Читать книгу The Knight Of Gwynne (Vol. 1&2) - Charles James Lever - Страница 22

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The day of Lord Castlereagh's dinner-party had arrived, and the guests, all save Mr. Heffernan, were assembled in the drawing-room. The party was small and select, and his Lordship had gone through the usual routine of introducings, when Hamilton asked if he still expected any one.

“Yes; Mr. Heffernan promised to make one of our twelve; he is generally punctuality itself, and I cannot understand what detains him.”

“He said he 'd call for me on his way,” said Lord Beerhaven, “and I waited some time for him; but as I would not risk spoiling your Lordship's entrées, I came away at last.”

This speech was made by one who felt no small uneasiness on his own part respecting the cookery, and took the occasion of suggesting his fears, as a hint to order dinner.

“Shall we vote him present, then?” said Lord Castle-reagh, who saw the look of dismay the further prospect of waiting threw over the party.

“By all means,” said Lord Beerhaven; “Heffernan never eats soup.”

“I don't think he cares much for fish, either,” said Hamilton.

“I think our friend Con is fond of walnuts,” said the Knight, dryly.

“Them 's the unwholesomest things he could eat,” muttered old Hickman, who, although seated in a corner of the room, and partly masked by his son and grandson, could not be altogether secluded from earshot.

“Are they indeed?” said the bishop, turning sharply round; for the theme of health was one that engaged all his sympathies; and although his short apron covered a goodly rotundity of form, eating exacted to the full as many pains as it afforded pleasures to the Churchman.

“Yes, my Lord,” said Hickman, highly gratified to obtain such exalted notice; “there's an essential oil in them that destroys the mucous membrane—”

“Destroys the mucous membrane!” said the bishop, interrupting him.

“Mine is pretty much in that way already,” said Lord Beerhaven, querulously; “five-and-twenty minutes past six.”

“No, no, my dear Darcy,” said Lord Drogheda, who, having drawn the Knight aside, was speaking in an earnest but low tone, “I never was easier in my life, on the score of money; don't let the thing give you any trouble; consult Gleeson about it, he's a clever fellow, and take your own time for the payment.”

“Gleeson is a clever fellow, my Lord, but there are straits that prove too much even for his ingenuity.”

“Ah! I know what you mean,” said Lord Drogheda, secretly, “you 've heard of that Spanish-American affair—yes, he made a bad hit there; some say he'll lose fifty thousand by it.”

Dinner was at this moment announced, and the Knight was unable to learn further on a subject the little he had heard of which gave him great sorrow. Unfortunately, too, his position at table was opposite, not next, to Lord Drogheda, and he was thus compelled to wait for another opportunity of interrogating him.

Lord Castlereagh has left behind him one reputation which no political or party animosity has ever availed to detract from, that of being the most perfect host that ever dispensed the honors of a table. Whatever seeming reserve or coldness he maintained at other times, here he was courteous to cordiality; his manner, the happy union of thorough good-breeding and friendly ease. Gifted with a most retentive memory, and well versed on almost every topic that could arise, he possessed that most difficult art, the power of developing the resources and information of others, without ever making any parade of his own acquirements; or, what is still harder, without betraying the effort which, in hands less adroit, becomes the most vulgar of all tricks, called “drawing out.”

With all these advantages, and well suited as he was to meet every emergency of a social meeting, he felt on the present occasion far less at ease than was his wont. The party was one of Heffernan's contriving—the elements were such as he himself would never have dreamed of collecting together—and he relied upon his “ancient” to conduct the plan he had so skilfully laid down. It was, as he muttered to himself, “Heffernan's Bill,” and he was not coming forward to explain its provisions or state its object.

Happily for the success of such meetings in general, the adjuncts contribute almost equally with the intellectual resources of the party; and here Heffernan, although absent, had left a trace of his skill. The dinner was admirable. Lord Castlereagh knew nothing of such matters; the most simple, nay, the most ill-dressed, meats would have met equal approval from him with the greatest triumphs of the art; and as to wine, he mixed up his madeira, his claret, and his burgundy together in a fashion which sadly deteriorated him in the estimation of many of his more cultivated acquaintances.

