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CHAPTER XXVI. THE DINNER-PARTY AT MOUNT BROWN

I awoke refreshed after half-an-hour’s doze, and then every circumstance of the whole day was clear and palpable before me. I remembered each minute particular, and could bring to my mind all the details of the race itself, notwithstanding the excitement they had passed in, and the rapidity with which they succeeded one another.

My first thought was to visit poor Joe; and creeping stealthily to his room, I opened the door. The poor fellow was fast asleep. His features had already become coloured with fever, and a red hectic spot on either cheek told that the work of mischief had begun; yet still his sleep was tranquil, and a half smile curled; his bloodless lips. On his bed his old hunting-cap was placed, a bow of white and green ribbons – the colours I wore – fastened gaudily in the front; upon this, doubtless, he had been gazing to the last moment of his waking. I now stole noiselessly back, and began a letter to O’Grady, whose anxiety as to the result would, I knew, be considerable.

It was not without pride, I confess, that I narrated the events of the day; yet when I came to that part of my letter in which Joe was to be mentioned, I could not avoid a sense of shame in acknowledging the cruel contrast between my conduct and his gratitude. I did not attempt to theorise upon what he had done, for I felt that O’Grady’s better knowledge of his countrymen would teach him to sound the depths of a motive, the surface of which I could but skim. I told him frankly that the more I saw of Ireland the less I found I knew about it; so much of sterling good seemed blended with unsettled notions and unfixed opinions; such warmth of heart, such frank cordiality, with such traits of suspicion and distrust, that I could make nothing of them. Either, thought I, these people are born to present the anomaly of all that is most opposite and contradictory in human nature, or else the fairest gifts that ever graced manhood have been perverted and abused by mismanagement and misguidance.

I had just finished my letter when Bob Mahon drove up, his honest face radiant with smiles and good-humour.

‘Well, Hinton,’ cried he, ‘the whole thing is properly settled. The money is paid over; and if you are writing to O’Grady, you may mention that he can draw on the Limerick bank, at sight if he pleases. There’s time enough, however, for all this; so get up beside me. We’ve only half an hour to do our five miles, and dress for dinner.’

I took my place beside the Major; and as we flew fast through the air, the cool breeze and his enlivening conversation rallied and refreshed me. Such was our pace that we had ten minutes to spare, as we entered a dark avenue of tall beech-trees, and a few seconds after arrived at the door of a large old-fashioned-looking manor-house, on the steps of which stood Hugh Dillon himself, in all the plenitude of a white waistcoat and black-silk tights. While he hurried me to a dressing-room, he overwhelmed me with felicitations on the result of the day.

‘You’ll think it strange, Mr. Hinton,’ said he, ‘that I should congratulate you, knowing that Mr. Burke is a kind of relation of mine; but I have heard so much of your kindness to my niece Louisa, that I cannot but rejoice in your success.’

‘I should rather,’ said I, ‘for many reasons, had it been more legitimately obtained; and, indeed, were I not acting for another, I doubt how far I should feel justified in considering myself a winner.’

‘My dear sir,’ interrupted Dillon, ‘the laws of racing are imperative in the matter; besides, had you waived your right, all who backed you must have lost their money.’

‘For that matter,’ said I, laughing, ‘the number of my supporters was tolerably limited.’

‘No matter for that; and even if you had not a single bet upon you, Ulick’s conduct, in the beginning, deserved little favour at your hands.’

‘I confess,’ said I, ‘that there you have touched on the saving clause to my feeling of shame. Had Mr. Burke conducted himself in a different spirit towards my friend and myself, I should feel sorely puzzled this minute.’

‘Quite right, quite right,’ said Dillon; ‘and now try if you can’t make as much haste with your toilette as you did over the clover-field.’

Within a quarter of an hour I made my appearance in the drawing-room, now crowded with company, the faces of many among whom I remembered having seen in the morning. Mr. Dillon was a widower, but his daughters – three fine, tall, handsome-looking girls – did the honours. While I was making my bows to them, Miss Bellew came forward, and with an eye bright with pleasure held out her hand towards me.

‘I told you, Mr. Hinton, we should meet in the west. Have I been as good a prophetess in saying that you would like it?’

‘If it afforded me but this one minute,’ said I, in a half-whisper.

