a few minutes' interview the following morning, I despatched the note, and prepared for bed.
I had often listened with apathy to the wise saws of people who, never having felt either hunger or fatigue, are so fond of pronouncing a glowing eulogium on such luxuries, when the period of their gratification has arrived; but, I confess, as I lay down that night in bed, and drew the clothes around me, I began to believe that they had underrated the pleasures they spoke of. The house clock ticked pleasantly in the room without; the cheerful turf-fire threw its mild red light across the room; the sounds from the street were those of happy voices and merry laughter, and when I ceased to hear them I had fallen into a sound and peaceful sleep.
It was after about a dozen efforts, in which I had gone through all the usual formula on such occasions—rubbing my eyes, stretching, and even pinching myself—before I could awake on the following morning. I felt somewhat stiffened from the unaccustomed exertions of the day before, but, somehow, my spirits were unusually high, and my heart in its very lightest mood. I looked about me through the little room, where all was order, neatness, and propriety. My clothes carefully brushed and folded, my boots resplendent in their blacking, stood basking before the fire; even my hat, placed gently on one side, with my gloves carefully flattened, were laid out in true valet fashion. The door into my little sitting-room lay open, and I could mark the neat and comfortable preparations for my breakfast, while at a little distance from the table, and in an attitude of patient attention, stood poor Joe himself, who, with a napkin across his arm, was quietly waiting the moment of my awaking.
I know not if my reader will have any sympathy with the confession; but I own I have always felt a higher degree of satisfaction from the unbought and homely courtesy chance has thrown in my way, than from the more practised and dearly-paid-for attentions of the most disciplined household. There is something nattering in the personal devotion which seems to spring from pure good-will, that insensibly raises one in his own esteem. In some such reflection as this was I lost, when the door of my outer room was opened, and a voice inquired if Mr. Hinton stopped there.
'Yes, sir,' replied Joe; 'he is in bed and asleep.'
'Ah! it is you, Joe?' replied the other. 'So you are turned footman, I see. If the master be like the man, it ought to be a shrewd establishment.'
'No,' replied Joe carelessly; 'he's not very like anything down in these parts, for he appears to be a gentleman.'
'Tell him I am here, and be d——d to you,' was the indignant reply, as the speaker threw himself into his chair and stirred the fire with his foot.
Suspecting at once who my visitor was, I motioned to Joe to leave the room, and proceeded to dress myself with all despatch. During the operation, however, my friend without manifested several symptoms of impatience: now walking the room with rapid strides, as he whistled a quick step; now beating the bars of the grate with a poker, and occasionally performing that popular war-dance, 'The Devil's Tattoo,' with his knuckles upon the table. At length his endurance seemed pushed to its limit, and he knocked sharply at the door, calling out at the same moment—
'I say, sir, time's up, if you please.'
The next moment I was before him.
Mr. Ulick Burke—for I need not say it was he—was a well-looking man, of about eight-and-twenty or thirty years of age. Although his height was below the middle size, he was powerfully and strongly made; his features would have been handsome, were it not for a certain expression of vulgar suspicion that played about the eyes, giving him a sidelong look when he spoke; this, and the loss of two front teeth from a fall, disfigured a face originally pleasing. His whiskers were large, bushy, and meeting beneath his chin. As to his dress, it was in character with his calling—a green coat cut round in jockey fashion, over which he wore a white 'bang-up,' as it was called, in one pocket of which was carelessly thrust a lash-whip; a belcher handkerchief, knotted loosely about his neck, buckskin breeches, reaching far down upon the leg, and top-boots completed his costume. I had almost forgotten a hat, perhaps the most characteristic thing of all. This, which once had been white, was now, by stress of time and weather, of a dirty drab colour, its crown dinged in several places, and the leaf jagged and broken, bespoke the hard usage to which it was subjected. While speaking, he held it firmly clutched in his ungloved hand, and from time to time struck it against his thigh, with an energy of manner that seemed habitual His manner was a mixture of timid embarrassment and vulgar assurance, feeling his way, as it were, with one, while he forgot himself with the other. With certain remnants of the class he originally belonged to, he had associated the low habitudes and slang phraseology of his daily associates, making it difficult for one, at first sight, to discover to which order he belonged. In the language of his companions, Click Burke 'could be a gentleman when he pleased it.'