All the detail of the dinner was perfect, and Lord Beer-haven, his fears on that score allayed, emerged from the cloud of his own dreary anticipations, and became one of the pleasantest of the party. And thus the influence of good cheer and easy converse extended its happy sway until even Mr. Hickman O'Reilly began to suffer less anxiety respecting his father's presence, and felt relieved at the preoccupation the good things of the table exacted from the old doctor.

The party was of that magnitude which, while enabling the guests to form into the twos and threes of conversational intimacy, yet affords, from time to time, the opportunity of generalizing the subject discussed, and drawing, as it were, into a common centre the social abilities of each. And there Lord Castlereagh shone conspicuously, for at the same time that he called forth all the anecdotic stores of Lord Beerhaven, and the witty repartee for which Hamilton was noted, he shrouded the obtrusive old Hickman, or gave a character of quaint originality to remarks which, with less flattering introduction, had been deemed low-lived and vulgar.

The wine went freely round, and claret, whose flavor might have found acceptance with the most critical, began to work its influence upon the party, producing that pleasant amalgamation in which individual peculiarities are felt to be the attractive, and not the repelling, properties of social intercourse.

“What splendid action that horse you drive has, Mr. Beecham O'Reilly,” said Lord Loughdooner, who had paid the most marked attention to him during dinner. “That's the style of moving they 're so mad after in London—high and fast at the same time.”

“I gave three hundred and fifty for him,” lisped out the youth, carelessly, “and think him cheap.”

“Cheap at three hundred and fifty!” exclaimed old Hickman, who had heard the fact for the first time. “May I never stir from the spot, but you told me forty pounds.”

“When you can pick up another at that price let me know, I beg you,” said Lord Loughdooner, coming to the rescue, and with a smile that seemed to say, “How well you quizzed the old gentleman! I say, Hamilton, who bought your gray?”

“Ecclesmere bought him for his uncle.”

“Why, he starts, or shies, or something of that sort, don't he?”

“No, my Lord, he 'comes down,' which is what the uncle does not; and as he stands between Ecclesmere and the Marquisate—”

“That's what I've always maintained,” said the bishop to Lord Castlereagh. “The potato disposes to acidity. I know the poor people correct that by avoiding animal food—a most invaluable fact.”

“There are good grounds for your remark,” said Lord Castlereagh to the Knight, while he smiled an easy assent to the bishop, without attending to him, “and the social relations of the country will demand the earliest care of the Government whenever measures of immediate importance permit this consideration. We have been unfortunate in not drawing closer to us men who, like yourself, are thoroughly acquainted with the condition of the people generally. It is not too late—”

“Too late for what?” interrupted Lord Drogheda. “Not too late for more claret, I trust; and the decanter has been standing opposite to me these ten minutes.”

“A thousand pardons!—O'Reilly, will you touch that bell? Thanks.”

The tone of easy familiarity with which he spoke covered Hickman with a flush of ecstatic pleasure.

“They ginger them up so, nowadays,” said Lord Loughdooner to Beecham O'Reilly.

“Ginger!” chimed in Hickman—“the devil a finer thing for the stomach. I ask your pardon, my Lord, for saying his name, but I 'll give you a receipt for the windy bile worth a guinea-note.”

“Take a pinch of snuff, Dr. Hickman,” said Lord Castle-reagh, who saw the mortification of the two generations at the old man's vulgarity.

“Thank you, my Lord. 'Tis blackguard I like best: them brown snuffs ruins the nose entirely.—I was saying about the mixture,” said he, addressing the bishop. “Take a pint of infusion of gentian, and put a pinch of coriander seeds, and the peel of a Chaney orange—”

“I recommend a bumper of that claret, my Lord,” said Lord Castlereagh, determined to cut short the prescription, which now was being listened to by the whole board; “and when I add the health of the primate, I 'm sure you 'll not refuse me.” The toast was drunk with all suitable honors, and the Secretary resumed in a whisper: “He wants our best wishes on that score, poor fellow, if they could serve him. He's not long to be with us, I fear.”

