Kitabı oku: «Jack Hinton: The Guardsman», sayfa 31

CHAPTER XLVI. FAREWELL TO IRELAND

My first care on reaching my quarters was to make preparations for my departure by the packet of the same evening; my next was to sit down and read over my letters. As I turned them over, I remarked that there were none from my father or Lady Charlotte; there was, however, one in Julia’s hand, and also a note from O’Grady. The others were the mere commonplace correspondence of everyday acquaintances, which I merely threw my eyes carelessly over ere I consigned them to the fire. My fair cousin’s possessed – I cannot explain why – a most unusual degree of interest for me; and throwing myself back in my chair, I gave myself up to its perusal.

The epistle opened by a half-satirical account of the London season then nearly drawing to its close, in which various characters and incidents I have not placed before my readers, but all well known to me, were touched with that quiet, subdued raillery she excelled in. The flirtations, the jiltings, the matches that were on or off, the rumoured duels, debts, and difficulties of every one we were acquainted with, were told with a most amusing smartness – all showing, young as she was, how thoroughly the wear and tear of fashionable life had invested her with the intricate knowledge of character, and the perfect acquaintance with all the intrigues and byplay of the world. ‘How unlike Louisa Bellew!’ said I, as I laid down the letter after reading a description of a manoeuvring mamma and obedient daughter to secure the prize of the season, with a peerage and some twenty thousand pounds per annum. It was true they were the vices and the follies of the age which she ridiculed; but why should she have ever known them? Ought she to have been conversant with such a state of society as would expose them? Were it not better, like Louisa Bellew, to have passed her days amid the simple, unexciting scenes of secluded life, than to have purchased all the brilliancy of her wit and the dazzle of her genius at the price of true womanly delicacy and refinement? While I asked and answered myself these questions to the satisfaction of my own heart, I could not dismiss the thought, that amid such scenes as London presented, with such associates as fashion necessitated, the unprotected simplicity of Miss Bellew’s character would expose her to much both of raillery and coldness; and I felt that she would be nearly as misplaced among the proud daughters of haughty England as my fair cousin in the unfashionable freedom of Dublin life.

I confess, as I read on, that old associations came crowding upon me. The sparkling brilliancy of Julia’s style reminded me of the charms of her conversational powers, aided by all the loveliness of her beauty, and all that witchery which your true belle of fashion knows how, so successfully, to spread around her; and it was with a flush of burning shame on my cheek I acknowledged to myself how much her letter interested me. As I continued, I saw O’Grady*s name, and to my astonishment found the following: —

‘Lady Charlotte came back from the duke’s ball greatly pleased with a certain Major of dragoons, who, among his other excellent qualities, turns out to be a friend of yours. This estimable person, whose name is O’Grady, has done much to dissipate her ladyship’s prejudices regarding Irishmen – the repose of his manner, and the quiet, unassuming, well-bred tone of his address being all so opposed to her preconceived notions of his countrymen. He dines here twice or thrice a week, and as he is to sail soon, may happily preserve the bloom of his reputation to the last. My estimate of him is somewhat different. I think him a bold effronté kind of person, esteeming himself very highly, and thinking little of other people. He has, however, a delightful old thing, his servant Corny, whom I am never tired of, and shall really miss much when he leaves us.

‘Now as to yourself, dear cousin, what mean all the secret hints and sly looks and doubtful speeches about you here! The mysteries of Udolpho are plain reading compared to your doings. Her ladyship never speaks of you but as “that poor boy,” accompanying the epithet with the sigh with which one speaks of a shipwreck. Sir George calls you John, which shows he is not quite satisfied about you; and, in fact, I begin to suspect you must have become a United Irishman, with “a lady in the case.” Yet even this would scarcely demand one half the reserve and caution with which you are mentioned. Am I indiscreet in saying that I don’t think De Vere likes you? The Major, however, certainly does; and his presence has banished the lordling, for which, really, I owe him gratitude.’

The letter concluded by saying that my mother had desired her to write in her place, as she was suffering from one of her nervous headaches, which only permitted her to go to the exhibition at Somerset House; my father, too, was at Woolwich on some military business, and had no time for anything save to promise to write soon; and that she herself, being disappointed by the milliner in a new bonnet, dedicated the morning to me, with a most praiseworthy degree of self-denial and benevolence. I read the signature some half-dozen times over, and wondered what meaning in her own heart she ascribed to the words, ‘Yours, Julia.’