‘Dinner!’ said the servant, and at the same moment that scene of pleasant confusion ensued that preludes the formal descent of a party to the dining-room.

The host had gracefully tucked a large lady under his arm, beside whose towering proportions he looked pretty much like what architects call ‘a lean-to,’ superadded to a great building. He turned his eye towards me to go and do likewise, with a significant glance at a heaving mass of bugles and ostrich feathers that sat panting on a sofa. I parried the stroke, however, by drawing Miss Bellow’s arm within mine, while I resigned the post of honour to my little friend the Major.

The dinner passed off like all other dinners. There was the same routine of eating and drinking, and pretty much the same ritual of table-talk. As a kind of commentary on the superiority of natural gifts over the affected and imitated graces of society, I could not help remarking that those things which figured on the table of homely origin were actually luxurious, while the exotic resources of the cookery were, in every instance, miserable failures. Thus the fish was excellent, and the mutton perfect, while the fricandeau was atrocious, and the petits pâtés execrable.

Should my taste be criticised, that with a lovely girl beside me, for whom I already felt a strong attachment, I could thus set myself to criticise the cookery, in lieu of any other more agreeable occupation, let my apology be, that my reflection was an apropos, called forth by comparing Louisa Bellew with her cousins the Dillons. I have said they were handsome girls; they were more – they were beautiful. They had all that fine pencilling of the eyebrow, that deep, square orbit, so characteristically Irish, which gives an expression to the eye, whatever be its colour, of inexpressible softness; their voices too, albeit the accent was provincial, were soft and musical, and their manners quiet and ladylike – yet, somehow, they stood immeasurably apart from her.

I have already ventured on one illustration from the cookery, may I take another from the cellar? How often in wines of the same vintage, of even the same cask, do we find one bottle whose bouquet is more aromatic, whose flavour is richer, whose colour is more purely brilliant! There seems to be no reason why this should be so, nor is the secret appreciable to our senses; however, the fact is incontestable. So among women. You meet some half-dozen in an evening party, equally beautiful, equally lovely; yet will there be found one among the number towards whom, without any assignable cause, more eyes are turned, and more looks bent; around whose chair more men are found to linger, and in whose slightest word some cunning charm seems ever mingled. Why is this so? I confess I cannot tell you; but trust me for the fact. If, however, it will satisfy you that I adduce an illustration – Louisa Bellew was one of these. With all the advantages of a cultivated mind, she possessed that fearlessness that only girls really innocent of worldly trickery and deceit ever have; and thus, while her conversation ranged far beyond the limits the cold ordeal of fashion would prescribe to a London beauty, the artless enthusiasm of her manner was absolutely captivating.

In Dublin the most marked feature about her was an air of lofty pride and hauteur, by which, in the mixed society of Rooney’s house, was she alone enabled to repel the obtrusive and impertinent attentions it was the habit of the place to practise. Surrounded by those who resorted there for a lounge, it was a matter of no common difficulty for her, a young and timid girl, to assert her own position, and exact the respect that was her due. Here, however, in her uncle’s house, it was quite different. Relieved from all performance of a part, she was natural, graceful, and easy; and her spirits, untrammelled by the dread of misconstruction, took their own free and happy flight without fear and without reproach.

When we returned to the drawing-room, seated beside her, I entered into an explanation of all my proceedings since my arrival in the country, and had the satisfaction to perceive that not only did she approve of everything I had done, but, assuming a warmer interest than I could credit in my fortunes, she counselled me respecting the future. Supposing that my success might induce me to further trials of my horseman ship, she cautioned me about being drawn into any matches or wagers.

‘My cousin Ulick,’ said she, ‘is one of those who rarely let a prey escape them. I speak frankly to you, for I know I may do so; therefore, I would beseech you to take care of him, and, above all things, do not come into collision with him. I have told you, Mr. Hinton, that I wish you to know my father. For this object, it is essential you should have no misunderstanding with my cousin; for although his whole conduct through life has been such as to grieve and afflict him, yet the feeling for his only sister’s child has sustained him against all the rumours and reports that have reached him, and even against his own convictions.’

