Читать книгу The Knight Of Gwynne (Vol. 1&2) - Charles James Lever - Страница 13

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It was upon one of the very coldest evenings of the memorably severe January of 1800 that the doors of Daly's Club House were besieged by carriages of every shape and description: some brilliant in all the lustre of a perfect equipage; others more plainly denoting the country gentleman or the professional man; and others, again, the chance occupants of the various coach-stands, displayed every variety of that now extinct family whose members went under the denominations of “whiskeys,” “jingles,” and “noddies.”

A heavy fall of sleet, accompanied with a cutting north wind, did not prevent the assemblage of a considerable crowd, who, by the strange sympathy of gregarious curiosity, were drawn up in front of the building, satisfied to think that something unusual, of what nature they knew not, was going forward within, and content to gaze on the brilliant glare of the lustres as seen through the drawn curtains, and mark the shadowy outlines of figures as they passed and repassed continually.

Leaving the mob, for it was in reality such, to speculate on the cause of this extraordinary gathering, we shall at once proceed up the ample stair and enter the great saloon of the Club, which, opening by eight windows upon College Green, formed the conversation-room of the members.

Here were now assembled between three and four hundred persons, gathered in groups and knots, and talking with all the eagerness some engrossing topic could suggest. In dress, air, and manner they seemed to represent sections of every social circle of the capital: some, in full Castle costume, had just escaped from the table of the Viceroy; others, in military uniform or the dress of the Club, contrasted with coats of country squires or the even more ungainly quaintness of the lawyers' costume. They were of every age, from the young man emerging into life, to the old frequenter of the Club, who had occupied his own place and chair for half a century, and in manner and style as various, many preserving the courteous observances of the old school in all its polished urbanity, and the younger part of the company exhibiting the traits of a more independent, but certainly less graceful, politeness. Happily for the social enjoyments of the time, political leanings had not contributed their bitterness to private life, and men of opinions the most opposite, and party connections most antagonistic, were here met, willing to lay aside for a season the arms of encounter, or to use them with only the sportive pleasantry of a polished wit. If this manly spirit of mutual forbearance did not characterize the very last debates of the Irish Parliament, it may in a great measure be attributed to the nature of that influence by which the measure of the Union was carried; for bribery not only corrupted the venal, but it soured and irritated the men who rejected its seductions; and in this wise a difference was created between the two parties, wider and more irreconcilable than all which political animosity or mere party dislike could effect.

On the present occasion, however, the animating spirit of the assemblage seemed to partake of nothing less than a feature of political acrimony; and amid the chance phrases which met the ear, and the hearty bursts of laughter that every moment broke forth, it was easy to collect that no question of a party nature occupied their attention.

At the end of the room a group of some twenty persons stood or sat around a chair in which a thin elderly gentleman was seated, his fine and delicately marked features far more unequivocally proclaiming rank than even the glittering star he wore on his breast. Without being in reality very old, Lord Drogheda seemed so, for, partly from delicacy of health, and partly, as some affirmed, from an affectation of age (a more frequent thing than is expected), he had contracted a stoop, and walked with every sign of debility.

“Well, gentlemen, how does time go?” said he, with an easy smile. “Are we not near the hour?”

“Yes; it wants but eleven minutes of ten now, my Lord,” said one of the group. “Do you mean to hold him sharp to time?”

“Egad, I should think so,” interrupted a red-whiskered squire, in splashed top-boots. “I've ridden in from Kildare to-night to see the match, and I protest against any put-off.”

Lord Drogheda turned his eyes towards the speaker with a look in which mildness was so marked, it could not be called reproof, but it evidently confused him, as he added, “Of course, if the gentlemen who have heavy wagers on it are content I must be also.”

“I, for one, say 'sharp time,'” cried out a dapperly dressed young fellow, with an open pocket-book in his hand; “play or pay is the only rule in these cases.”

“I 've backed my Lord at eight to ten, in hundreds,” said another, “and certainly I 'll claim my bet if the Knight is one minute late.”

“Then you have just three to decide that question,” said one at his side. “My watch is with the Post-office.”

“Quite, time enough left to order my carriage,” said Lord Drogheda, rising with an energy very different from his ordinary indolent habit. “If the Knight of Gwynne should be accidentally delayed, gentlemen, I, for my part, prefer being also absent. It will then be a matter of some difficulty for the parties betting to say who is the delinquent.” He took his hat as he spoke, and was moving through the crowd, when a sudden cheer from without was heard, and then, almost the instant after, a confused sound of acclamation as the Knight of Gwynne entered, leaning on the arm of Con Heffernan. Making his way with difficulty through the crowd of welcoming friends and acquaintances, the Knight approached the end of the room where Lord Drogheda now awaited him, standing.