‘Now for O’Grady,’ said I, breaking the seal of the Major’s envelope.

‘My dear Jack, – I was sitting on a hencoop, now pondering on my fortunes, now turning to con over the only book on board – a very erudite work on naval tactics, with directions how “to moor a ship in the Downs” – when a gun came booming over the sea, and a frigate with certain enigmatical colours flying at her main-top compelled the old troop-ship we were in to back her topsails and lie to. (We were then steering straight for Madeira, in latitude – , longitude the same – our intention being, with the aid of Providence, to reach Quebec at some remote period of the summer, to join our service companies in Canada.) Having obeyed the orders of H.M.S. Blast, to wait until she overtook us – a measure that nearly cost us two of our masts and the cook’s galley, we not being accustomed to stand still, it seemed – a boat came alongside with the smallest bit of a midshipman I ever looked at sitting in the stern-sheets, with orders for us to face about, left shoulder forward, and march back to England, where, having taken in the second battalion of the Twenty-eighth, we were to start for Lisbon.

‘I need not tell you what pleasure the announcement afforded us, delighted as we were to exchange tomahawks and bowie-knives for civilised warfare, even against more formidable foes. Behold us then in full sail back to old England, which we reached within a fortnight – only to touch, however, for the Twenty-eighth were most impatiently expecting us; and having dedicated three days to taking in water and additional stores, and once more going through the horrible scene of leave-taking between soldiers and their wives, we sailed again. I have little inclination to give you the detail, which newspapers would beat me hollow in, of our march, or where we first came up with the French. A smart affair took place at daybreak, in which your humble servant, to use the appropriate phrase, “distinguished” himself – egad! I had almost said “extinguished”; for I was shot through the side, losing part of that conjugal portion of the human anatomy called a rib, and sustaining several other minor damages, that made me appear to the regimental doctor a very unserviceable craft for his Majesty’s service. The result was, I was sent back with that plaster for a man’s vanity, though not for his wounds, a despatch-letter to the Horse Guards, and an official account of the action. As nothing has occurred since in the Peninsula to eclipse my performance, I continue to star it here with immense success, and am quite convinced that with a little more loss I might have made an excellent match out of the affair.

‘Now to the pleasant part of my epistle. Your father found me out a few evenings since at an evening party at the Duke of York’s, and presented me to your lady-mother, who was most gracious in her reception of me; an invitation to dinner the next day followed, and since, I have spent almost every day at your house. Your father, my dear Jack, is a glorious fellow, a soldier in every great feature of the character; you never can have a finer object of your imitation, and your best friend cannot wish you to be more than his equal. Lady Charlotte is the most fascinating person I ever met; her abilities are first-rate, and her powers of pleasing exceed all that ever I fancied even of London fashionables. How you could have left such a house I can scarcely conceive, knowing as I do something of your taste for comfort and voluptuous ease. Besides, la cousine, Lady Julia – Jack, Jack, what a close fellow you are I and how very lovely she is! she certainly has not her equal even here. I scarcely know her, for somehow she rather affects hauteur with my cloth, and rarely deigns any notice of the red-coats so plentifully sprinkled along your father’s dinner-table. Her kindness to Corny, who has been domesticated at your house for the last five weeks, I can never forget; and even he can’t, it would appear, conjure up any complaint against her. What a testimony to her goodness!

‘This life, however, cannot last for ever; and as I have now recovered so far as to mount a horse once more, I have applied for a regimental appointment. Your father most kindly interests himself for me, and before the week is over I may be gazetted. That fellow De Vere was very intimate here when I arrived; since he has seen me, however, his visits have become gradually less frequent, and now have almost ceased altogether. This, entre nous, does not seem to have met completely with Lady Julia’s approval, and I think she may have attributed to me a circumstance in which certainly I was not an active cause. However happy I may feel at being instrumental in a breach of intimacy between her and one so very unworthy of her, even as a common acquaintance, I will ask you, Jack, when opportunity offers, to put the matter in its true light; for although I may, in all likelihood, never meet her again, I should be sorry to leave with her a more unfavourable impression of me than I really deserve.’

