The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 1. Lever Charles James
features were long and melancholy in expression, – a character increased by a drooping moustache of black hair, the points of which descended below the chin. His eyes were black as a raven’s wing, and glanced with all the brilliancy and quickness of youth, while the incessant motion of his arched eyebrows gave to their expression a character of almost demoniac intelligence. His voice was low and sonorous, and, although unmistakably Irish in accent, occasionally lapsed into traits which might be called foreign, for no one that knew him would have accused him of the vice of affectation. His dress was a claret-colored coat edged with narrow silver lace, and a vest of white satin, over which, by a blue ribbon, hung the medal of a foreign order; white satin breeches and silk stockings, with shoes fastened by large diamond buckles, completed a costume which well became a figure that had lost nothing of its pretension to shapeliness and symmetry. His hands, though remarkably large and bony, were scrupulously white and cared for, and more than one ring of great value ornamented his huge and massive fingers. Altogether, he was one whom the least critical would have pronounced not of the common herd of humanity, and yet whose character was by no means so easy to guess at from external traits.
Amid all the tumult and confusion of the scene, his influence seemed felt everywhere, and his rich, solemn tones could be heard high above the crash and din around. As Forester stood and leaned over the balcony, the noise seemed to have reached its utmost; one of the company – a short, square, bull-faced little squire – being interrupted in a song by some of the party, while others – the greater number – equally loud, called on him to proceed. It was one of the slang ditties of the time, – a lyric suggested by that topic which furnished matter for pamphlets and speeches and songs, dinners, debates, and even duels, – the Union.
“Go on, Bodkin; go on, man! You never were in better voice in your life,” mingled with, “No, no; why introduce any party topic here?” – with a murmured remark: “It’s unfair, too. Hickman O’Reilly is with the Government.”
The tumult, which, without being angry, increased every moment, was at last stilled by the voice of the chairman, saying, —
“If the song have a moral, Bodkin – ”
“It has, I pledge my honor it has, your ‘Grandeur.’” said Bodkin.
“Then finish it. Silence there, gentlemen.” And Bodkin resumed his chant: —
“‘Trust me, Squire,’ the dark man cried,
‘I ‘ll follow close and mind you,
Nor however high the fence you ride,
I ‘ll ever be far behind you.’
“And true to his word, like a gentleman
He rode, there ‘a no denying;
And though full twenty miles they ran,
He took all his ditches flying.
“The night now came, and down they sat,
And the Squire drank while he was able;
But though glass for glass the dark man took,
He left him under the table.
“When morning broke, the Squire’s brains,
Though racking, were still much clearer.
‘I know you well,’ said he to his guest,
‘Now that I see you nearer.
“‘You ‘ve play’d me a d – d scurvy trick:
Come, what have I lost – don’t tease me.
Is it my soul?’ ‘Not at all,’ says Nick;
‘Just vote for the Union, to please me.’”
Amid the loud hurrahs and the louder laughter that fol-lowed this rude chant Forester hurried on to his room, fully convinced that his mission was not altogether so promising as he anticipated.
Undeniable in every respect as was the accommodation of his bed-chamber, Forester lay awake half the night, the singular circumstances in which he found himself occupied his thoughts, while at intervals came the swelling sounds of some loud cheers from the party below, whose boisterous gayety seemed to continue without interruption.
CHAPTER IV. THE DINNER-PARTY
It was late on the following day when Forester awoke, nor was it for some time that he could satisfy himself how far he had been an actor, or a mere spectator in the scene he had witnessed the preceding night. The room and the guests were vividly impressed upon his memory, and the excitement of the party, so different in its character from anything he had seen in his own country, convinced him that the sea, narrow as it was, separated two races very unlike in temperament.
What success should he have in this, his first, mission? was the question ever rising to his mind; how should he acquit himself among persons to whose habits of life, thought, and expression he felt himself an utter stranger? Little as he had seen of the party, that little showed him that the anti-Union feeling was in the ascendant, and that, if a stray convert to the Ministerial doctrines was here and there to be found, he was rather ashamed of his new convictions than resolute to uphold and defend them. From these thoughts he wandered on to others, about the characters of the party, and principally of the host himself, who in every respect was unlike his anticipations. He opened his friend Lionel’s letter, and was surprised to find how filial affection had blinded his judgment, – keen enough when exercised without the trammels of prejudice. “If this,” thought he, “be a fair specimen of Lionel’s portrait-painting, I must take care to form no high-flown expectations of his mother and sister; and as he calls one somewhat haughty and reserved in manner, and the other a blending of maternal pride with a dash of his father’s wilful but happy temperament, I take it for granted that Lady Eleanor is a cold, disagreeable old lady, and her daughter Helen a union of petted vanity and capriciousness, pretty much what my good friend Lionel himself was when he joined us, but what he had the good sense to cease to be very soon after.”
Having satisfied himself that he fairly estimated the ladies of the house, he set himself, with all the ingenuity of true speculation, to account for the traits of character he had so good-naturedly conferred on them. “Living in a remote, half-civilized neighborhood,” thought he, “without any intercourse save with some country squires and their wives and daughters, they have learned, naturally enough, to feel their own superiority to those about them; and possessing a place with such claims to respect from association, as well as from its actual condition, they, like all people who have few equals and no superiors, give themselves a license to think and act independent of the world’s prescription, and become, consequently, very intolerable to every one unaccustomed to acknowledge their sovereignty. I heartily wish Lionel had left these worthy people to my own unassisted appreciation of them; his flourish of trumpets has sadly spoiled the effect of the scene for me;” and with this not over gracious reflection he proceeded to dress for the day.
“The squire has been twice at the door this morning, sir,” said Lin wood, as he arranged the dressing apparatus on the table; “he would not let me awake you, however, and at last said, ‘Present my cordial respects to Mr. Forester, and say, that if he should like to ride with the hounds, he’ll find a horse ready for him, and a servant who will show him the way.’”
“And are they out already?” said Forester.
“Yes, sir, gone two hours ago; they breakfasted at eight, and I heard a whipper-in say they ‘d twelve miles to go to the first cover.”
“Why, it appeared to me that they were up all night.”
“They broke up at four, sir, and except two gentlemen that are gone over to Westport on business, but to be back for dinner, they’re all mounted to-day.”
“And what is the dinner-hour, Linwood?”
“Six, sir, to the minute.”
“And