Kitabı oku: «Jack Hinton: The Guardsman», sayfa 8

Handsome as I before had thought her, there was a look of pride about her now that made her lovely to my eyes. As I continued to gaze after her, I did not perceive for some time that the guests were rapidly taking their leave, and already the rooms were greatly thinned. Every moment now, however, bore evidence of the fact: the unceasing roll of carriages to the door, the clank of the steps, the reiterated cry to drive on, followed by the call for the next carriage, all betokened departure. Now and then, too, some cloaked and hooded figure would appear at the door of the drawing-room, peering anxiously about for a daughter, a sister, or a friend who still lingered in the dance, averring it ‘was impossible to go, that she was engaged for another set.’ The disconsolate gestures, the impatient menaces of the shawled spectres – for, in truth, they seemed like creatures of another world come back to look upon the life they left – are of no avail: the seductions of the ‘major’ are stronger than the frowns of mamma, and though a rowing may come in the morning, she is resolved to have a reel at night.

An increased noise and tumult below-stairs at the same moment informed me that the supper-party were at length about to separate. I started up at once, wishing to see Miss Bellew again ere I took my leave, when O’Grady seized me by the arm and hurried me away.

‘Come along, Hinton! Not a moment to lose; the duke is going.’

‘Wait an instant,’ said I, ‘I wish to speak to – ’

‘Another time, my dear fellow; another time. The duke is delighted with the Rooneys, and we are going to have Paul knighted!’

With these words he dragged me along, dashing down the stairs like a madman. As we reached the door of the dining-room we found his grace, who, with one hand on Lord Dudley’s shoulder, was endeavouring to steady himself by the other.

‘I say, O’Grady, is that you? Very powerful Burgundy this – It ‘s not possible it can be morning!’

‘Yes, your grace – half-past seven o’clock.’

‘Indeed, upon my word, your friends are very charming people. What did you say about knighting some one? Oh, I remember: Mr. Rooney, wasn’t it? Of course, nothing could be better!’

‘Come, Hinton, have you got a sword?’ said O’Grady; ‘I ‘ve mislaid mine somehow. There, that ‘ll do. Let us try and find Paul now.’

Into the supper-room we rushed; but what a change was there! The brilliant tables, resplendent with gold plate, candelabras, and flowers, were now despoiled and dismantled. On the floor, among broken glasses, cracked decanters, pyramids of jelly, and pagodas of blancmange, lay scattered in every attitude the sleeping figures of the late guests. Mrs. Rooney alone maintained her position, seated in a large chair, her eyes closed, a smile of Elysian happiness playing upon her lips. Her right arm hung gracefully over the side of the chair, where lately his grace had kissed her hand at parting. Overcome, in all probability, by the more than human happiness of such a moment, she had sunk into slumber, and was murmuring in her dreams such short and broken phrases as the following: – ‘Ah, happy day! – What will Mrs. Tait say? – The lord mayor, indeed! – Oh, my poor head! I hope it won’t be turned. – Holy Agatha, pray for us! your grace, pray for us I – Isn’t he a beautiful man? Hasn’t he the darling white teeth?’

‘Where’s Paul?’ said O’Grady; ‘where’s Paul, Mrs. Rooney?’ as he jogged her rather rudely by the arm.

‘Ah, who cares for Paul?’ said she, still sleeping; ‘don’t be bothering me about the like of him.’

‘Egad! this is conjugal, at any rate,’ said Phil

‘I have him!’ cried I; ‘here he is!’ as I stumbled over a short, thick figure, who was propped up in a corner of the room. There he sat, his head sunk upon his bosom, his hands listlessly resting on the floor. A large jug stood beside him, in the concoction of whose contents he appeared to have spent the last moments of his waking state. We shook him, and called him by his name, but to no purpose; and, as we lifted up his head, we burst out a-laughing at the droll expression of his face; for he had fallen asleep in the act of squeezing a lemon in his teeth, the half of which not only remained there still, but imparted to his features the twisted and contorted expression that act suggests.

‘Are you coming, O’Grady?’ now cried the duke impatiently.

‘Yes, my lord,’ cried Phil, as he rushed towards the door. ‘This is too bad, Hinton: that confounded fellow could not possibly be moved. I’ll try and carry him.’ As he spoke, he hurried back towards the sleeping figure of Mr. Rooney, while I made towards the duke.