Here the letter broke off; but lower down on the paper were the following lines, written in evident haste, and with a different ink: —

‘We sail to-night. Oporto is our destination. Corny is to remain behind, and I must ask of you to look to him on his arrival in Dublin. Lady Julia likes De Vere, and you know him too well to permit of such a fatal misfortune. I am, I find, meddling in what really I have no right to touch upon; this is, however, de vous à moi. God bless you. – Yours ever, Phil o’Grady.’

‘Poor Phil!’ said I, as I laid down the letter; ‘in his heart he believes himself disinterested in all this, but I see plainly he is in love with her himself.’ Alas! I cannot conceive a heavier affliction to befall the man without fortune than to be thrown among those whose prospects render an alliance impossible, and to bestow his affections on an object perfectly beyond his reach of attainment. Many a proud heart has been torn in the struggle between its own promptings and the dread of the imputation, which the world so hastily confers, of ‘fortune-hunting’; many a haughty spirit has quailed beneath this fear, and stifled in his bosom the thought that made his life a blessed dream. My poor friend, how little will she that has stolen away your peace think of your sorrows!

A gentle tap at my door aroused me from my musings. I opened it, and saw, to my surprise, my old companion Tipperary Joe. He was covered with dust, heated, and travel-stained, and leaned against the door-post to rest himself.

‘So,’ cried he, when he had recovered his breath, ‘I’m in time to see you once more before you go! I run all the way from Carlow, since twelve o’clock last night.’

‘Come in, my poor boy, and sit down. Here’s a glass of wine; ‘twill refresh you. We ‘ll get something for you to eat presently.’

‘No, I couldn’t eat now. My throat is full, and my heart is up here. And so you are going away – going for good and all, never to come back again?’

‘Who can say so much as that, Joe? I should, at least, be very sorry to think so.’

‘And would you, now? And will you really think of ould Ireland when you ‘re away? Hurroo! by the mortial, there’s no place like it for fun, divilment, and divarsion. But, musha, musha! I’m forgettin’, and it’s gettin’ dark. May I go with you to the packet?’

‘To be sure, my poor boy; and I believe we have not many minutes to spare.’

I despatched Joe for a car while I threw a last look around my room. Sad things, these last looks, whether bestowed on the living or the dead, the lifelike or the inanimate! There is a feeling that resembles death in the last glance we are ever to bestow on a loved object. The girl you have treasured in your secret heart, as she passes by on her wedding-day, it may be happy and blissful, lifts up her laughing eyes, the symbol of her own light heart, and leaves in that look darkness and desolation to you for ever. The boy your father-spirit has clung to, like the very light of your existence, waves his hand from the quarterdeck, as the gigantic ship bends over to the breeze; the wind is playing through the locks your hand so oftentimes has smoothed; the tears have dimmed his eyes, for, mark t he moves his fingers over them – and this is a last look. My sorrow had no touch of these. My eye ranged over the humble furniture of my little chamber, while memories of the past came crowding on me – hopes that I had lived to see blighted, daydreams dissipated, heartfelt wishes thwarted and scattered. I stood thus for some minutes, when Joe again joined me.

Poor fellow! his wayward and capricious flights, now grave, now gay, were but the mockery of that sympathy my heart required. Still did he heal the sadness of the moment. We need the voice, the look, the accent of affection when we are leaving the spot where we have once been happy. It will not do to part from the objects that have made our home, without the connecting link of human friendship. The hearth, the roof-tree, the mountain, and the rivulet are not so eloquent as the once syllabled ‘Good-bye,’ come it from ever so humble a voice.

The bustle and excitement of the scene beside the packet seemed to afford Joe the most lively gratification; and, like the genius of confusion, he was to be seen flitting from place to place, assisting one, impeding another, while snatches of his wild songs broke from him every moment. I had but time to press his hand, when he was hurried ashore amongst the crowd; and the instant after the vessel sheered off from the pier, and got under way. The poor boy stood upon a block of granite, waving his cap over his head. He tried a faint cheer, but it was scarcely audible; another, it too failed. He looked wildly around him on the strange, unknown faces, as if a scene of desolation had fallen on him, burst into a torrent of tears, and fled wildly from the spot. And thus I took my leave of Ireland.