‘You have, indeed,’ said I, ‘suggested a strong reason for keeping well with your cousin. My heart is not only bent on being known to your father, but, if I dare hope it, on being liked by him also.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said she quickly, blushing while she spoke, ‘I am sure he’ll like you – and I know you’ll like him. Our house, perhaps I should tell you, is not a gay one. We lead a secluded and retired life; and this has had its effect upon my poor father, giving a semblance of discontent – only a semblance, though – to a nature mild, manly, and benevolent.’

She paused an instant, and, as if fearing that she had been led away to speak of things she should not have touched upon, added with a more lively tone —

‘Still, we may contrive to amuse you. You shall have plenty of fishing and coursing, the best shooting in the west, and, as for scenery, I’ll answer for it you are not disappointed.’

While we chatted thus, the time rolled on, and at last the clock on the mantel-piece apprised us that it was time to set out for the ball. This, as it may be believed, was anything but a promise of pleasure to me. With Louisa Bellew beside me, talking in a tone of confidential intimacy she had never ventured on before, I would have given worlds to have remained where I was. However, the thing was impossible; ‘the ball! the ball!’ passed from lip to lip, and already the carriages were assembled before the door, and cloaks, hoods, and mantles were distributed on all sides.

Resolving, at all events, to secure Miss Bellew as my fellow-traveller, I took her arm to lead her downstairs.

‘Holloa, Hinton!’ cried the Major, ‘you ‘re coming with me, ain’t you?’

I got up a tremendous fit of coughing, as I stammered out an apology about night-air, etc.

‘Ah, true, my poor fellow,’ said the simple-hearted Bob; ‘you must take care of yourself – this has been a severe day’s work for you.’

‘With such a heavy cold,’ said Louisa, laughing, as her bright eyes sparkled with fun, ‘perhaps you ‘ll take a seat in our carriage.’

I pressed her arm gently and murmured my assent, assisted her in, and placed myself beside her.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE RACE BALL

Fast as had been the pace in the Major’s tax-cart, it seemed to me as though the miles flew much more quickly by as I returned to the town. How, indeed, they passed I cannot well say; but, from the instant that I quitted Mr. Dillon’s house to that of my arrival in Loughrea, there seemed to be but one brief, delightful moment. I have already said that Miss Bellew’s manner was quite changed; and, as I assisted her from the carriage, I could not but mark the flashing brilliancy of her eye and the sparkling animation of her features, lending, as they did, an added loveliness to her beauty.

‘Am I to dance with you, Mr. Hinton?’ said she laughingly, as I led her up the stairs. ‘If so, pray be civil enough to ask me at once – otherwise, I must accept the first partner that offers himself.’

‘How very stupid I have been! Will you, pray, let me have the honour?’

‘Yes, yes – you shall have the honour; but, now that I think of it, you mustn’t ask me a second time. We countryfolk are very prudish about these things; and, as you are the lion of the party, I should get into a sad scrape were I to appear to monopolise you.’

‘But you surely will have compassion on me,’ said I, in a tone of affected bashfulness. ‘You know I am a stranger here – neither known to nor by any one save you.’

‘Ah, trêve de modestie!’ said she coquettishly. ‘My cousins will be quite delighted; and indeed, you owe them some amende already.’

‘As how?’ said I. ‘What have I done?’

‘Rather, what have you left undone? I’ll tell you. You have not come to the ball in your fine uniform, with your aiguillette and your showy feathers, and all the pride, pomp, and circumstance of your dignity as aide-de-camp. Learn, that in the west we love the infantry, doat on the dragoons, but we adore the staff. Now, a child would find it as difficult to recognise a plump gentleman without a star on his breast as a king, as we western ladies would to believe in the military features of a person habited in quiet black. You should, at least, have some symbol of your calling. A little bit of moustache like a Frenchman, a foreign order at your button-hole, your arm in a sling – from a wound, as it were – even a pair of brass spurs would redeem you. Poor Mary here won’t believe that you wear a great sword, and are the most warlike-looking person imaginable on occasions.’

‘Dearest Louisa, how silly you are!’ said her cousin, blushing deeply. ‘Pray, Mr. Hinton, what do you think of the rooms?’