How often have we heard this phrase, and with what a fatal mistake is it generally applied! He who can be a gentleman when he pleases, never pleases to be anything else. Circumstances may, and do, every day in life, throw men of cultivated minds and refined habits into the society of their inferiors; but while, with the tact and readiness that is their especial prerogative, they make themselves welcome among those with whom they have few, if any, sympathies in common, yet never by any accident do they derogate from that high standard that makes them gentlemen. So, on the other hand, the man of vulgar tastes and coarse propensities may simulate, if he be able, the outward habitudes of society, speaking with practised intonation and bowing with well-studied grace; yet is he no more a gentleman in his thought or feeling than is the tinselled actor, who struts the board, the monarch his costume would bespeak him. This being the 'gentleman when he likes' is but the mere performance of the character. It has all the smell of the orange-peel and the footlights about it, and never can be mistaken by any one who knows the world.
But to come back to Mr. Burke. Having eyed me for a second or two, with a look of mingled distrust and impertinence, he unfolded my note, which he held beneath his fingers, and said—
'I received this from you last night, Mr. ———'
'Hinton,' said I, assisting him.
'Mr. Hinton,' repeated he slowly.
'Won't you be seated?' said I, pointing to a chair, and taking one myself.
He nodded familiarly, and placing himself on the window-sill, with one foot upon a chair, resumed—
'It's about O'Gradys business I suppose you've come down here. The Captain has treated me very ill.'
'You are quite right,' said I coolly, 'in guessing the object of my visit; but I must also let you know, that in any observations you make concerning Captain O'Grady, they are made to a friend, who will no more permit his name to be slightingly treated than his own.'
'Of course,' pronounced with a smile of the most insulting coolness, was the only reply. 'That, however, is not the matter in hand: your friend, the Captain, never condescended to answer my letter.'
'He only received it a few days ago.'
'Why isn't he here himself? Is a gentleman-rider to be treated like a common jockey that's paid for his race?'
I confess the distinction was too subtle for me, but I said nothing in reply.
'I don't even know where the horse is, nor if he is here at all. Will you call that handsome treatment Mr. Hinton?'
'One thing I am quite sure of, Mr. Burke—Captain O'Grady is incapable of anything unworthy or unbecoming a gentleman; the haste of his departure for foreign service may have prevented him observing certain matters of etiquette towards you, but he has commissioned me to accept your terms. The horse is here, or will be here to-night; and I trust nothing will interrupt the good understanding that has hitherto subsisted between you.'
'And will he take up the writ?' 'He will,' said I firmly.
'He must have a heavy book on the race.' 'Nearly a thousand pounds.'
'I'm sorry for it for his sake,' was the cool reply, 'for he'll lose his money.'
'Indeed!' said I; 'I understand that you thought well of his horse, and that with your riding——'
'Ay; but I won't ride for him.'
'You won't ride!—not on your own terms?'
'No; not even on my own terms. Don't be putting yourself into a passion, Mr. Hinton—you've come down to a country where that never does any good; we settle all our little matters here in a social, pleasant way of our own. But, I repeat it, I won't ride for your friend; so you may withdraw his horse as soon as you like; except,' added he, with a most contemptuous sneer, 'you have a fancy for riding him yourself.'
Resolving that whatever course I should follow I would at least keep my temper for the present, I assumed as much calmness as I could command, and said—
'And what is there against O'Gradys horse?'
'A chestnut mare of Tom Molloy's, that can beat him over any country. The rest are withdrawn; so that I'll have a “ride over” for my pains.'
