Having waited what I deemed a reasonable time for his honest indignation to evaporate, I made another effort to ascertain who my host might be.
“Would you favour me,” said I, in a tone still more insinuating, “with the name of – ”
“It’s my name, ye want? Oh, sorrow bit I am ashamed of it! Little as you think of me, Cornelius Delany is as good a warrant for family as many a one of the dirty spalpeens about the Coort, that haven’t a civiler word in their mouth than Cross Corny! Bad luck to them for that same.”
This honest admission as to the world’s opinion of Mister Delany’s character was so far satisfactory as it enabled me to see with whom I had to deal; and, although for a moment or two it was a severe struggle to prevent myself bursting into laughter, I fortunately obtained the mastery, and once more returned to the charge.
“And now, Mister Delany, can you inform me how I came here? I remember something of an accident on my landing; but when, where, and how, I am totally ignorant.”
“An accident!” said he, turning up his eyes; “an accident, indeed! that’s what they always call it when they wring off the rappers, or bate the watch: ye came here in a hackney-coach, with the police, as many a one came before you.”
“But where am I?” said I, impatiently.
“In Dublin Castle; bad luck to it for a riotous, disorderly place.”
“Well, well,” said I, half angrily, “I want to know whose room is this?”
“Captain O’Grady’s. What have you to say agin the room? Maybe you’re used to worse. There now, that’s what you got for that. I’m laving the place next week, but that’s no rayson – ”
Here he went off, diminuendo, again, with a few flying imprecations upon several things and persons unknown.
Mr. Delany now dived for a few seconds into a small pantry at the end of the room, from which he emerged with a tray between his hands, and two decanters under his arms.
“Draw the little table this way,” he cried, “more towards the fire, for, av coorse, you’re fresh and fastin’; there now, take the sherry from under my arm – the other’s port: that was a ham, till Captain Mills cut it away, as ye see – there’s a veal pie, and here’s a cold grouse – and, maybe, you’ve eat worse before now – and will again, plaze God.”
I assured him of the truth of his observation in a most conciliating tone.
“Oh, the devil fear ye,” was the reply, while he murmured somewhat lower, “the half of yees isn’t used to meat twice in the week.”
“Capital fare this, Mr. Delany,” said I, as, half famished with long fasting, I helped myself a second time.
“You’re eating as if you liked it,” said he, with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Upon my word,” said I, after throwing down a bumper of sherry, “that’s a very pleasant glass of wine; and, on the whole, I should say, there are worse places than this in the world.”
A look of unutterable contempt – whether at me for my discovery, or at the opinion itself, I can’t say – was the sole reply of my friend; who, at the same moment, presuming I had sufficient opportunities for the judgment I pronounced, replaced the decanters upon the tray, and disappeared with the whole in the most grave and solemn manner.
Repressing a very great inclination to laughter, I sat still; and a silence of a few moments ensued, when Mr. Delany walked towards the window, and, drawing aside the curtains, looked out. All was in darkness save on the opposite side of the court-yard, where a blaze of light fell upon the pavement from over the half shutters of an apparently spacious apartment. “Ay, ay, there you go; hip, hip, hurrah! you waste more liquor every night than would float a lighter; that’s all you’re good for. Bad luck to your Grace – making fun of the people, laughing and singing as if the potatoes wasn’t two shillings a stone.”
“What’s going on there?” said I.
“The ould work, nather more nor less. The Lord-Liftinnant, and the bishops, and the jidges, and all the privy councillors roaring drunk. Listen to them. May I never, if it isn’t the Dean’s voice I hear – the ould beast; he is singing ‘The Night before Larry was stretched.’”
“That’s a good fellow, Corny – Mr. Delany I mean – do open the window for a little, and let’s hear them.”
“It’s a blessed night you’d have the window open to listen to a set of drunken devils: but here’s Master Phil; I know his step well It’s long before his father that’s gone would come tearing up the stairs that way as if the bailiffs was after him; rack and ruin, sorrow else, av I never got a place – the haythins! the Turks!”
Mr. Delany, who, probably from motives of delicacy, wished to spare his master the pain of an interview, made his exit by one door as he came in at the other. I had barely time to see that the person before me was in every respect the very opposite of his follower, when he called out in a rich, mellow voice,
“All right again, I hope, Mr. Hinton; it’s the first moment I could get away; we had a dinner of the Privy Council, and some of them are rather late sitters; you’re not hurt, I trust?”
“A little bruised or so, nothing more; but pray, how did I fall into such kind hands?”
“Oh! the watchmen, it seems, could read, and, as your trunks were addressed to the Castle, they concluded you ought to go there also. You have despatches, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” said I, producing the packet; “when must they be delivered?”
“Oh, at once. Do you think you could make a little change in your dress, and manage to come over? his Grace always likes it better; there’s no stiffness, no formality whatever; most of the dinner-party have gone home; there are only a few of the government people, the Duke’s friends, remaining, and, besides, he’s always kind and good-natured.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” replied I, as I rose from the sofa; “I put myself into your hands altogether.”
“Well, come along,” said he; “you’ll find everything ready in this room. I hope that old villain has left hot water. Corny! Corny, I say! Confound him, he’s gone to bed, I suppose.”
Having no particular desire for Mr. Delany’s attentions, I prevailed on his master not to disturb him, and proceeded to make my toilette as well as I was able.
“Didn’t that stupid scoundrel come near you at all?” cried O’Grady.
“Oh yes, we have had a long interview; but, somehow, I fear I did not succeed in gaining his good graces.”
“The worst-tempered old villain in Europe.”
“Somewhat of a character, I take it.”
“A crab-tree planted in a lime-kiln, cranky and cross-grained; but he is a legacy, almost the only one my father left me. I’ve done my best to part with him every day for the last twelve years, but he sticks to me like a poor relation, giving me warning every night of his life, and every morning kicking up such a row in the house that every one is persuaded I am beating him to a jelly before turning him out to starve in the streets.”
“Oh, the haythins! the Turks!” said I, slyly.
“Confound it!” cried he, “the old devil has been opening upon you already; and Jet, with all that, I don’t know how I should get on without Corny; his gibes, his jeers, his everlasting ill-temper, his crankiness that never sleeps, seem to agree with me: the fact is, one enjoys the world from all its contrasts. The olive is a poor thing in itself, but it certainly improves the smack of your Burgundy. In this way Corny Delany does me good service. Come, by Jove, you have not been long dressing. This way: now follow’ me.” So saying, Captain