This question happily recalled me to myself, for up to that very moment, forgetful of everything save my fair companion, I had not noticed our entrance into the ballroom, around which we were promenading with alow steps. I now looked up, and discovered that we were in the Town-hall, the great room of which building was generally reserved for occasions like the present. Nothing could be more simple than the decorations of the apartment. The walls, which were whitewashed, were tastefully ornamented with strings and wreaths of flowers suspended between the iron chandeliers, while over the chimney-piece were displayed the colours of the marching regiment then quartered in the town. Indeed, to do them justice, the garrison were the main contributors to the pleasure of the evening. By them were the garlands so gracefully disposed; by them were the rat-holes and other dangerous crevices in the floor caulked with oakum; their band was now blowing ‘God Save the King’ and ‘Rule Britannia’ alternately for the last hour, and their officers, in all the splendour of scarlet, were parading the room, breaking the men’s hearts with envy and the women’s with admiration.

O’Grady was quite right – it is worth while being a soldier in Ireland; and, if such be the case in the capital, how much more true is it in Connaught? Would that some minute anatomist of human feeling could demonstrate that delicate fibre in an Irishwoman’s heart that vibrates so responsively to everything in the army-list! In this happy land you need no nitrous oxide to promote the high spirits of your party; I had rather have a sub. in a marching regiment than a whole gasometer full of it. How often have I watched the sleepy eye of languid loveliness brighten up – how often have I seen features almost plain in their character assume a kind of beauty, as some red-coat drew near! Don’t tell me of your insurrection acts, of your nightly outrages, your outbreaks, and your burnings, as a reason for keeping a large military force in Ireland – nothing of the kind. A very different object, indeed, is the reason – Ireland is garrisoned to please the ladies. The War Office is the most gallant of public bodies; and, with a true appreciation of the daughters of the west, it inundates the land with red-coats.

These observations were forced upon me as I looked about the room, and saw on every side how completely the gallant Seventy-something had cut out the country gentry. Poor fellows! you are great people at the assizes – you are strong men at a road-sessions – but you’re mighty small folk indeed before your wives and daughters when looked at to the music of ‘Paddy Carey,’ and by the light of two hundred and fifty mutton-candles.

The country-dance was at length formed, and poor Mr. Harkin, the master of the ceremonies and Coryphaeus-in-ordinary of Loughrea, had, by dint of scarce less fatigue than I experienced in my steeplechase, by running hither and thither, imploring, beseeching, wheedling, coaxing, and even cursing, at length succeeded in assembling sixty-four souls in a double file upon the floor. Poor fellow! never was there a more disorderly force. Nobody would keep his own place, but was always trying to get above his neighbour. In vain did he tell the men to stand at their own side. Alas! they thought that side their own where the ladies were also. Then the band added to his miseries; for scarcely had he told them to play ‘The Wind that shakes the Barley,’ when some changed it to ‘The Priest in his Boots,’ and afterwards to ‘The Dead March in Saul.’ These were heavy afflictions; for be it known that he could not give way, as other men would in such circumstances, to a good outbreak of passion – for Mr. Harkin was a public functionary, who, like all other functionaries, had a character to sustain before the world. When kings are angry, we are told by Shakespeare, Schiller, and others, they rant it in good royal style. Now, when a dancing-master is excited by passion, he never loses sight of the unities. If he flies down the floor to chide the little fat man that is talking loudly, he contrives to do it with a step, a spring, and a hop, to the time of one, two, three. Is there a confusion in the figure, he advances to rectify it with a chassé rigadoon. Does Mr. Somebody turn his toes too much out, or is Miss So-and-so holding her petticoats too high, he fugles the correction in his own person – first imitating the deformity he would expose, and then displaying the perfection he would point to.

On the evening in question, this gentleman afforded me by far the most of the amusement of the ball. Nearly half the company had been in time of yore his pupils, or were actually so at the very moment; so that, independent of his cares as conductor of the festivities, he had also the amour propre of one who saw his own triumphs reflected in the success of his disciples.

At last the dances were arranged. A certain kind of order was established in the party; and Mr. Harkin, standing in the fifth position, with all his fingers expanded, gave three symbolic claps of his hand, and cried out, ‘Begin!’ Away went the band at once, and down the middle I flew with my partner, to the measure of a quick country-dance that no human legs could keep time to. Two others quickly followed, more succeeding them like wave after wave. Nothing was too fat, nothing too short, nothing too long, to dance. There they were, as ill-paired as though, instead of treading a merry measure, they had been linked in the very bonds of matrimony – old and young, the dwarf and the brobdingnag, the plump and the lean, each laughing at the eccentricities of his neighbour, and happily indifferent to the mirth he himself afforded. By-the-bye, what a glorious thing it would be if we could carry out this principle of self-esteem into all our reciprocity-treaties, and, while we enjoyed what we derive from others, be unconscious of the loss we sustained ourselves!

