FOXY JOE.
“I know a trick worth two of that.”
--HENRY IV.
“Joey, Joey, Foxy Joe, I say, hold hard.”
Thus challenged by Denis Malone, in a ringing brogue, an elderly dwarf,
who had been shuffling along a boreen, halted and looked sharply about
him. It was at the close of a dull afternoon; there was more than a
hint of frost in the air, and over the marshy lands, at either side
of the lane, a thin white mist was rising. To the left, Denis and his
step-brother, with guns on their shoulders, were struggling across a
bit of bog--towards where Joey stood awaiting them. Joey is possibly
fifty years of age, and not more than four feet in height. He has a
long body, and very short legs; nevertheless, he wears the clothes of a
full-grown man; his frieze coat almost sweeps the ground; his waistcoat
reaches half way to his boots, and his trousers are doubled back to his
knees, and there pinned; long, reddish elf locks fall over his collar,
and his little grey eyes look out somewhat vacantly from a pent-house
of bushy red brows. However, if not very bright--although Joey’s
enemies declare that he is more of a knave than a fool--at any rate he
has wit enough for his business; he is messenger and postman to the
neighbourhood, and wears a leather bag, slung over his shoulder, as an
insignia of his profession. In one hand he carries a stout blackthorn,
and in the other a plump woodcock. A minute later, George Holroyd was
within easy hail, coming over the wet tussocks with long strides;
these long strides suddenly increased to a rapid run, for a deep, wet
gripe, with treacherous sides of thick, withered grass, lay between him
and Joey. “You’ll never do it, Captain darlin’,” screamed the dwarf,
raising his stick. “It’s eighteen foot if it’s----” Before another word
left his lips, “Captain darlin’” stood in the boreen beside him.
“Oh, begorra thin, well lepped! You’re as souple as Pat Kearney’s
heifer; he can’t keep her out of the potato garden, at no price. Is
she loaded, Captain?” pointing to the gun. (N.B., the Irish peasant
believes every young officer to be a captain at the very least.)
“To be sure, she is.”
“An’ supposin’ she went off and shot me?”
“No fear of that, Joey,” remarked Denis, who had joined them. “A
mannikin like you would be as hard to hit as a jack snipe, and they are
the very devil. We saw nothing else to-day.”
“Well, well; so ye had poor sport, had ye? It’s a bad day for fowling;
what ails the red terrier, Crab?”
“I peppered him with No. 9 shot, and I want you to carry him home.”
“Is it Crab?” he returned, in a tone of peevish incredulity. “Faix,
Mr. Denis, a lighter job would answer me better! I’m sorry you did not
shoot him all out, when ye went about it! I’ve a print of his teeth in
the calf of me leg yet. Look at him now, rowling the white of his eye
on me, bad cess to him.”
“Well, then, carry my gun; that won’t bite you.”
“Be gor! I would not touch a shootin’ iron for the Pope himself--may
be she’d go off in spite of me.”
“What good are you, then?” exclaimed Denis, angrily. “Afraid of a dog;
afraid of a gun; I’ll go bail you would not be so nervous if you were
asked to carry a quart bottle of whisky.”
“Begorra, yer honour, ye have only to _thry_ me! I’ve just been over
at Mr. Blake’s. Now there’s a man for ye! He called me in, and gave me
a glass of spirits strong enough to take the paint off a hall door. Be
gor,” his little eyes glistening at the recollection, “to this minute
itself, I’m aware of a torch-light procession going down me throat.”
“And what have you got there?” continued Denis imperiously.
“Oh, a terrible fine young woodcock Mr. Blake is sending Mrs. Redmond.”
“Show it here.”
Joey tendered it proudly.
“It’s a fine, heavy bird,” said Denis, balancing it critically on the
palm of his hand. “And it’s a mortal sin to give it to an old woman
that does not know goose from grouse. Where was it shot?”
“By Bresna Wood, I’m thinking--they are in now, but it’s over early to
be shooting them yet.”
Meanwhile Denis, with the skill of a conjurer, had thrust his hand into
his lean game-bag, and dexterously substituted the noble woodcock for a
miserable jack snipe, which, as all the world knows, strongly resembles
the former in everything but size. “Well, Joey, here you are!” handing
him the snipe with imperturbable countenance.
“What!” screamed Joey, surveying it with open-mouthed horror. “What
devil’s trick are you up to now, Mr. Denis? Arrah!” snatching at it
passionately. “Give it back to me here, before you make a _wran_ of
it.” It was evident that Joey believed that Denis had wrought a spell
on the bird, and might possibly develop it so far as to reduce the
woodcock to nothing at all.