“Not late, my Lord, though very near it,” said he, extending his hand. “If I should apologize, however, I have an excuse you will not reject—Con Heffernan's Burgundy is hard to part with.”

“Very true, Knight,” said his Lordship, smiling. “With a friend one sees so seldom, a little dalliance is most pardonable.”

This sarcasm was met by a ready laugh, for Heffernan was better known as a guest at other tables than a host at his own; nor did he, at whose expense the jest was made, refrain from joining in the mirth, while he added—

“The Burgundy, like one of your Lordship's bons mots, is perhaps appreciated the more highly because of its rarity.”

“Very true, Heffernan,” replied Lord Drogheda; “we should keep our wit and wine only for our best friends.”

“Faith, then,” whispered the red-whiskered squire who spoke before, “if the liquor does not gain more by keeping than the wit, I'd recommend Con to drink it off a little faster.”

“Or, better still,” interposed the Knight, “only give it to those who understand its flavor. But we are, if I mistake not, losing very valuable time. What say you to the small room off the library, or will your Lordship remain here?”

“Here, if equally agreeable to you. We are both of us too old in the harness to care much for being surrounded by spectators.”

“Is it true, Con,” said a friend in Heffernan's ear, “that Darcy has laid fifty thousand on this party?”

“I believe you are rather under than over the mark,” whispered Heffernan. “The wager has been off and on these last eight or ten years. It was made at Hutchinson's one evening when we all had drunk a good deal of wine. At first, whist was talked of; but Drogheda objected to Darcy's naming Vicars as his partner.”

“More fool he! Vicars is a first-rate player, but confoundedly unlucky.”

“Be that as it may, they fixed on piquet as the game, and, if accounts be true, all the better for Darcy. They say he has beaten the best players in France.”

“And what is really the stake? One hears so many absurd versions of it.”

“The Ballydermot property.”

“The whole of it?”

“Every acre, with the demesne, house, plate, pictures, carriages, wine—begad! I 'm not sure if the livery servants are not included—against fifty thousand pounds. You know Drogheda has lent him a very large sum on a mortgage of that property already, and this will make the thing about double or quits.”

“Well, Heffernan,” cried the Knight, “are you making your book there? When you've quite finished, let me have a pinch of that excellent snuff of yours.”

“Why not try mine?” said Lord Drogheda, pushing a magnificently jewelled box, containing a miniature, across the table.

“'T would be a bad augury, my Lord,” said Darcy, laughing. “If I remember aright, you won this handsome box from the Duke de Richelieu.”

“Ah! you know that story, then?”

“I was present at the time, and remember the circumstance perfectly. The King was leaning over the Duke's chair, watching the game—”

“Quite true. The Duke affected not to know that his Majesty was there, and when he placed the box on the table, cried, 'A thousand louis against the portrait of the King!' There was no declining such a wager at such a moment, although, intrinsically, the box was not worth half the sum. I accepted, and won it.”

“And the Duke then offered to give you twice the money for it back again?”

“He did so, and I refused. I shall not readily forget the sweet, sad smile of the King as he tapped the wily courtier on the shoulder, and said, 'Ah! Monsieur le Duc, do you only value your King when you've lost him?' They were prophetic words! Well, well! we 've got upon a sorrowful theme; let's change it.”

“Here are the cards, at last,” said the Knight, taking a sealed packet from the waiter's hand, and breaking it open on the table. “Now, Heffernan, order me a glass of claret negus, and take care that no one comes to worry us with news of the House.”

“It's a sugar bill, or a new clause in the Corporation Act, or something of that kind, they 're working at,” said Lord Drogheda, negligently.

“No, my Lord,” interposed Heffernan, slyly, “it's a bill to permit your Lordship's nephew to hold the living of Ardragh with his deanery.”

“All right and proper,” said his Lordship, endeavoring to hide a rising flush on his cheek by an opportune laugh. “Tom is a capital fellow, and a good parson too.”

“And ought never to omit the prayer for the Parliament!” muttered Heffernan, loud enough to be heard by the bystanders, who relished the allusion heartily.

“The deal is with you, Knight,” said Lord Drogheda, pushing the cards across the table.