'Then you ride for Mr. Molloy?' said I.
'You've guessed it,' replied he with a wink, as throwing his hat carelessly on one side of his head he gave me an insolent nod and lounged out of the room.
I need not say that my breakfast appetite was not improved by Mr. Burke's visit; in fact, never was a man more embarrassed than I was. Independent of the loss of his money, I knew how poor Phil would suffer from the duplicity of the transaction; and in my sorrow for his sake I could not help accusing myself of ill-management in the matter. Had I been more conciliating or more blunt—had I bullied, or bid higher, perhaps a different result might have followed. Alas! in all my calculations, I knew little or nothing of him with whom I had to deal. Puzzled and perplexed, uncertain how to act—now resolving on one course, now deciding on the opposite, I paced my little room for above an hour, the only conviction I could come to being the unhappy choice that poor O'Grady had made when he selected me for his negotiator.
The town clock struck twelve. I remembered suddenly that was the hour when the arrangements for the race were to be ratified; and without a thought of what course I should pursue, what plan I should adopt, I took my hat and sallied forth.
The main street of the little town was crowded with people, most of them of that class which, in Irish phrase, goes by the appellation of squireen—a species of human lurcher, without any of the good properties of either class from which it derives its origin, but abounding in the bad traits of both. They lounged along, followed by pointers and wire-haired greyhounds, their hands stuck in their coat-pockets, and their hats set well back on their heads. Following in the train of this respectable cortege, I reached the market-house, upon the steps of which several 'sporting gentlemen' of a higher order were assembled. Elbowing my way with some difficulty through these, I mounted a dirty and sandy stair to a large room, usually employed by the magistrates for their weekly sessions; here, at a long table, sat the race committee, an imposing display of books, pens, and papers before them. A short little man, with a powdered head, and a certain wheezing chuckle when he spoke that voluntarily suggested the thought of apoplexy, seemed to be the president of the meeting.
The room was so crowded with persons of every class that I could with difficulty catch what was going forward. I looked anxiously round to see if I could not recognise some friend or acquaintance, but every face was strange to me. The only one I had ever seen before was Mr. Burke himself, who with his back to the fire was edifying a select circle of his friends by what I discovered, from the laughter of his auditory, was a narrative of his visit to myself. The recital must have owed something to his ingenuity in telling, for indeed the gentlemen seemed convulsed with mirth; and when Mr. Burke concluded, it was plain to see that he stood several feet higher in the estimation of hie acquaintances.
'Silence!' wheezed the little man with the white head: 'it is a quarter past twelve o'clock, and I'll not wait any longer.'
'Read the list, Maurice,' cried some one. 'As it is only “a walk over,” you needn't lose any time.'
'Here, then, No. 1—Captain Fortescue's Tramp.' 'Withdrawn,' said a voice in the crowd. 'No. 2—Harry Studdard's Devil-may-care.'
'Paid forfeit,' cried another.
'No. 3—Sir George O'Brien's Billy-the-bowl.' 'Gone home again,' was the answer. 'No. 4—Tom Molloy's Cathleen.'
'All right!' shouted Mr. Burke, from the fireplace» 'Who rides?' asked the president.
'Ulick!' repeated half-a-dozen voices together.
'Eleven stone eight,' said the little man.
'And a pound for the martingale,' chimed in Mr. Burke.
'Well, I believe that's all. No; there's another horse-Captain O'Grady's Moddiridderoo.'
'Scratch him out with the rest,' said Mr. Burke.
'No!' said I, from the back of the room.
The word seemed electric; every eye was turned towards the quarter where I stood; and as I moved forward towards the table the crowd receded to permit my passage.
'Are you on the part of Mr. O'Grady, sir?' said the little man, with a polite smile.
I bowed an affirmative.
'He does not withdraw his horse, then?' said he.
'No,' said I again.
'But you are aware, sir, that Mr. Burke is going to ride for my friend, Mr. Molloy, here. Are you prepared with another gentleman?'