At this period of my narrative I owe it to my reader – I owe it to myself – to apologise for the mention of incidents, places, and people that have no other bearing on my story than in the impression they made upon me while yet young. When I arrived in Ireland I knew scarcely anything of the world. My opportunities had shown me life only through the coloured gloss of certain fashionable prejudices; but of the real character, motives, and habitual modes of acting and thinking of others, still more of myself, I was in total ignorance. The rapidly succeeding incidents of Irish life – their interest, variety, and novelty – all attracted and excited me; and without ever stopping to reflect upon causes, I found myself becoming acquainted with facts. That the changeful pictures of existence so profusely scattered through the land should have made their impression upon me is natural enough; and because I have found it easier and pleasanter to tell my reader the machinery of this change in me than to embody that change itself, is the reason why I have presented before him tableaux of life under so many different circumstances, and when, frequently, they had no direct relation to the current of my own fate and the story of my own fortunes. It is enough of myself to say, that, though scarcely older in time, I had grown so in thought and feeling. If I felt, on the one hand, how little my high connections and the position in fashionable life which my family occupied availed me, I learned, on the other, to know that friends, and stanch ones, could be made at once, on the emergency of a moment, without the imposing ceremony of introduction and the diplomatic interchange of visits. And now to my story.

CHAPTER XLVII. LONDON

It was late when I arrived in London and drove up to my father’s house. The circumstances under which I had left Ireland weighed more heavily on me as I drew near home, and as I reflected over the questions I should be asked and the explanations I should be expected to afford; and I half dreaded lest my father should disapprove of my conduct before I had an opportunity of showing him how little I had been to blame throughout. The noise and din of the carriages, the oaths and exclamations of the coachmen, and the uproar of the streets turned my attention from these thoughts, and I asked what was the meaning of the crowd.

‘A great ball, sir, at Lady Charlotte Hinton’s.’

This was a surprise, and not of the pleasantest. I had wished that my first meeting with my father at least should have been alone and in quietness, where I could fairly have told him every important event of my late life, and explained wherefore I so ardently desired immediate employment on active service and a total change in that career which weighed so heavily on my spirits. The carriage drew up at the instant, and I found myself once more at home.

What a feeling does that simple word convey to his ears who knows the real blessing of a home – that shelter from the world, its jealousies and its envies, its turmoils and its disappointments; where, like some landlocked bay, the still, calm waters sleep in silence, while the storm and hurricane are roaring without; where glad faces and bright looks abound; where each happiness is reflected back from every heart and ten times multiplied, and every sorrow comes softened by consolation and words of comfort! And how little like this is the abode of the great leader of fashion; how many of the fairest gifts of humanity are turned back by the glare of a hundred wax-lights, and the glitter of gilded lackeys; and how few of the charities of life find entrance where the splendour and luxury of voluptuous habits have stifled natural feeling, and made even sympathy unfashionable!

It was not without difficulty I could persuade the servants, who were all strangers to me, that the travel-stained, dusty individual before them was the son of the celebrated and fashionable Lady Charlotte Hinton, and at length reach my room to dress.

It was near midnight. The rooms were filled as I entered the drawing-room. For a few moments I could not help feeling strongly the full influence of the splendid scene before me. The undoubted evidences of rank and wealth that meet the eye on every side in London life are very striking. The splendour of the women’s dress, their own beauty, a certain air of haughty bearing peculiarly English, a kind of conscious superiority to the rest of the world mark them; and in their easy, unembarrassed, steady glance you read the proud spirit of Albion’s ‘haughty dames.’ This alone was very different from the laughing spirit of Erin’s daughters, their espiègle looks and smiling lips. The men, too, were so dissimilar – their reserved and stately carriage, their low voices, and deferential but composed manner contrasting strongly with Irish volubility, quickness, and gesticulation. I stood unnoticed and alone for some time, quietly observant of the scene before me; and as I heard name after name announced, many of them the greatest and the highest in the land, there was no semblance of excitement as they entered, no looks of admiring wonder as they passed on and mingled with the crowd. This showed me I was in a mighty city, where the chief spirits that ruled the age moved daily before the public eye; and again I thought of Dublin, where some third-rate notoriety would have been hailed with almost acclamation, and lionised to the ‘top of his bent.’