Unlike our English performance, the dance here was as free-and-easy a thing as needs be. Down the middle you went, holding, mayhap squeezing your partner’s hand, laughing, joking, flirting, venturing occasionally on many a bolder flight than at other times you could have dared; for there was no time for the lady to be angry, as she tripped along to ‘The Hare in the Corn’; and besides, but little wisdom could be expected from a man while performing more antics than Punch in a pantomime. With all this, there was a running fire of questions, replies, and recognitions, from every one you passed —

‘That’s it, Captain: push along! begad, you’re doing it well!’ – ‘Don’t forget to-morrow!’ – ‘Hands round!’ – ‘Hasn’t she a leg of her own!’ – ‘Keep it up!’ – ‘This way I – turn, Miss Malone!’ – ‘You’ll come to breakfast!’ – ‘How are ye, Joe?’ etc.

Scarcely was the set concluded, when Miss Bellew was engaged by another partner; while I, at her suggestion, invited her cousin Mary to become mine. The ball-room was now crowded with people; the mirth and fun grew fast and furious. The country-dance occupied the whole length of the room; and round the walls were disposed tables for whist or loo, where the elders amused themselves with as much pleasure, and not less noise.

I fear that I gave my fair partner but a poor impression of an aide-de-camp’s gallantry – answering at random, speaking vaguely and without coherence, my eyes fixed on Miss Bellew, delighted when by chance I could catch a look from her, and fretful and impatient when she smiled at some remark of her partner. In fact, love has as many stages as a fever; and I was in that acute period of the malady when the feeling of devotion, growing every moment stronger, is checkered by a doubt lest the object of your affections should really be indifferent to you – thus suggesting all the torturing agonies of jealousy to your distracted mind. At such times as these a man can scarcely be very agreeable even to the girl he loves; but he is a confounded bore to a chance acquaintance. So, indeed, did poor Mary Dillon seem to think; and as, at the conclusion of the dance, I resigned her hand to a lieutenant somebody, with pink cheeks, black eyebrows, and a most martial air, I saw she looked upon her escape as a direct mercy from Providence.

Just at this moment, Mr. Dillon, who had only been waiting for the propitious moment to pounce upon me, seized me by the arm, and led me down the room. There was a charming woman dying to know me in one corner; the best cock-shooting in Ireland wished to make my acquaintance in another; thirty thousand pounds, and a nice little property in Leitrim, was sighing for me near the fire; and three old ladies, the gros bonnets of the land, had kept the fourth place at the whist table vacant for my sake, and were at length growing impatient at my absence.

Non sunt mea verba, good reader. Such was Mr. Dillon’s representation to me, as he hurried me along, presenting me as he went to every one we met – a ceremony in which I soon learned to perform my part respectably, by merely repeating a formula I had adopted for my guidance: ‘Delighted to know you, Mr. Burke!’ or, ‘Charmed to make your acquaintance, Mrs. French!’ for, as nine-tenths of the men were called by the one, and nearly all the ladies by the other appellation, I seldom blundered in my addresses.

The evening wore on, but the vigour of the party seemed unabated. The fatigues of fashionable life seemed to be as little known in Ireland as its apathy and its ennui Poor, benighted people! you appear to enjoy society, not as a refuge for your own weariness, not as an escape-valve for your own vapours, but really as a source of pleasurable emotions – an occasion for drawing closer the bonds of intimacy, for being agreeable to your friends, and for making yourselves happy. Alas! you have much to learn in this respect; you know not yet how preferable is the languid look of blasé beauty to the brilliant eye and glowing cheek of happy girlhood; you know not how superior is the cutting sarcasm, the whispered equivoque, to the kind welcome and the affectionate greeting; and while enjoying the pleasure of meeting your friends, you absolutely forget to be critical upon their characters or their costume!