I nodded shortly.'
'His name, may I ask?' continued he. 'Mr. Hinton.'
By this time Mr. Burke, attracted by the colloquy, had approached the table, and, stooping down, whispered some words in the president's ear.
'You will forgive me, I'm sure,' said the latter, addressing me, 'if I ask, as the name is unknown to me, if this be a gentleman-rider?'
The blood rushed to my face and temples. I knew at once from whom this insult proceeded. It was no time, however, to notice it, so I simply replied—
'Mr. Hinton is an officer of the Guards, an aide-de-camp to the Lord Lieutenant, and I beg leave respectfully to present him to you.'
The obsequious civility exhibited by the party as I pronounced these few words were an ample amende for what I had suffered a few minutes before. Meanwhile, Mr. Burke had resumed his place at the fire, once more surrounded by his admiring satellites.
Being accommodated with a chair at the table, I proceeded to read over and sign the usual papers, by which I bound myself to abide by the regulations of the course, and conform in all things to the decision of the stewards. Scarcely had I concluded, when Mr. Burke called out—
'Who'll take eight to one on the race?'
Not a word was spoken in reply.
'Who'll take fifty to five?' cried he again.
'I will,' said a voice from the door.
'Who is that takes my bet? What is his name?' 'Tom Loftus, P.P. of Murranakilty.'
'A better fellow nor an honester couldn't do it, said the president.
'Book your bet, sir,' said Mr. Burke; 'or if it is equally convenient for you, you can pay it at present.'
'I never make a memorandum of such trifles,' said the priest; 'but I'll stake the money in some decent man's hands.'
A roar of laughter followed the priest's proposition, than which nothing could be less to Mr. Burke's taste. This time, however, he was in funds; and while the good father disengaged his five-pound note from the folds of a black leather pocket-book as large as a portfolio, his antagonist threw a fifty on the table, with an air of swaggering importance. I turned now to shake hands with my friend; but to my surprise and astonishment he gave me a look of cold and impressive import, that showed me at once he did not wish to be recognised, and the next moment left the room. My business there was also concluded, and having promised to be forthcoming the following day at two o'clock, I bowed to the chairman and withdrew.
CHAPTER XXII. A MOONLIGHT CANTER
I was not quite satisfied with the good priest for his having cut me, no matter what his reasons. I was not overmuch pleased with the tone of the whole meeting itself, and certainly I was very little satisfied with the part I had myself taken therein; for as cooler judgment succeeded to hot excitement, I perceived in what a mesh of difficulties I had involved myself, and how a momentary flush of passionate indignation had carried me away beyond the bounds of reason and sense, to undertake what but half an hour previously I should have shrunk from with shame, and the very thought of which now filled me with apprehension and dread—not indeed as to the consequences to myself, physically considered, for most willingly would I have compounded for a fractured limb, or even two, to escape the ridicule I was almost certain of incurring. This it was which I could not bear, and my amore propre recoiled from the thought of being a laughing-stock to the underbred and ill-born horde that would assemble to witness me.
When I arrived at the inn poor Joe was there awaiting me; he had been down to see the horse, which for precaution's sake was kept at a mill a little distance from the town, and of whose heart and condition he spoke in glowing terms.
'Och! he is a raal beauty—a little thick in fat about the crest, but they say he always trains fleshy, and his legs are as clean as a whistle. Sorra bit, but it will give Mr. Ulick as much as he can do to ride him to-morrow. I know by the way he turns his eyes round to you in the stable he's in the devil's temper.'
'But it is not Mr. Burke, Joe—I am going to ride him.'
'You are going to do it! You! Oh! by the powers! Mr. Ulick wasn't far out when he said the master was as mad as the man. “Tell me your company,” says the old proverb; and you see there it is. What comes of it? If you lie down with dogs, you'll get up with fleas; and that's the fruits of travelling with a fool.'