“What’s come over it?” he whimpered, turning it about in great
perplexity. “What have ye done to it, at all, at all? Ye ought to
be ashamed of yourself, so ye ought; it’s not the weight of a robin
red-breast.”
“Then give it to me again, and I’ll blow on it, and make it the size of
a cock turkey.”
“In troth, and I won’t. I know yer _too_ well. Here our roads part,”
opening a gate that led towards Noone, “and I’ll be for wishing ye good
evening, gentlemen; _gentleman_, I mane,” he muttered to himself as
he shambled off, with the jack in his hand. “Sure all the world knows
there’s only _wan_ in it.”
Denis put down Crab; leant his gun against the gate, and gave vent to a
loud ironical view halloo. “Gone away--gone away--gone away!”
An unpleasant reference to Joey’s nickname which Joey deeply resented.
He turned back for a moment and shook his stick furiously at Denis,
saying: “Never fear, me fine fellow, but I’ll have it in for ye _yet_,”
and then plodded on.
“How that chap does hate me!” remarked Denis complacently, as he
shouldered his gun. “I’d like to wring his neck. He is the spy and
informer of the whole country.”
“I say, though! that’s rather hard lines about the bird,” expostulated
his brother, who had lagged behind, to pick up Crab. “What will Mrs.
Redmond think, when she receives a surprisingly minute jack snipe, with
Mr. Blake’s compliments?”
“Oh! I’ll take down the woodcock myself this evening, and kill two
birds with one stone, for I shall see Betty--not to speak of Belle, a
belle that no one seems disposed to ring, in spite of her fine eyes,
smart frocks, and fascinating manners.”
“Talking of manners,” said his brother, “I wish Cuckoo could be sent to
school.”
“You may well say so! she’s an awful brat. The mother spoils her and
gives her her head entirely.”
“She ought to be sent to some good, strict establishment without delay.”
“She ought,” assented Denis; “many things _ought_ to be done, if the
coin were forthcoming. For instance, I ought to have been put into
the Service--a cavalry regiment for choice--an only son and heir to a
property, instead of being a pill!”
“How soon will you take your degree?”
“I don’t know. I hate the whole thing; sometimes I think I’ll enlist.”
“If I were you, I would stick to my profession, it’s a very good one,
and now you are four and twenty, Denis, it’s time you began to put your
hand to the plough.”
“I suppose the mater has been asking you to lecture me, eh?” said Denis
in a surly voice.
“No, indeed, she has not. She has the greatest faith in you, Denis. I
am only speaking off my own bat.”
“Then, in that case, please keep your bat out of my affairs. I don’t
meddle with you, do I?” he enquired savagely. “You have never done
anything for _me_ that I know of, and have no right to offer your
opinion and advice. Advice is cheap.”
“All the same, I intend to tell you that I am very sorry to see you
idling about at home, instead of making a start, and Cuckoo growing up
without any education at all,” returned his brother firmly.
“Oh, she is not as bad as you think,” said Denis in a milder key. It
would not suit him to have a row with George. “She does lessons three
times a week with Betty Redmond; she and Betty are tremendous pals--and
talk of an angel, here she comes!”
At this moment, a roomy bath-chair, containing a substantial old lady,
appeared looming down the road. At first it seemed to be rolling along
of its own accord, but, on nearer inspection, a black hat was visible
(though almost concealed by Mrs. Redmond’s bonnet, and enormous yellow
boa). A slender young girl was the motive power, and pushing behind
with might and main.
It was getting dark, and faces were not seen very distinctly, but when
Mrs. Redmond came near the two sportsmen, she imperatively called out,
“Stop,” and waved Denis towards her, with her gigantic fur muff.
“I’ve just been up to Bridgetstown, but I did not see your mother. They
_said_ she was out; however, I went in and sat down, to give Betty
a rest. Cuckoo entertained us about--Ah, I suppose _this_ is your
brother; it is so dark, Mr. Holroyd, that I am sorry I cannot see you;
but I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Mr. Holroyd muttered indistinctly, and removed his cap.
“I am afraid you will find it frightfully dull here, and _so_ different
to military life! I am devoted to the army, so is my daughter Belle. We
have many friends in the Service. I hope we shall see a great deal of
you; whenever you are feeling at all bored, mind you come and look us
up!”