“Indeed, my Lord!” said the bishop, eagerly.

“Alas! too true,” sighed Lord Castlereagh; “he 'll be a severe loss, too. I wanted to have some minutes' talk with you on the matter. These are times of no common emergency, and the men we promote are of great consequence at this moment. Say to-morrow, about one.”

“I 'll be punctual,” said the bishop, taking out his tablets to make a note of what his memory would retain to the end of his life.

Lord Castlereagh caught the Knight's eye at the instant, and they both smiled, without being able to control their emotion.

“And so,” said Lord Castlereagh, hastening to conceal his laugh, “my young relation continues to enjoy the hospitalities of your house. I don't doubt in the least that he reckons that wound the luckiest incident of his life.”

“My friend Darcy paid even more dearly for it,” said Lord Drogheda, overhearing the remark; “but for Heffernan's tidings, I should certainly have lost my wager.”

“I assure you, Knight,” broke in Hickman O'Reilly, “it was through no fault of mine that the altercation ended so seriously. I visited Captain Forester in his room, and thought I obtained his pledge to take no further notice of the affair.”

“And I, too, told him the style of fellow MacDonough was,” said Beecham, affectedly.

“I have heard honorable mention of both facts, gentlemen,” said Darcy, dryly; “that nothing could have less contributed to a breach of the peace than Mr. Beecham O'Reilly's conduct, my friend Daly is willing to vouch for.”

“I wish his own had been equally prudent and pacific,” said Hickman O'Reilly, reddening at the taunt conveyed in the Knight's speech.

“Daly is unquestionably the best friend on the ground—”

“On or off the ground, my Lord Loughdooner,” interrupted the Knight, warmly; “he may be, now and then, somewhat hasty or rash; but rich as our country is in men of generous natures, Bagenal Daly is second to none.”

“I protest, gentlemen,” said the bishop, gravely; “I wish I could hear a better reason for the panegyric than his skill as a duellist.”

“True for you, my Lord,” muttered old Hickman, in a whisper; “he's readier with a pistol-bullet than with the interest on his bond.”

“He 'd favor you with a discharge in full, sir, if he heard the observation,” said Hamilton, laughing.

“A letter, my Lord,” said a servant, presenting a sealed epistle to the Secretary.

“Heffernan's writing, gentlemen, so I shall, with your permission, read it.” He broke the seal, and read aloud: “'My dear Lord—An adventure, which would be laughable if it were not so provoking, prevents my coming to dinner, so I must leave the menagerie—'” Here he dropped his voice, and, crumpling up the letter, laughingly remarked, “Oh, we shall hear it all later on, I 've no doubt.”

“By the by, my Lord, there's a House to-night, is there not?”

“No, bishop; we moved an adjournment for to-morrow evening. You 'll come down for the debate, won't you?”

The bishop nodded significantly, and sipped his wine. There was now a pause. This was the great topic of the day, and yet, up to this moment, not even a chance allusion to politics had been dropped, and all recoiled from adventuring, even by a word, on a theme which might lead to disagreement or discordance. Old Hickman, however, dated his origin in life too far back for such scruples, and, leaning across the table, said, with an accent to which wine imparted a tone of peculiar cunning, “I wish you well through it, my Lord; for, by all accounts, it is dirty work.”

The roar of laughter that followed the speech actually shook the table, Lord Castlereagh giving way to it with as much zest as the guests themselves. Twice he essayed to speak, but each time a fresh burst of mirth interrupted him, while old Hickman, unable to divine the source of the merriment, stared at each person in turn, and at last muttered his consolatory “Ay,” but with a voice that showed he was far from feeling satisfied.

“I wish you'd made that speech in the House, Mr. Hickman,” said Lord Drogheda; “I do believe you'd have been the most popular man in Ireland.”

“I confess,” said Lord Castlereagh, wiping his eyes, “I cannot conceive a more dangerous opponent to the Bill.”