I was in no temper for badinage at the moment, and replied to the poor fellow in a somewhat harsher tone than I should have used; and as he left the room without speaking, I felt ashamed and angry with myself for thus banishing the only one that seemed to feel an interest in my fortunes.
I sat down to my dinner discontented and unhappy. But a few hours previous, and I awoke high in heart and hope; and now without any adverse stroke of fortune, without any of those casualties of fate which come on us unlooked for and unthought of, but simply by the un-guided exercise of a passionate temperament, I found myself surrounded by embarrassments and environed by difficulties, without one friend to counsel or advise me.
Yes—I could not conceal it from myself—my determination to ride the steeplechase was the mere outbreak of passion. The taunting insolence of Burke had stung me to adopt a course which I had neither previously considered, nor, if suggested by another, could ever have consented to. True, I was what could be called a good horseman. In the two seasons I had spent in Leicestershire, on a visit to a relative, I had acquitted myself with credit and character; but a light weight splendidly mounted on a trained hunter, over his accustomed country, has no parallel with the same individual upon a horse he has never crossed, over a country he has never seen. These and a hundred similar considerations came rushing on me now when it was too late. However, the thing was done, and there being no possible way of undoing it, there was but one road, the straightforward, to follow in the case. Alas! half of our philosophy in difficulties consists in shutting our eyes firmly against consequences, and, tête baissée, rushing headlong at the future. Though few may be found willing to admit that the bull in the china-shop is the model of their prudence, I freely own it was mine, and that I made up my mind to ride the horse with the unspeakable name as long as he would permit me to ride him, at everything, over everything, or through everything before me. This conclusion at length come to, I began to feel more easy in my mind. Like the felon that feels there is no chance of a reprieve, I could look my fate more steadily in the face.
I had no great appetite for my dinner, but I sat over an excellent bottle of port, sipping and sipping, each glass I swallowed lending a rose tint to the future. The second bottle had just been placed on the table before me, when O'Gradys groom came in to receive his instructions. He had heard nothing of my resolution to ride, and certainly looked aghast when I announced it to him. By this time, however, I had combated my own fears, and I was not going to permit his to terrify me. Affecting the easy nonchalance of that excellent type Mr. Ulick Burke, I thrust my hands into my coat-pockets, and standing with my back to the fire, began questioning him about the horse. Confound it! there's no man so hard to humbug as an Irishman, but if he be a groom, I pronounce the thing impossible. The fellow saw through me in a moment; and as he sipped the glass of wine I had filled out for him, he approached me confidentially, while he said in a low tone—
'Did you say you 'd ride him?'
'Yes, to be sure I did.'
'You did! well, well! there's no helping it, since you said it. There's only one thing to be done'—he looked cautiously about the room, lest any one should overhear him. 'There's but one thing I know of—-let him throw you at the first leap. Mind me now, just leave it to himself; hell give you no trouble in life; and all you have to do is to choose the soft side. It's not your fault after that, you know, for I needn't tell you he won't be caught before night.'
I could not help laughing at this new receipt for riding a steeplechase, although I confess it did not raise my courage regarding the task before me.
'But what does he do?' said I—'this infernal beast; what trick has he?'
'It isn't one, but a hundred that he has. First of all, it isn't so easy to get on his back, for he is as handy with his hind foot as a fiddler; and if you are not mighty quick in mounting, he 'll strike you down with it. Then, when you are up, maybe he won't move at all, but stand with his forelegs out, his head down, and his eyes turned back just like a picture, hitting his flanks between times with his long tail You may coax him, pet him, and pat him—'faith, you might as well be tickling a milestone; for it's laughing at you he 'll be all the time. Maybe at last you 'll get tired, and touch him with the spur. Hurroo! begorra, you 'll get it then!'
'Why—what happens then?'
