Sir Jasper Carew: His Life and Experience. Lever Charles James

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СКАЧАТЬ and by the exercise of these faculties he had at last attained to a skill in reading character that seemed little short of marvellous.

      Nature had been most favorable in fitting him for his career, for his features were of that cast which bespeaks a soft, easy temperament, careless and unsuspecting. His large blue eyes and curly golden hair gave him, even at thirty, a boyish look, and both in voice and manner was he singularly youthful, while his laugh was like the joyous outburst of a happy schoolboy.

      None could have ever suspected that such a figure as this, arrayed in the trappings of a courtly usher, could have inclosed within it a whole network of secret intrigue and plot. My mother had the misfortune to make a still more fatal blunder; for, seeing him in what she pardonably enough believed to be a livery, she took him to be a menial, and actually despatched him to her carriage to fetch her fan! The incident got abroad, and Rutledge, of course, was well laughed at; but he seemed to enjoy the mirth so thoroughly, and told the story so well himself, that it could never be imagined he felt the slightest annoyance on the subject. By all accounts, however, the great weakness of his character was the belief that he was decidedly noble-looking and highbred; that place him where you would, costume him how you might, surround him with all that might disparage pretension, yet that such was the innate gentlemanhood of his nature, the least critical of observers would not fail to acknowledge him. To say that he concealed this weakness most completely, that he shrouded it in the very depth of his heart, is only to repeat what I have already mentioned as to his character; for he was watchful over every trifle that should betray a knowledge of his nature, and sensitively alive to the terrors of ridicule. From that hour forward he became my mother’s enemy, – not, as many others might, by decrying her pretensions to beauty, or by any depreciatory remarks on her dress or manner, but in a far deeper sense, and with more malignant determination.

      To learn who she was, of what family, what were her connections, their rank, name, and station, were his first objects; and although the difficulties of the inquiry were considerable, his sources of knowledge were sufficient to overcome them. He got to hear something at least of her history, and to trace back her mysterious journey to an ancient château belonging to the Crown of France. Beyond this, in all livelihood, he could not go; but even here were materials enough for his subtlety to make use of.

      The Viceregal visit to Castle Carew had been all planned by him. He had persuaded the Duke that the time was come when, by a little timely flattering, the whole landed gentry of Ireland were in his hands. The conciliating tone of the speech which opened Parliament, the affectedly generous confidence of England in all the acts of the Irish Legislature, had already succeeded to a miracle. Grattan himself moved the address in terms of unbounded reliance on the good faith of Government. Flood followed in the same strain, and others, of lesser note, were ashamed to utter a sentiment of distrust, in the presence of such splendid instances of confiding generosity. My father, although not a leading orator of the House, was, from connection and fortune, possessed of much influence, and well worth the trouble of gaining over, and, as Rutledge said, “It was pleasant to have to deal with a man who wanted neither place, money, nor the peerage, but whose alliance could be ratified at his own table, and pledged in his own Burgundy.”

      Every one knows what happens in the East when a great sovereign makes a present of an elephant to some inferior chief. The morale of a Viceregal visit is pretty much in the same category. It is an honor that cannot be declined, and it is generally sure to ruin the entertainer. Of course I do not talk of the present times nor of late years. Lord-Lieutenants have grown to be less stately; the hosts have become less splendid. But in the days I speak of here, there were great names and great fortunes in the land. The influence of the country neither flowed from Roman rescripts nor priestly denunciations. The Lions of Judah and the Doves of Elphin were as yet unknown to our political zoology; and, with all their faults and shortcomings, we had at least a national gentry party, high-spirited, hospitable, and generous, and whose misfortunes were probably owing to the fact that they gave a too implicit faith to the adaptiveness of English laws to a people who have not, in their habits, natures, or feelings, the slightest analogy to Englishmen! and that, when at length they began to perceive the error, it was already too late to repair it.

      The Viceroy’s arrival at Castle Carew was fixed for a Tuesday, and on Monday evening Mr. Barry Rutledge drove up to the door just as my father and mother, with Dan Mac-Naghten, were issuing forth for a walk. He had brought with him a list of those for whom accommodation should be provided, and the number considerably exceeded all expectation. Nor was this the only disconcerting event, for my father now learned, for the first time, that he should have taken his Grace’s pleasure with regard to each of the other guests he had invited to meet him, – a piece of etiquette he had never so much as thought of. “Of course it’s not much matter,” said Rutledge, laughing easily; “your acquaintances are all known to his Grace.”

      “I’m not so sure of that,” interposed my father, quickly; for he suddenly remembered that Polly Fagan was not likely to have been presented at Court, nor was she one to expect to escape notice.

      “He never thinks of politics in private life; he has not the smallest objection to meet every shade of politician.”

      “I ‘m quite sure of that,” said my father, musing, but by no means satisfied with the prospect before him.

      “Tell Rutledge whom you expect,” broke in Dan, “and he’ll be able to guide you, should there be any difficulty about them.”

      “Ma foi!” broke in my mother, half impatiently, in her imperfect language. “If dey are of la bonne société, what will you have more?”

      “Of course,” assented Rutledge. “The names we are all familiar with, – the good houses of the country.” Carelessly as he spoke, he contrived to dart a quick glance towards my mother; but, to his astonishment, she showed no sign of discomfort or uneasiness.

      “Egad! I think it somewhat hard that a man’s company should not be of his own choosing!” said MacNaghten, half angrily. “Do you think his Grace would order the dinner away if there happened to be a dish at table he didn’t like?”

      “Not exactly, if he were not compelled to eat of it,” said Rutledge, good-humoredly; “but I ‘m sure, all this time, that we ‘re only amusing ourselves fighting shadows. Just tell me who are coming, and I ‘ll be able to give you a hint if any of them should be personally displeasing to his Grace.”

      “You remember them all, Dan,” said my father; “try and repeat the names.”

      “Shall we keep the lump of sugar for the last,” said Dan, “as they do with children when they give them medicine? or shall we begin with your own friends, Rut-ledge? for we’ve got Archdall, and Billy Burton, and Freke, and Barty Hoare, and some others of the same stamp, – fellows that I call very bad company, but that I’m well aware you Castle folk expect to see everywhere you go!”

      “But you’ve done things admirably,” cried Rutledge. “These are exactly the men for us. Have you Townsend?”

      “Ay, and his flapper, Tisdall; for without Joe he never remembers what story to tell next. And then there’s Jack Preston! Egad! you ‘ll fancy yourselves on the Treasury benches.”

      “Well, now for the Opposition,” said Rutledge, gayly.

      “To begin: Grattan can’t come, – a sick child, the measles, or something or other wrong in the nursery, which he thinks of more consequence than ‘all your houses;’ Ponsonby won’t come, – he votes you all very dull company; Hugh O’Donnell is of the same mind, and adds that he ‘d rather see Tom Thumb, in Fishamble Street, than all your court tomfooleries twice over. But then we’ve old Bob Ffrench, – Bitter Bob; Joe Curtis – ”

      “Not the same Curtis that refused his Grace leave to shoot over his СКАЧАТЬ