Jack Hinton: The Guardsman

“By-the-by, that Corny is a strange character. I rather think, if I were you, I should have let him go with the property.”

“Let him go! Egad, that’s not so easy as you think. Nothing but death will ever part us.”

“I really cannot comprehend how you endure him; he’d drive me mad.”

“Well, he very often pushes me a little hard or so; and, if it wasn’t that, by deep study and minute attention, I have at length got some insight into the weak parts of his nature, I frankly confess I couldn’t endure it much longer.”

“And, pray, what may these amiable traits be?”

“You will scarcely guess”

“Love of money, perhaps?”

“No.”

“Attachment to your family, then?”

“Not that either.”

“I give it up.”

“Well, the truth is, Corny is a most pious Catholic. The Church has unbounded influence and control over all his actions. Secondly, he is a devout believer in ghosts, particularly my grandfather’s, which, I must confess, I have personated two or three times myself, when his temper had nearly tortured me into a brain fever; so that between purgatory and apparitions, fears here and hereafter, I keep him pretty busy. There’s a friend of mine, a priest, one Father Tom Loftus – ”

“I’ve heard that name before, somewhere.”

“Scarcely, I think; I’m not aware that he was ever in England; but he’s a glorious fellow; I’ll make you known to him, one of these days; and when you have seen a little more of Ireland, I am certain you’ll like him. But I’m forgetting; it must be late; we have a field-day, you know, in the Park.”

“What am I to do for a mount? I’ve brought no horses with me.”

“Oh, I’ve arranged all that. See, there are the nags already. That dark chesnut I destine for you; and, come along, we have no time to lose; there go the carriages, and here comes our worthy colleague and fellow aide-de-camp. Do you know him?”

“Who is it, pray?”

“Lord Dudley de Vere, the most confounded puppy, and the emptiest ass – But here he is.”

“De Vere, my friend Mr. Hinton – one of ours.”

His Lordship raised his delicate-looking eyebrows as high as he was able, letting fall his glass at the same moment from the corner of his eye; and while he adjusted his stock at the glass, lisped out,

“Ah – yes – very happy. In the Guards, I think. Know Douglas, don’t you?”

“Yes, very slightly.”

“When did you come – to-day?”

“No; last night.”

“Must have got a buffeting; blew very fresh. You don’t happen to know the odds on the Oaks?”

“Hecate, they say, is falling. I rather heard a good account of the mare.”

“Indeed,” said he, while his cold, inanimate features brightened up with a momentary flush of excitement. “Take you five to two, or give you the odds, you don’t name the winner on the double event.”

A look from O’Grady decided me at once on declining the proffered wager; and his Lordship once more returned to the mirror and his self-admiration.

“I say, O’Grady, do come here for a minute. What the deuce can that be?”

Here an immoderate fit of laughter from his Lordship brought us both to the window. The figure to which his attention was directed was certainly not a little remarkable. Mounted upon an animal of the smallest possible dimensions, sat, or rather stood, the figure of a tall, gaunt, raw-boned looking man, in a livery of the gaudiest blue and yellow, his hat garnished with silver lace, while long tags of the same material were festooned gracefully from his shoulder to his breast; his feet nearly touched the ground, and gave him rather the appearance of one progressing with a pony between his legs, than of a figure on horseback; he carried under one arm a leather pocket, like a despatch bag; and, as he sauntered slowly about, with his eyes directed hither and thither, seemed like some one in search of an unknown locality.

The roar of laughter which issued from our window drew his attention to that quarter, and he immediately touched his hat, while a look of pleased recognition played across his countenance. “Holloa, Tim!” cried O’Grady, “what’s in the wind now?”

Tim’s answer was inaudible, but inserting his hand into the leathern con-veniency already mentioned, he drew forth a card of most portentous dimensions. By this time Corny’s voice could be heard joining the conversation.

“Arrah, give it here, and don’t be making a baste of yourself. Isn’t the very battle-axe Guards laughing at you? I’m sure I wonder how a Christian would make a merry-andrew of himself by wearing such clothes; you’re more like a play-actor nor a respectable servant.”

With these words he snatched rather than accepted the proffered card; and Tim, with another flourish of his hat, and a singularly droll grin, meant to convey his appreciation of Cross Corny, plunged the spurs till his legs met under the belly of the little animal, and cantered out of the court-yard amid the laughter of the bystanders, in which even the sentinels on duty could not refrain from participating.

“What the devil can it be?” cried Lord Dudley; “he evidently knows you, O’Grady.”

“And you, too, my Lord; his master has helped you to a cool hundred or two more than once before now.”

“Eh – what – you don’t say so! Not our worthy friend Paul – eh? Why, confound it, I never should have known Timothy in that dress.”

“No,” said O’Grady, slyly; “I acknowledge it is not exactly his costume when he serves a latitat.”

“Ha, ha!” cried the other, trying to laugh at the joke, which he felt too deeply; “I thought I knew the pony, though. Old three-and-fourpence; his infernal canter always sounds in my ears like the jargon of a bill of costs.”

“Here comes Corny,” said O’Grady. “What have you got there?”

“There, ‘tis for you,” replied he, throwing, with an air of the most profound disdain, a large card upon the table; while, as he left the room, he muttered some very sagacious reflections about the horrors of low company – his father the Jidge – the best in the land – riotous, disorderly life; the whole concluding with an imprecation upon heathens and Turks, with which he managed to accomplish his exit.

“Capital, by Jove!” said Lord Dudley, as he surveyed the card with his glass.

“‘Mr. and Mrs. Paul Rooney presents’ – the devil they does – ‘presents their compliments, and requests the honour of Captain O’Grady’s company at dinner on Friday, the 8th, at half-past seven o’clock.’”

“How good! glorious, by Jove! eh, O’Grady? You are a sure ticket there —l’ami de la maison!”

O’Grady’s cheek became red at these words; and a flashing expression in his eyes told how deeply he felt them. He turned sharply round, his lip quivering with passion; then, checking himself suddenly, he burst into an affected laugh,

“You’ll go too, wont you?”

“I? No, faith, they caught me once; but then the fact was, a protest and an invitation were both served on me together. I couldn’t accept one, so I did the other.”

“Well, I must confess,” said O’Grady, in a firm, resolute tone, “there may be many more fashionable people than our friends; but I, for one, scruple not to say I have received many kindnesses from them, and am deeply, sincerely grateful.”

“As far as doing a bit of paper now and then, when one is hard up,” said Lord Dudley, “why, perhaps, I’m somewhat of your mind; but if one must take the discount out in dinners, it’s an infernal bore.”

“And yet,” said O’Grady, maliciously, “I’ve seen your Lordship tax your powers to play the agreeable at these same dinners; and I think your memory betrays you in supposing you have only been there once. I myself have met you at least four times.”