“If he held your own bill, with a protest on it,” whispered Hamilton, “your opinion would not be easily gainsaid.”

“May I ask for a cup of coffee?” said the bishop, rising, for he saw that although as yet no untoward results had followed, at any moment something unpleasant might occur. The party rose with him, and adjourned to the drawing-room.

“Singular old man!” said Lord Castlereagh, in a whisper to the Knight. “Shrewd and cunning, no doubt, but scarcely calculated, as our friend Drogheda thinks, to distinguish himself in the House of Commons.”

“Do you think the Upper House would suit him better, my Lord?” said Darcy, slyly.

“I see, Knight,” said Lord Castlereagh, laughing, “you have caught up the popular joke of the day.”

“I trust, my Lord, it may be no more than a joke.”

“Can you doubt it?”

“At the present moment,” said the Knight, gravely, “I see no reason for doubting anything merely on the score of its unlikelihood; your Lordship's colleagues have given us some sharp lessons on the subject of credulity, and we should be more unteachable than the savage if we had not learnt something by this time.”

Lord Castlereagh was about to answer, when Lord Drogheda came forward to say “Good night.” The others were going too, and in the bustle of leave-taking some moments were passed.

“Your carriage has not come yet, sir,” replied a servant to the Knight.

“Shall we take you home, Darcy,” said Lord Drogheda; “or are you going to the Club?”

“Let me say no to that offer, Knight,” interposed Lord Castlereagh, “and give me the pleasure of your company till the carriage arrives.”

Darcy acceded to a request, the courteous mode of making which had already secured its acceptance, and the Knight sat down at the fire tête-à-tête with the Secretary.

“I was most anxious for a moment like this,” said Lord Castlereagh, with the air of one abandoning himself to the full liberty of sincerity. “It very seldom happens to men placed like myself to have even a few brief minutes' intercourse with any out of the rank of partisans or opponents.

“I will not disguise from you how highly I should value the alliance of yourself to our party; I place the greatest price upon such support, but there is something better and more valuable than even a vote in a strong division, and that is, the candid judgment of a man who has enjoyed your opportunities and your powers of forming an opinion. Tell me now, frankly—for we are here in all freedom of intercourse—what do you object to? What do you fear from this contemplated enactment?”

“Let me rather hear,” said the Knight, smiling, “what do you hope from it—how you propose it to become the remedy of our existing evils? Because I shall thereby see whether your Lordship and myself are like-minded on the score of the disease, before we begin to discuss the remedy.”

“Be it so, then,” said the Secretary, gayly; and at once, without hesitation, he commenced a short and most explicit statement of the Government intentions. Arguments that formed the staple of long Parliamentary harangues he condensed into a sentence or two; views that, dilated upon, sufficed to fill the columns of a newspaper, he displayed palpably and boldly, exhibiting powers of clear and rapid eloquence for which so few gave him credit in public life. Not an epithet nor an expression could have been retrenched from a detail which denoted faculties of admirable training, assisted by a memory almost miraculous. Stating in order the various objections to the measure, he answered each in turn; and wherever the reply was not sufficiently ample and conclusive, he adroitly took occasion to undervalue either the opinion or the source from which it originated, exhibiting, while restraining, considerable powers of sarcasm, and a thorough insight into the character of the public men of the period.

If the Knight was unconvinced by the arguments, he was no less astonished by the abilities of the Secretary. Up to that hour he had been a follower of the popular notion of the Opposition party, which agreed in decrying his talents, and making his displays as a speaker the touchstone of his capacity. Darcy was too clever himself to linger longer in this delusion. He saw the great and varied resources of the youthful statesman tested by a question of no common difficulty, and he could not control the temptation of telling him, as he concluded—

“You have made me a convert to the union—”

“Have I, indeed?” cried the Secretary, in an ecstasy of pleasure.

“Hear me out, my Lord—to the union of great political abilities with the most captivating powers of conversation. Yes, my Lord, I am old enough to make such a remark without the hazard of being deemed impertinent or a flatterer—your success in life is certain.”