Mr. Holroyd declared that he would be charmed to accept Mrs. Redmond’s
invitation, but that he was sure he would not be at all bored; he liked
the country, and hoped to have some hunting.
Hitherto no one had noticed the girl behind the chair. The outline of
her features was indistinguishable; nevertheless, George had compassion
on her, and said:
“Is this not rather heavy work; the roads are so muddy?”
“Not at all! Not at all!” rejoined Mrs. Redmond hastily. “It’s all
downhill going home, and exercise is capital for young people,
especially this kind of exercise, for it brings all the muscles into
play, legs and arms alike.”
“But surely it is rather a long distance for one young lady,”
expostulated George.
“You ought to have Miss Redmond posted somewhere on the road as
second horse--lay a dâk, as they call it in India,” suggested Denis
facetiously.
“Pooh! it’s only a mile from gate to gate. Belle would be only too
delighted to take her turn, but she is such a little delicate darling,
the slightest physical exertion knocks her up at once. For a strong
girl it is nothing. Why, at Folkestone, I used to keep a bath-chair
man for three hours at a stretch, and Betty has had a long rest.”
“Nevertheless, I hope you will accept me as her substitute, and permit
me to convey you home,” said George politely.
“Oh, well, really, Mr. Holroyd,” exclaimed the old lady (divided
between delight at the offer, and apprehension as to the style of
raiment in which her dear Belle might be discovered), “I would not
think of it; no, not on any account.”
“Oh! but you must. I assure you I will take no refusal, I never take
a refusal” (this was an excellent trait, thought the old lady), as he
placed his hand on the back of the chair.
“Here, Denis, you can carry my gun, and Crab will have to walk; he is
more frightened than hurt;” and before Mrs. Redmond could expostulate,
he was rolling her rapidly homewards.
“Well this _is_ kind,” she said. “What a delightful change from Betty;
she does jerk so, and can scarcely get me on at all. I’m sure it is all
knack.”
“Knack, indeed,” thought her charioteer. “By Jove! this old woman
weighs fifteen stone, and the chair as much as a cab; unfortunate girl,
how her arms must ache!”
Meanwhile the unfortunate girl, and Denis, lingered behind, and Denis
made over the woodcock, with a short sketch of its history, and roars
of laughter.
“And how do you like _him_?” enquired Betty, looking after the
bath-chair. “Is he the stuck-up beast you expected?”
“No, I cannot say that he is stuck-up, but he is rather superfine for
Bridgetstown; he wears silk socks of an evening, flies to open the door
for the mater, and calls the governor ‘Sir.’”
“You must be quite startled at such queer ways,” returned the girl,
with an irony that was completely lost on her listener. “Anything
else?” she asked blandly.
“He is shocked at Cuckoo, and no wonder, and he has been trying to
lecture _me_.”
“And no wonder,” she echoed expressively.
“Now, Betty!”
“Pray, what was the text of his lecture?”
“Hanging about at home, and you know _who_ is to blame for that,” and
he tried to look sentimental, as he peered into her face.
“Denis, don’t be ridiculous! you are like a dying duck in a
thunderstorm. I know very well who is to blame for your idleness; no
less a person than yourself: you loaf about the country with a gun or
a rod, when you ought to be earning your living, or learning to earn
your living, like another young man. I wonder you are not ashamed of
yourself, I know _I_ am ashamed for you.”
“I’ve a good mind to enlist!” he exclaimed in a tone of gloomy
resolution.
“Well, anything is better than idleness,” returned Betty cheerfully.
“I would far rather see you a steady private soldier, than a
good-for-nothing private gentleman.”
“There’s no one, not even my mother, who would dare to speak to me as
you do, Betty Redmond.”
“Your mother, poor soul! I suppose not, but as to other people, it’s
not that they don’t dare--they don’t _care_! Do you imagine that anyone
is afraid of such an insignificant helpless idler as Denis Malone?”
“Betty, you _have_ a tongue, and no one suspects it but me!” cried
Denis, angrily.
“Well, I am very glad that it is sharp enough to penetrate your
rhinoceros skin. I hope you will take what it says to heart. Now,
I must fly. They are nearly out of sight.” And with a gesture of
farewell, she ran after the bath-chair.
Mrs. Redmond talked incessantly as she was trundled along. She
discoursed of the dreariness of the country, of her military friends,
of her limited means, and of Belle, her beautiful Belle! Utterly lost
in this wilderness--a veritable pearl among swine--Belle, the ornament
of countless balls, the admired of all, the cynosure of even royal
eyes, and yet, in spite of her dull life at Noone, she was so gay, so
contented, the very light of the house!