The moment afterwards, a pin could not have fallen unheard in that crowded assembly. Even they who were not themselves bettors felt the deepest interest in the game where the stake was so great, and all who could set value on skill and address were curious to watch the progress of the contest. Not a word was spoken on either side as the cards fell upon the table, and although many of the bystanders displayed looks of more eager anxiety, the players showed by their intentness how strenuously each struggled for the victory.

After the lapse of about half an hour, a low, murmuring noise spread through the room, and the news was circulated that the first game was over, and the Knight was the winner. The players, however, were silent as before, and the deal went over without a word.

“One moment, my Lord,” said Darcy, as he gently interposed his hand to prevent Lord Drogheda taking up his cards—“a single moment. You will call me faint-hearted for it, but I do not care. I beseech you, let the party cease here. It is a great favor; but as I could not ask it if I had lost the game, give me, I pray, so much of advantage for my good luck.”

“You forget, Knight, that I, as a loser, could not accede to your proposal; what would be said of any man who, with such a stake at issue, accepted an offer like this?”

“My dear Lord, don't you think that you and I might afford to have our actions canvassed, and yet be very little afraid of criticism?” said Darcy, proudly.

“No, no, my dear Darcy, I really could not do this; besides, you must concede something to mortified vanity. Now, I am anxious to have my revenge.”

“Be it so, my Lord,” said the Knight, with a sigh, and the game began.

The looks and glances which were interchanged by those about during this brief colloquy showed how little sympathy there was felt with the generosity of either side. The bettors had set their hearts on gain, and cared little for the feelings of the players.

“You see he was right,” whispered the red-whiskered squire to his neighbor; “my Lord has won the game in one hand.” And so it was; in less than five minutes the party was over.

“Now for the conqueror,” cried the Knight of Gwynne, who, somewhat nettled at a success which seemed to lessen the generous character of his own proposal, dealt the cards hastily, as if anxious to conclude.

“Now, Darcy, we have a better opportunity,” said Lord Drogheda, smiling; “what say you to draw stakes as we stand?”

“Willingly, most willingly, my Lord. If a bad cause saps courage, I have reason to be low at heart. This foolish wager has cost me the loss of three nights' sleep, and if you are content—”

“But are these gentlemen here satisfied?” said Lord Drogheda; and an almost universal cry of “No” was the reply.

“Then if we are to play for the bystanders, my Lord, let us not delay them,” said the Knight, as he took up his cards and began to arrange them.

“Darcy has it, by Jove!—the game is his,” was muttered from one to another in the crowd behind his chair, and the report, gaining currency, was soon circulated in the larger room without.

“Have you anything heavy on it, Con?” said a fashionably dressed man to Heffernan, who endeavored to force his way through the crowd to where the Knight sat.

“Look at Heffernan!” said another. “They say he never bets; but mark the excitement of his face now!”

“What is it, Heffernan?” said the Knight, as the other leaned over his chair and tried to whisper something in his ear. “Is that a queen, my Lord? In that case I believe the game is mine.—What is it, Heffernan?” and he bent his ear to listen; then, suddenly dashing the cards upon the table, cried out, “Great Heaven! is this true?—the young fellow I met at Kilbeggan?”

“The same,” whispered Heffernan, rapidly; “a brother officer of your son Lionel's—a cousin of Lord Castle-reagh's—a fine, dashing fellow, too.”

“Where is he wounded?” asked Darcy, eagerly.

“Finish your game—I must tell you all about it,” said Heffernan, folding up a letter which he had taken from his pocket a few minutes before.

“Your pardon, my Lord,” said Darcy, with a look full of agitation; “I have just heard very bad news.—I play the knave.” A murmur ran through the crowd behind him.

“You meant the king, I know, Knight,” said Lord Drogheda, restoring the card to his hand as he spoke, but a loud expression of dissatisfaction arose from those at his side.

“You are right, my Lord, I did intend the king,” said the Knight; “but these gentlemen insist upon the knave, and, if you 'll permit me, I 'll play it.”

The whole fortune of the game hung upon the card, and, after a brief struggle, the Knight was beaten.

“Even so, my Lord,” said the Knight, smiling calmly, “you have beaten me against luck; Fortune will not do everything. The Roman satirist goes even further, and says she can do nothing.” He rose as he said these words, and looked around for Heffernan.

“If you want Con Heffernan, Knight,” said one of the party, “I think he has gone down to the House.”

“The very man,” said Darcy. “Good-night, my Lord—good-night, gentlemen all.”

“I did not believe that anything could shake Darcy's nerve, but he certainly played that game ill,” said a bystander.

“Heffernan could tell us more about it,” said another; “rely on it, Master Con and the devil knew why that knave was played.”