As Lord Dudley had gone to order up the carriages, his grace was standing alone at the foot of the stairs, leaning his back against the banisters, his eyes opening and shutting alternately as his head nodded every now and then forward, overcome by sleep and the wine he had drunk. Exactly in front of him, but crouching in the attitude of an Indian monster, sat Corny Delany. To keep himself from the cold, he had wrapped himself up in his master’s cloak, and the only part of his face perceptible was the little wrinkled forehead, and the malicious-looking fiery eyes beneath it, firmly fixed on the duke’s countenance.

‘Give me your sword,’ said his grace, turning to me, in a tone half sleeping, half commanding; ‘give me your sword, sir!’

Drawing it from the scabbard, I presented it respectfully.

‘Stand a little on one side, Hinton. Where is he? Ah! quite right. Kneel down, sir; kneel down, I say!’ These words, addressed to Corny, produced no other movement in him than a slight change in his attitude, to enable him to extend his expanded hand above his eyes, and take a clearer view of the duke.

‘Does he hear me, Hinton? Do you hear me, sir?’

‘Do you hear his grace?’ said I, endeavouring with a sharp kick of my foot to assist his perceptions.

‘To be sure I hear him,’ said Corny; ‘why wouldn’t I hear him?’

‘Kneel down, then,’ said I.

‘Devil a bit of me’ll kneel down. Don’t I know what he’s after well enough? Ach na bocklish! Sorrow else he ever does nor make fun of people.’

‘Kneel down, sir!’ said his grace, in an accent there was no refusing to obey. ‘What is your name?’

‘Oh, murther! Oh, heavenly Joseph!’ cried Corny, as I hurled him down upon his knees, ‘that I ‘d ever live to see the day!’

‘What is his d – d name?’ said the duke passionately.

‘Corny, your grace – Corny Delany.’

‘There, that’ll do,’ as with a hearty slap of the sword, not on his shoulder, but on his bullet head, he cried out, ‘Rise, Sir Corny Delany!’

‘Och, the devil a one of me will ever get up out of this same spot. Oh, wirra, wirra! how will I ever show myself again after this disgrace?’

Leaving Corny to his lamentations, the duke walked towards the door. Here above a hundred people were now assembled, their curiosity excited in no small degree by a picket of light dragoons, who occupied the middle of the street, and were lying upon the ground, or leaning on their saddles, in all the wearied attitudes of a night-watch. In fact, the duke had forgotten to dismiss his guard of honour, who had accompanied him to the theatre, and thus had spent the dark hours of the night keeping watch and ward over the proud dwelling of the Rooneys. A dark frown settled on the duke’s features as he perceived the mistake, and muttered between his teeth, ‘How they will talk of this in England!’ The next moment, bursting into a hearty fit of laughter, he stepped into the carriage, and amid a loud cheer from the mob, by whom he was recognised, drove rapidly away.

Seated beside his grace, I saw nothing more of O’Grady, whose efforts to ennoble the worthy attorney only exposed him to the risk of a black eye; for no sooner did Paul perceive that he was undergoing rough treatment than he immediately resisted, and gave open battle.

O’Grady accordingly left him, to seek his home on foot, followed by Corny, whose cries and heart-rending exclamations induced a considerable crowd of well-disposed citizens to accompany them to the Castle gate. And thus ended the great Rooney ball.

CHAPTER XI. A NEGOTIATION

From what I have already stated, it may be inferred that my acquaintance with the Rooneys was begun under favourable auspices. Indeed, from the evening of the ball the house was open to me at all hours; and, as the hour of luncheon was known to every lounger about town, by dropping in about three o’clock one was sure to hear all the chit-chat and gossip of the day. All the dinners and duels of the capital, all its rows and runaway matches, were there discussed, while future parties of pleasure were planned and decided on, the Rooney equipages, horses, servants, and cellar being looked upon as common property, the appropriation of which was to be determined on by a vote of the majority.

At all these domestic parliaments O’Grady played a prominent part. He was the speaker and the whipper-in; he led for both the government and the opposition; in fact, since the ever-memorable visit of the viceroy his power in the house was absolute. How completely they obeyed, and how implicitly they followed him, may be guessed, when I say that he even persuaded Mrs. Rooney herself not only to abstain from all triumph on the subject of their illustrious guest, but actually to maintain a kind of diplomatic silence on the subject; so that many simple-minded people began to suspect his grace had never been there at all, and that poor Mrs. Rooney, having detected the imposition, prudently held her tongue and said nothing about the matter. As this influence might strike my reader as somewhat difficult in its exercise, and also as it presents a fair specimen of my friend’s ingenuity, I cannot forbear mentioning the secret of its success.