This was satisfactory information, for when they arrived at the hall
door, the whole mansion was in outer darkness. Belle was sitting in the
study, with a small French poodle in her lap, and three fox terriers
stretched out before the fire, in various attitudes of luxurious
repose. These latter animals had been the property of the late master
of Noone, and actually enjoyed a legacy of five pounds each per
annum, for the term of their natural lives--and of course it was Mrs.
Redmond’s interest to prolong their days, though she did not care for
dogs. Their names were respectively “Brown,” “Jones,” and “Robinson,”
and they had each their distinctive characteristics.
“Brown” was stout, elderly, and self-conscious; he liked his comforts,
such as fire, a regular walk, and a good and punctual dinner. He was
a _bon vivant_ and did not eat fat or vegetables--an habitué of the
kitchen--and slept with the cook.
“Robinson” was a young and very handsome animal, who was fond of
admiration, and ladies and tea; was particular about his appearance,
and had quite a fund of small affectations; he was a general
favourite--even Mrs. Redmond was proud of “Robinson.”
“Jones” was also young and handsome--white body, black and tan head--a
mighty hunter, whose thoughts were centred on sport, and who cared not
a straw for the cook--indeed his whole heart was given to Betty. He led
a joyous, but by no means innocent, life, in the woods, and would sit
over a rabbit hole for hours, and, when he was in full chase of poor
bunny, his delighted barks made the plantations to ring. Many a time,
he would return late at night, and lay his prey at Betty’s feet, gobble
down his dinner, stretch his tired, muddy body before the fire, and
there hunt in dreams!
On this particular evening, all the dogs were at home, “laid out,” so
to speak, on the hearth-rug, whilst Belle nursed “Mossoo” and devoured
a battered novel, by the light of a cheap candle.
“Mossoo,” a pampered, shivering, discontented little beast, was
adored by his mistress--in fact, she belonged to him--not he to her!
He was washed, trimmed, be-ribboned and caressed, fed on cream and
chicken, and dainty dinners, with plenty of gravy. He had no sporting
instincts, he disliked mice, was desperately afraid of cats and of
wetting his feet, and the other dogs hated him, as boys in a family
invariably hate the pet, the coward, and the sneak. He was accomplished
too, degradingly accomplished; and as he went through his antics and
stood upon his head, “Brown,” “Jones,” and “Robinson” sat and stared at
him with grave and scornful faces, and seemed to glance at one another
as much to say: “Did you _ever_ see such a fool?”
However, as long as “Mossoo” had fresh cream and a soft pillow, and
his mistress’s applause and devotion, he was above the opinion of his
fellows.
Suddenly there was an unusual sound, a strange voice in the hall;
the dogs leapt to their feet, and tore out of the room, one yelping,
skelping whirlwind. If Belle had been a man, she would have used
strong language as she capsized “Mossoo,” laid down her book, and
strained her ears to catch a sound above that maddening din.
Yes! a man’s voice, and then her mother’s.
“Oh, you must come in, you really must! and have a glass of our
celebrated rhubarb wine” (celebrated indeed!)
Belle jumped up. She was in a shabby, old, red tea-gown; her hair
resembled a bottle brush. With great presence of mind she blew out the
candle, pushed one or two chairs into their places, flung herself into
a luxuriant seat, rather out of the fire-light, and feigned sleep.
“If mother orders the lamp,” she said to herself, “I am lost.”
But luckily her astute old mother grasped the situation, and when,
ten minutes later, George Holroyd took leave, he carried away with him
the memories of a dim room, a pair of magnificent dark eyes, a ditto
of restless, small, white hands, and a bewitching smile. It is not
certain, that he had not left a minute portion of his heart behind him.
At any rate he had promised to return the following day, and bring his
music, all his songs, and more especially his _duets_. His late arrival
at home was the subject of much graceful badinage on the part of his
brother and sister.
“Did you see Belle, and was she dressed?” enquired the latter, capering
round him.
“Of course she was dressed, you little savage.”
“I am surprised to hear it. How I wish you had caught her in her old
red dressing-gown.”
“Was the chair heavy?” enquired Denis.
“Weighs a ton; the old lady should really charter a pony or a donkey.”
“She had a fine donkey to-day and that was yourself,” returned Denis
with a grin. “Fancy tooling old Mother Redmond home! Upon my word, I
did not think you were so soft. Eh! what?”