I could remember but few of those around, and even they had either forgotten me altogether, or, having no recollection of my absence, saluted me with the easy nonchalance of one who is seen every evening of his life.

‘How are you, Hinton?’ said one, with something more of warmth than the rest. ‘I have not met you for some weeks past.’

‘No,’ said I, smiling. ‘I have been nearly a year from home.’

‘Ah, indeed! In Spain?’

‘No, in Ireland.’

‘In Ireland? How odd!’

‘Who has been in Ireland?’ said a low, plaintive voice. Turning round as she spoke, my lady-mother stood before me. ‘I should like to hear something – But, dear me, this must be John!’ and she held out her jewelled hand towards me.

‘My dear mother, I am so happy to see you look so very well – ’

‘No, no, my dear,’ said she, sighing, ‘don’t speak of that. When did you arrive? I beg your Royal Highness’s pardon, I hope you have not forgotten your protege, my son.’

I bowed reverently as a large, full, handsome man, with bald head and a most commanding expression, drew himself up before me.

‘No, madam, I have not forgotten him, I assure you!’ was the reply, as he returned my salute with marked coldness, and passed on.

Before Lady Charlotte could express her surprise at such an unlooked-for mark of displeasure, my father, who had just heard of my arrival, came up.

‘Jack, my dear fellow, I am glad to see you. How large you have grown, boy, and how brown!’

The warm welcome of his manly voice, the affectionate grasp of his strong hand, rallied me at once, and I cared little for the looks of king or kaiser at that moment. He drew his arm within mine, and led me through the rooms to a small boudoir, where a party at cards were the only occupants.

‘Here we shall be tolerably alone for a little while, at least,’ said he; ‘and now, my lad, tell me everything about you.*

In less than half an hour I ran over the principal events of my life in Ireland, omitting only those in which Miss Bellew bore a part. On this account my rupture with Lord de Vere was only imperfectly alluded to; and I could perceive that my father’s brow became contracted, and his look assumed a severer expression at this part of my narrative.

‘You have not been very explicit, Jack, about this business; and this it is which I am really uneasy about. I have never known you do a mean or a shabby thing; I will never suspect you of one. So, now, let me clearly understand the ground of this quarrel.’

There was a tone of command in his voice as he said this which decided me at once, and without further hesitation I resolved on laying everything before him. Still, I knew not how to begin; the mention of Louisa’s name alone staggered me, and for a second or two I stammered and looked confused.

Unlike his wonted manner, my father looked impatient, almost angry. At last, when seeing that my agitation only increased upon me, and that my difficulty grew each moment greater, he looked me sternly in the face, and with a voice full of meaning, said —

‘Tell me everything! I cannot bear to doubt you. Was this a play transaction?’

‘A play transaction! No, sir, nothing like it.’

‘Was there not a bet – some disputed wager – mixed up in it?’

‘Yes, there was a wager, sir; but – ’

Before I could conclude, my father pressed his hand against his eyes, and a faint sigh broke from him.

‘But hear me out, sir. The wager was none of mine.’ In a few moments I ran over the whole circumstances of De Vere’s bet, his conduct to Miss Bellew, and my own subsequent proceedings; but when I came to the mention of O’Grady’s name, he stopped me suddenly, and said —

‘Major O’Grady, however, did not approve of your conduct in the affair.’

‘O’Grady! He was my friend all through it!’

My father remained silent for a few minutes, and then in a low voice added —

‘There has been misrepresentation here.’

The words were not well spoken when Lord Dudley de Vere, with my cousin Lady Julia on his arm, came up. The easy nonchalance of his manner, the tone of quiet indifference he assumed, were well known to me; but I was in nowise prepared for the look of insufferable, patronising impertinence he had now put on.

My cousin, more beautiful far than ever I had seen her, took off my attention from him, however, and I turned with a feeling of half pride, half wonder, to pay my respects to her. Dressed in the most perfect taste of the fashion, her handsome features wore the assured and tranquil expression which conscious beauty gives. And here let no inexperienced observer rashly condemn the placid loveliness of the queen of beauty, the sanctioned belle of fashionable life. It is, indeed, very different from the artless loveliness of innocent girlhood; but its claim is not less incontestable. The features, like the faculties, can be cultivated; and when no unnatural effort suggests the expression, who shall say that the mind habitually exercised in society of the highest and most gifted circle will not impart a more elevated character to the look than when the unobtrusive career of everyday life flows on calm and unruffled, steeping the soul in a dreary monotony, and calling for no effort save of the commonest kind.