When the duke awoke late in the afternoon that followed Mrs. Rooney’s ball, his first impression was one bordering on irritation with O’Grady. His quick-sightedness enabled him at once to see how completely he had fallen into the trap of his worthy aide-de-camp; and although he had confessedly spent a very pleasant evening, and laughed a great deal, now that all was over, he would have preferred if the whole affair could be quietly consigned to oblivion, or only remembered as a good joke for after dinner. The scandal and the éclat it must cause in the capital annoyed him considerably; and he knew that before a day passed over, the incident of the guard of honour lying in bivouac around their horses would furnish matter for every caricature-shop in Dublin. Ordering O’Grady to his presence, and with a severity of manner in a great degree assumed, he directed him to remedy, as far as might be, the consequences of this blunder, and either contrive to give a totally different version of the occurrence, or else by originating some new subject of scandal to eclipse the memory of this unfortunate evening.

O’Grady promised and pledged himself to everything; vowed that he would give such a turn to the affair that nobody would ever believe a word of the story; assured the duke (God forgive him!) that however ridiculous the Rooneys at night, by day they were models of discretion; and at length took his leave to put his scheme into execution, heartily glad to discover that his grace had forgotten all about Corny and the knighthood, the recollection of which might have been attended with very grave results to himself.

So much for his interview with the duke. Now for his diplomacy with Mrs. Rooney!

It was about five o’clock on the following day when O’Grady cantered up to the door. Giving his horse to his groom, he dashed boldly upstairs, passed through the ante-chamber and the drawing-room, and tapping gently at the door of a little boudoir, opened it at the same moment and presented himself before Mrs. Paul.

That amiable lady, reclining à la Princess OToole, was gracefully disposed on a small sofa, regarding with fixed attention a little plaster bust of his grace, which, with considerable taste and propriety, was dressed in a blue coat and bright buttons, with a star on the breast, a bit of sky-blue satin representing the ribbon of the Bath. Nothing was forgotten; and a faint attempt was even made to represent the colouring of the viceregal nose, which I am bound to confess was not flattered in the model.

‘Ah, Captain, is it you?’ said Mrs. Paul, with a kind of languishing condescension very different from her ordinary reception of a Castle aide-de-camp. ‘How is his grace this evening?’

Drawing his chair beside her, Phil proceeded to reply to her questions and assure her that whatever her admiration for the duke, the feeling was perfectly mutual. ‘Egad,’ said he, ‘the thing may turn out very ill for me when the duchess finds out that it was all my doing. Speaking in confidence to you, my dear Mrs. Paul, I may confess that although without exception she is the most kind, amiable, excellent soul breathing, yet she has one fault. We all have our faults.’

‘Ah!’ sighed Mrs. Rooney, as she threw down her eyes as though to say, ‘That’s very true, but you will not catch me telling what mine is.’

‘As I was observing, there never was a more estimable being save in this one respect – You guess it? I see you do.’

‘Ah, the creature, she drinks!’

The captain found it not a little difficult to repress a burst of laughter at Mrs. Rooney’s suggestion. He did so, however, and proceeded: ‘No, my dear madam, you mistake. Jealousy is her failing; and when I tell you this, and when I add, that unhappily for her the events of last night may only afford but too much cause, you will comprehend the embarrassment of my present position.’

Having said this, he walked up and down the room for several minutes as if sunk in meditation, while he left Mrs. Rooney to ruminate over an announcement, the bare possibility of which was ecstasy itself. To be the rival of a peeress; that peeress a duchess; that duchess the lady of the viceroy! These were high thoughts indeed. What would Mrs. Riley say now? How would the Maloneys look? Wouldn’t Father Glynn be proud to meet her at the door of Liffey Street Chapel in full pontificals as she drove up, who knows but with a guard of honour beside her? Running on in this way, she had actually got so far as to be discussing with herself what was to be done with Paul – not that her allegiance was shaken towards that excellent individual – not a single unworthy thought crossed her mind – far from it. Poor Mrs. Rooney was purity herself; she merely dreamed of those outward manifestations of the viceroy’s preference, which were to procure for her consideration in the world, a position in society, and those attentions from the hands of the great and the titled, which she esteemed at higher price than the real gifts of health, wealth, and beauty, so bounteously bestowed upon her by Providence.

She had come then to that difficult point in her mind as to what was to be done with Paul; what peculiar course of training could he be submitted to, to make him more presentable in the world; how were they to break him off whisky-and-water and small jokes? Ah,’ she was thinking, ‘it’s very hard to make a real gentleman out of such materials as grog and drab gaiters,’ when suddenly O’Grady, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, and then flourishing it theatrically in the air, exclaimed —

‘Yes, Mrs. Rooney, everything depends on you. His grace’s visit – I have just been with him talking the whole thing over – must be kept a profound secret. If it ever reach the ears of the duchess we are ruined and undone.’