'What happens, is it? Maybe it's your neck is broke, or your thigh, or your collar-bone at least. He 'll give you a straight plunge up in the air, about ten feet high, throw his head forward till he either pulls the reins out of your hands or lifts you out of the saddle, and at the same moment he'll give you a blow with his hind-quarters in the small of the back. Och, murther!' said he, placing both hands upon his loins, and writhing as he spoke, 'it'll be six weeks to-morrow since he made one of them buck-leaps with me, and I never walked straight since. But that is not all.'
'Come, come,' said I impatiently, 'this is all nonsense; he only wants a man with a little pluck to bully him out of all this.'
As I said these valorous words I own that to my own heart I didn't exactly correspond to the person I described; but as the bottle of port was now finished, I set forth with my companion to pay my first visit to this redoubted animal.
The mill where the stable lay was about a mile from the town; but the night was a fine moonlight one, with not an air of wind stirring, and the walk delightful When we reached the little stream that turned the mill, over which a plank was thrown as a bridge, we perceived that a country lad was walking a pair of saddle-horses backwards and forwards near the spot. The suspicion of some trickery, some tampering with the horse, at once crossed me; and I hinted as much to the groom.
'No, no,' said he, laughing, 'make your mind easy about that. Mr. Ulick Burke knows the horse well, and he'll leave it all to himself.'
The allusion was a pleasant one; but I said nothing, and walked on.
Having procured a lantern at the mill, the groom preceded me to the little outhouse, which acted as stable. He opened the door cautiously, and peeped in.
'He's lying down,' said he to me in a whisper, and at the same moment taking the candle from the lantern, he held it up to permit my obtaining a better view. 'Don't be afeard,' continued he, 'he 'll not stir now, the thief of the earth! When once he's down that way, he lies as peaceable as a lamb.'
As well as I could observe him, he was a magnificent horse—a little too heavy perhaps about the crest and forehand, but then so strong behind, such powerful muscle about the haunches, that his balance was well preserved. As I stood contemplating him in silence, I felt the breath of some one behind me. I turned suddenly around; it was Father Tom Loftus himself. There was the worthy priest, mopping his forehead with a huge pocket-handkerchief and blowing like a rhinoceros.
'Ugh!' said he at length, 'I have been running up and down the roads this half-hour after you, and there's not a puff left in me.'
'Ah, father! I hoped to have seen you at the inn.' 'Whisht! I darn't. I thought I'd do it better my own way; but, see now, we've no time to lose. I knew as well as yourself you never intended to ride this race. No matter; don't say a word, but listen to me. I know the horse better than any one in these parts; and it isn't impossible, if you can keep the saddle over the first two or three fences, that you may win. I say, if you can—for 'faith it's not in a “swing-swong” you'll be! But, come now, the course was marked out this evening. Burke was over it before dinner; and, with a blessing, we will be before supper. I've got a couple of hacks here that'll take us over every bit of it; and perhaps it is not too much to say you might have a worse guide.'
''Faith, your reverence,' chimed in the groom, 'he'd find it hard to have a better.'
Thanking the kind priest for his good-natured solicitude, I followed him out upon the road, where the two horses were waiting us.
'There, now,' said he, 'get up; the stirrups are about your length. He looks a little low in flesh, but you'll not complain of him when he's under you.'
The next moment we were both in the saddle. Taking a narrow path that led off from the highroad, we entered a large tilled field; keeping along the headlands of which, we came to a low stone wall, through a gap of which we passed, and came out upon an extensive piece, of grassland, that gently sloped away from where we were standing to a little stream at its base, an arm of that which supplied the mill.
'Here, now,' said the priest, 'a little to the left yonder is the start. You come down this hill; you take the water there, and you keep along by Freney's house, where you see the trees there. There's only a small stone wall and a clay ditch between this and that; afterwards you turn off to the right. But, come now, are you ready? We'll explore a bit.'
As he spoke, the good priest, putting spurs to his hackney, dashed on before me, and motioning me to follow, cantered down the slope. Taking the little mill-stream at a fly, he turned in his saddle to watch my performance.