Julia’s was indeed splendid beauty. The lustrous brilliancy of her dark-blue eyes was shaded by long, black lashes; the contour of her cheeks was perfect; her full short lips were slightly, so slightly curled, you knew not if it were no more smile than sarcasm; the low tones of her voice were rich and musical, and her carriage and demeanour possessed all the graceful elegance which is only met with in the society of great cities. Her manner was most frank and cordial; she held out her hand to me at once, and looked really glad to see me. After a few brief words of recognition, she turned towards De Vere —

‘I shall ask you to excuse me, my lord, this set. It is so long since I have seen my cousin.’

He bowed negligently, muttered something carelessly about the next waltz, and with a familiar nod to me, lounged away. O’Grady’s caution about this man’s attentions to Julia at once came to my mind, and the easy tone of his manner towards her alarmed me; but I had no time for reflection, as she took my arm and sauntered down the room.

‘And so, mon cher cousin, you have been leading a very wild life of it – fighting duels, riding steeplechases, breaking your own bones and ladies’ hearts, in a manner exceedingly Irish?’ said Julia with a smile, into which not a particle of her habitual raillery entered.

‘From your letters I can learn, Julia, that a very strange account of my doings must have reached my friends here. Except from yourself, I have met with scarcely anything but cold looks since my arrival.’

‘Oh, never mind that; people will talk, you know. For my part, Jack, I never will believe you anything but what I have always known you. The heaviest charge I have heard against you is that of trifling with a poor girl’s affections; and as I know that the people who spread these rumours generally don’t know at which side either the trifling or the affection resides, why, I think little about it.’

‘And has this been said of me?’

‘To be sure it has, and ten times as much. As to your gambling sins, there is no end to their enormity. A certain Mr. Rooney, I think the name is, a noted play-man – ’

‘How absurd, Julia! Mr. Rooney never played in his life; nor have I, except in the casual way every one does in a drawing-room.’

‘N’importe– you are a lady-killer and a gambler. Now as to count number three – for being a jockey.’

‘My dear Julia, if you had seen my steeplechase you ‘d acquit me of that.’

‘Indeed, I did hear,’ said she roguishly, ‘that you acquitted yourself admirably; but still you won. And then we come to the great offence – your quarrelsome habits. We heard, it is true, that you behaved, as it is called, very honourably, etc; but really duelling is so detestable – ’

‘Come, come, fair cousin, let us talk of something besides my delinquencies. What do you think of my friend O’Grady?’

I said this suddenly, by way of reprisal; but to my utter discomfiture she replied with perfect calmness —

‘I rather was amused with him at first. He is very odd, very unlike other people; but Lady Charlotte took him up so, and we had so much of him here, I grew somewhat tired of him. He was, however, very fond of you; and you know that made up for much with us all.’

There was a tone of sweetness and almost of deep interest in these last few words that made my heart thrill, and unconsciously I pressed her arm closer to my side, and felt the touch returned. Just at the instant my father came forward accompanied by another, who I soon perceived was the royal duke that had received me so coldly a few minutes before. His frank, manly face was now all smiles, and his bright eye glanced from my fair cousin to myself with a quick, meaning expression.

‘Another time, General, will do quite as well, I say, Mr. Hinton, call on me to-morrow morning about ten, will you? I have something to say to you.’

I bowed deeply in reply, and he passed on.

‘And let me see you after breakfast,’ said Julia, in a half-whisper, as she turned towards De Vere, who now came forward to claim her for the waltz.

My father, too, mixed with the crowd, and I felt myself alone and a stranger in what should have been my home. A kind of cold thrill came over me as I thought how unlike was my welcome to what it would have been in Ireland; for although I felt that in my father’s manner towards me there was no want of affection or kindness, yet somehow I missed the exuberant warmth and ready cordiality I had latterly been used to, and soon turned away, sad and disappointed, to seek my own room.