“But the Bill!” cried Lord Castlereagh, while his handsome face was flushed between delight and eagerness—“the Bill!”

“Is an admirable Bill for England, my Lord, and were there not two sides to a contract, would be perfect—indeed, until I heard the lucid statement you have just made, I never saw one-tenth part of the advantages it must render to your country, nor, consequently—for we move not in parallel lines—the great danger with which it is fraught to mine. Let me now explain more fully.”

With these words the Knight entered upon the question of the Union in all its relations to Ireland; and while never conceding, nor even extenuating, the difficulties attendant upon a double legislature, he proceeded to show the probable train of events that must result on the passing of the measure, strengthening his anticipations by facts derived from deep knowledge of the country.

Far be it from us to endeavor to recapitulate his arguments: some of them, now forgotten, were difficult enough to answer; others, treasured up, have been fashionable fallacies in our own day. Such as they were, they were the reasons why an Irish gentleman demurred to surrendering privileges that gave his own country rank, place, and preeminence, without the evidence of any certain or adequate compensation.

“Do not tell me, my Lord, that we shall hold our influence and our station in the Imperial Parliament. There are many reasons against such a belief. We shall be in the minority, a great minority; a minority branded with provincialism as our badge, and accused of prejudice and narrow-sightedness, from the very fact of our nationality. No, no; we shall occupy a very different position in your country: and who will take our places here? That's a point your Lordship has not touched upon, but I 'll tell you. The demagogue, the public disturber, the licensed hawker of small grievances, every briefless lawyer of bad fortune and worse language, every mendicant patriot that can minister to the passions of a people deserted by their natural protectors—the day will come, my Lord, when these men will grow ambitious, their aspirings may become troublesome; if you coerce them, they are martyrs—conciliate them, and they are privileged. What will happen then? You will be asked to repeal the Union, you will be charged with all the venality by which you carried your Bill, every injustice with which it is chargeable, and with a hundred other faults and crimes with which it is unconnected. You will be asked, I say, to repeal the Union, and make of this miserable rabble, these dregs and sweepings of party, a Parliament. You shake your head. No, no, it is by no means impossible—nay, I don't think it even remote. I speak as an old man, and age, if it have many deficiencies as regards the past, has at least some prophetic foresight for the future. You will be asked to repeal the Union, to give a Parliament to a country which you have drained of its wealth, from which you have seduced the aristocracy; to restore a deliberative body to a land whose resources for self-legislation you have studiously and industriously ruined. Think, then, twice of a measure from which, if it fail, there is no retreat, and the opposition to which may come in a worse form than a vote in the House of Commons. I see you deem my anticipations have more gloom than truthfulness; I hope it may be so.”

“The Knight of Gwynne's carriage,” cried a servant, throwing wide the door.

“How opportune!” said Darcy, laughing; “it is so satisfactory to have the last shot at the enemy.”

“Pray don't go yet—a few moments more.”

“Not a second, my Lord; I dare not. The fact is, I have strenuously avoided this subject; an old friend of mine, Bagenal Daly, has wearied me of it—he is an Anti-Unionist, but on grounds I scarcely concur in. Your Lordship's defence of the measure I also demur to. I am like poor old Murray, the Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, who, when called on for his opinion in a case where Judge Wallace was in favor of a rule, and Judge Mayne against it, he said, 'I agree with my brother Mayne for the cogent reasons laid down by my brother Wallace.'”

“So,” said the Secretary, laughing heartily, “I have convinced you against myself.”

“Exactly, my Lord. I came here this evening intending not to vote on the Bill—indeed, I accepted your Lordship's hospitality without a thought upon a party question; I am equally certain you will acquit me of being a spy in the camp. To-morrow I intend to vote against you.”

“I wish I could have the same esteem for my friends that I now pledge for my—”

“Don't say 'enemy,' my Lord; we both aspire to the same end—our country's good. If we take different roads, it is because each thinks his own path the shortest. Good night.”

Lord Castlereagh accompanied the Knight to his carriage, and again shook his hand cordially as they parted.