What a pity it is that good-nature is underbred, and good-feeling is vulgarity; for, after all, while I contrasted the tone of everything around me with the supercilious cant and unimpassioned coldness of London manners, I could not but confess to myself that the difference was great and the interval enormous. To which side my own heart inclined, it needed not my affection for Louisa Bellew to tell me; yes, I had seen enough of life to learn how far are the real gifts of worth and excellence preferable to the adventitious polish of high society. While these thoughts rushed through my mind, another flashed across it. What if my lady-mother were here! What if my proud cousin! How would her dark eyes brighten as some absurd or ludicrous feature of the company would suggest its mot of malice or its speech of sarcasm! how would their air, their carriage, their deportment, appear in her sight! I could picture to myself the cold scorn of her manner towards the men, the insulting courtesy of her demeanour to the women; the affected naïveté with which she would question them as to their everyday habits, and habitudes, their usages and their wants, as though she were inquiring into the manners and customs of South Sea Islanders! I could imagine the ineffable scorn with which she would receive what were meant to be kind and polite attentions; and I could fashion to myself her look, her manner, and her voice when escaping, as she would call it, from her Nuit parmi les sauvages, she would caricature every trait, every feature of the party, converting into food for laughter their frank and hospitable bearing, and making their very warmth of heart the groundwork of a sarcasm.

The ball continued with unabated vigour, and as, in obedience to Miss Bellew’s request, I could not again ask her to dance, I myself felt little inclination to seek for another partner. The practice of the place seemed, however, as imperatively to exclude idleness as the discipline of a man-of-war. If you were not dancing you ought to be playing cards, making love, drinking negus, or exchanging good stories with some motherly, fat, old lady, too heavy for a reel, too stupid for loo. In this dilemma I cut into a round game, which I remember often to have seen at Rooney’s, technically called ‘speculation.’ A few minutes before, and I was fancying to myself what my mother would think of all this; and now, as I drew my chair to the table, I muttered a prayer to my own heart that she might never hear of my doings. How strange it is that we would much rather be detected in some overt act of vice than caught in any ludicrous situation or absurd position! I could look my friends and family steadily enough in the face while standing amid all the blacklegs of Epsom and the swindlers of Ascot, exchanging with them the courtesies of life, and talking on terms of easy and familiar intercourse; yet would I rather have been seen with the veriest pickpocket in fashionable life, than seated amid that respectable and irreproachable party who shook their sides with laughter around the card-table!

Truly, it was a merry game, and well suited for a novice, as it required no teaching. Each person had his three cards dealt him, one of which was displayed to the company in rotation. Did this happen to be a knave or some other equally reproachful character, the owner was mulcted to the sum of fivepence; and he must indeed have had a miser’s heart who could regret a penalty so provocative of mirth. Often as the event took place, the fun never seemed to grow old; and from the exuberance of the delight, and the unceasing flow of the laughter, I began to wonder within myself if these same cards had not some secret and symbolic meaning unknown to the neophyte. But the drollery did not end here: you might sell your luck and put up your hand to auction. This led to innumerable droll allusions and dry jokes, and, in fact, if ever a game was contrived to make one’s sides ache, this was it.

A few sedate and sober people there were, who, with bent brow and pursed-up lip, watched the whole proceeding. They were the secret police of the card-table; it was in vain to attempt to conceal your luckless knave from their prying eyes; with the glance of a tax-collector they pounced upon the defaulter, and made him pay. Barely or never smiling themselves, they really felt all the eagerness, all the excitement of gambling; and I question if, after all, their hard looks and stern features were not the best fun of the whole.

After about two hours had been thus occupied, during which I had won the esteem and affection of several elderly ladies by the equanimity and high-mindedness with which I bore up against the loss of two whole baskets of counters, amounting to the sum of four-and-sixpence, I felt my shoulder gently touched, and at the same moment Bob Mahon whispered in my ear – ‘The Dillons are going, and he wants to speak a word with you; so give me your cards, and slip away.’

Resigning my place to the Major, whose advent was received with evident signs of dissatisfaction, inasmuch as he was a shrewd player, I hurried through the room to find out Dillon.

‘Ah, here he is!’ said Miss Bellew to her uncle, while she pointed to me. ‘How provoking to go away so early – isn’t it, Mr. Hinton?’