'Neat! mighty neat!' cried he, encouraging me. 'Keep your hand a little low. The next is a wall——'
Scarcely had he spoke when we both came together at a stone-fence, about three feet high. This time I was a little in advance, as my horse was fresher, and took it first.
'Oh, the devil a better!' said Father Tom. 'Burke himself couldn't beat that! Here, now: keep this way out of the deep ground, and rush him at the double ditch there.'
Resolved on securing his good opinion, I gripped my saddle firmly with my knees, and rode at the fence. Over we went in capital style; but lighting on the top of a rotten ditch, the ground gave way, and my horse's hind legs slipped backwards into the gripe. Being at full stretch, the poor animal had no power to recover himself, so that, disengaging his forelegs, I pulled him down into the hollow, and then with a vigorous dash of the spur and a bold lift carried him clean over it into the field.
'Look, now!' said the priest; 'that pleases me better than all you did before. Presence of mind—that's the real gift for a horseman when he's in a scrape; but, mind me, it was your own fault, for here's the way to take the fence.' So saying, he made a slight semicircle in the field, and then, as he headed his horse towards the leap, rushed him at it furiously, and came over like the bound of a stag.
'Now,' said Father Tom, pointing with his whip as he spoke, 'we have a beautiful bit of galloping-ground before us; and if you ever reach this far, and I don't see why you shouldn't, here's where you ought to make play. Listen to me now,' said he, dropping his voice: 'Tom Molloy s mare isn't thoroughbred, though they think she is. She has got a bad drop in her. Now, the horse is all right, clean bred, sire and dam, by reason he 'll be able to go through the dirt when the mare can't; so that all you 've to do, if, as I said before, you get this far, is to keep straight down to the two thorn-bushes—there, you see them yonder. Burke won't be able to take that line, but must keep upon the headlands, and go all round yonder; look, now, you see the difference—so that before he can get over that wide ditch you'll be across it, and making for the stone wall After that, by the powers, if you don't win, I, can't help you!'
'Where does the course turn after, father?' said I.
'Oh! a beautiful line of flat country, intersprinkled with walls, ditches, and maybe a hedge or two; but all fair, and only one rasping fence—the last of all. After that, you have a clean gallop of about a quarter of a mile, over as nice a sod as ever you cantered.'
'And that last fence, what is it like?'
''Faith, it is a rasper! It's a wide gully, where there was a boreen once, and they say it is every inch of sixteen feet—that'll make it close upon twenty when you clear the clay on both sides. The grey horse, I'm told, has a way of jumping in and jumping out of these narrow roads; but take my advice, and go it in a fly. And now, Captain, what between the running, and the riding, and the talking altogether, I am as dry as a limekiln; so what do you say if we turn back to town, and have a bit of supper together? There's a kind of a cousin of mine, one Bob Mahon, a Major in the Roscommon, and he has got a grouse-pie, and something hot to dilute it with, waiting for us.'
'Nothing will give me more pleasure, father; and there's only one thing more—indeed I had nearly forgotten it altogether——''
'What's that?' said the priest, with surprise.
'Not having any intention to ride, I left town without any racing equipment; breeches and boots I have, but as to a cap and a jacket——'
'I 've provided for both,' said Father Tom. 'You saw the little man with a white head that sat at the head of the table—Tom Dillon of Mount Brown; you know him?'
'I am not acquainted with him.'
'Well, he knows you; that's all the same. His son, that's just gone to Gibraltar with his regiment, was about your size, and he had a new cap and jacket made for this very race, and of course they are lying there and doing nothing. So I sent over a little gossoon with a note, and I don't doubt but they are all at the inn this moment.'
'By Jove, father!' said I, 'you are a real friend, and a most thoughtful one, too.'
'Maybe I'll do better than that for you,' said he, with a sly wink of his eye, that somehow suggested to my mind that he knew more of and took a deeper interest in me than I had reason to believe.