Here was a total overthrow to all Mrs. Paul’s speculations; here was a beautiful castle uprooted from its very foundation. All her triumph, all her vaunted superiority over her city acquaintances was vanishing like a mirage before her! What was the use of his coming after all? What was the good of it, if not to be spoken of, if not talked over at tea, written of in notes, discussed at dinner, and displayed in the morning papers? Already was her brow contracted, and a slight flush of her cheek showed the wily captain that resistance was in preparation.

‘I know, my dear Mrs. Paul, how gratifying it would be for even the highest of the land to speak of his grace’s condescension in such terms as you might speak; but then, after all, how very fleeting such a triumph! Many would shrug their shoulders, and not believe the story. Some of those who believed would endeavour to account for it as a joke: one of those odd wild fancies the duke is ever so fond of’ – here she reddened deeply. ‘In fact, the malevolence and the envy of the world will give a thousand turns to the circumstance. Besides that, after all, they would seem to have some reason on their side; for the publicity of the affair must for ever prevent a repetition of the visit; whereas, on the other side, by a little discretion, by guarding our own secret’ – here Phil looked knowingly in her eyes, as though to say they had one – ‘not only will the duke be delighted to continue his intimacy, but from the absence of all mention of the matter, all display on the subject, the world will be ten times more disposed to give credence to the fact than if it were paragraphed in every newspaper in the kingdom.’

This was hitting the nail on the head with a vengeance. Here was a picture, here a vision of happiness! Only to think of the duke dropping in, as a body might say, to take his bit of dinner, or his dish of tea in the evening, just in a quiet, homely, family way! She thought she saw him sitting with his feet on the fender, talking about the king and the queen, and the rest of the royal family, just as he would of herself and Paul; and her eyes involuntarily turned towards the little bust, and two round full tears of pure joy trickled slowly down her cheeks.

Yielding at length to these and similar arguments, Mrs. Rooney gave in her adhesion, and a treaty was arranged and agreed upon between the high contracting parties, which ran somewhat to this effect: —

In the first place, for the enjoyment of certain advantages to be hereafter more fully set forth, the lady was bound to maintain in all large companies, balls, dinners, drums, and déjeuners, a rigid silence regarding the duke’s visit to her house, never speaking of, nor alluding to it, in any manner whatever, and, in fact, conducting herself in all respects as if such a thing had never taken place.

Secondly, she was forbidden from making any direct inquiries in public respecting the health of the duke or the duchess, or exercising any overt act of personal interest in these exalted individuals.

Thirdly, so long as Mrs. Rooney strictly maintained the terms of the covenant, nothing in the foregoing was to preclude her from certain other privileges – namely, blushing deeply when the duke’s name was mentioned, throwing down her eyes, gently clasping her hands, and even occasionally proceeding to a sigh; neither was she interdicted from regarding any portion of her domicile as particularly sacred in consequence of its viceregal associations. A certain arm-chair might be selected for peculiar honours, and preserved inviolate, etc.

And lastly, nevertheless, notwithstanding that in all large assemblies Mrs. Rooney was to conduct herself with the reserve and restrictions aforesaid, yet in small réunions de famille– this O’Grady purposely inserted in French, for, as Mrs. Paul could not confess her ignorance of that language, the interpretation must rest with himself – she was to enjoy a perfect liberty of detailing his grace’s advent, entering into all its details, discussing, explaining, expatiating, inquiring with a most minute particularity concerning his health and habits, and, in a word, conducting herself in all respects, to use her own expressive phrase, ‘as if they were thick since they were babies.’

Armed with this precious document, formally signed and sealed by both parties, O’Grady took his leave of Mrs. Rooney – not, indeed, in his usual free-and-easy manner, but with the respectful and decorous reserve of one addressing a favourite near the throne. Nothing could be more perfect than Phil’s profound obeisance, except perhaps the queenly demeanour of Mrs. Rooney herself; for, with the ready tact of a woman, she caught up in a moment the altered phase of her position, and in the reflective light of O’Grady’s manner she learned to appreciate her own brilliancy.

‘From this day forward,’ muttered O’Grady, as he closed the door behind him and hurried downstairs – ‘from this day forward she ‘ll be greater than ever. Heaven help the lady mayoress that ventures to shake hands with her, and the attorney’s wife will be a bold woman that asks her to a tea-party henceforth!’

With these words he threw himself upon his horse and cantered off towards the park to inform the duke that all was happily concluded, and amuse him with a sight of the great Rooney treaty, which he well knew would throw the viceroy into convulsions of laughter.