CHAPTER XIV. MR. LINTON REVEALS HIS DESIGNS.
With fame and fortune on the cast,
He never rose a winner,
And learned to know himself, at last,
“A miserable sinner.”
Bell.
It was about ten days or a fortnight after the great Kennyfeck dinner, when all the gossip about its pretension, dulness, and bad taste had died away, and the worthy guests so bored by the festivity began to wonder “when they would give another,” that a gentleman sat at breakfast in one of those large, dingy-looking, low-ceilinged apartments which are the choice abodes of the viceregal staff in the Castle of Dublin. The tawdry and time-discolored gildings, the worn and faded silk hangings, the portraits of bygone state councillors and commanders-in-chief, grievously riddled by rapier-points and pistol-shots, were not without an emblematic meaning of the past glories of that seat of Government, now so sadly fallen from its once high and palmy state.
Although still a young man, the present occupant of the chamber appeared middle-aged, so much had dissipation and excess done the work of time on his constitution. A jaded, wearied look, a sleepy, indolent expression of the eye, certain hard lines about the angles of the mouth, betokened one who played a high game with life, and rarely arose a winner. Although his whole appearance bespoke birth and blood rather than intellect or ability, there was enough in his high and squarely shaped head, his deep dark eye, and his firm, sharply cut mouth, to augur that incapacity could not be reckoned among the causes of any failures he incurred in his career. He was, in every respect, the beau idéal of that strange solecism in our social code, “the younger son.” His brother, the Duke of Derwent, had eighty thousand a year. He had exactly three hundred. His Grace owned three houses, which might well be called palaces, besides a grouse lodge in the Highlands, a yachting station at Cowes, and a villa at Hyères in France. My Lord was but too happy to be the possessor of the three cobwebbed chambers of a viceregal aide-decamp, and enjoy the pay of his troop without joining his regiment.
Yet these two men were reared exactly alike! As much habituated to every requirement and luxury of wealth as his elder brother, the younger suddenly discovered that, once beyond the shadow of his father's house, all his worldly resources were something more than what the cook, and something less than the valet, received. He had been taught one valuable lesson, however, which was, that as the State loves a rich aristocracy, it burdens itself with the maintenance of all those who might prove a drain on its resources, and that it is ever careful to provide for the Lord Georges and Lord Charleses of its noble houses. To this provision he believed he had a legal claim,—at all events, he knew it to be a right uncontested by those less highly born.
The system which excludes men from the career of commerce, in compensation opens the billiard-room, the whist-table, and the betting-ring; and many a high capacity has been exercised in such spheres as these, whose resources might have won honor and distinction in very different fields of enterprise. Whether Lord Charles Frobisher knew this, and felt that there was better in him, or whether his successes were below his hopes, certain is it, he was a depressed, dejected man, who lounged through life in a languid indolence, caring for nothing, not even himself.
There was some story of an unfortunate attachment, some love affair with a very beautiful but portionless cousin, who married a marquis, to which many ascribed the prevailing melancholy of his character; but they who remembered him as a schoolboy said he was always shy and reserved, and saw nothing strange in his bearing as a man. The breakfast-table, covered with all that could stimulate appetite, and yet withal untasted, was not a bad emblem of one who, with many a gift to win an upward way, yet lived on in all the tawdry insignificance of a court aide-de-camp. A very weak glass of claret and water, with a piece of dry toast, formed his meal; and even these stood on the corner of a writing-table, at which he sat, rising sometimes to look out of the window, or pace the room with slow, uncertain steps. Before him lay an unfinished letter, which, to judge from the slow progress it made, and the frequent interruptions to its course, seemed to occasion some difficulty in the composition; and yet the same epistle began “My dear Sydney,” and was addressed to his brother. Here it is:—
My dear Sydney,—I suppose, from not hearing from you some
weeks back, that my last, which I addressed to the
Clarendon, has never reached you, nor is it of any
consequence. It would be too late now to ask you about
Scott's horses. Cobham told us how you stood yourself, and
that was enough to guide the poor devils here with their
ponies and fifties. We all got a squeeze on the “mare.” I
hear you won seven thousand besides the stakes. I hope the
report may be true. Is Raucus in training for the Spring
Meeting, or not? If so, let me have some trifle on him in
your own book.
I perceive you voted on Brougham's amendment against our
people; I conclude you were right, but it will make them
very stubborn with me about the exchange. N———has
already remarked upon what he calls the “intolerable
independence of some noble lords.” I wish I knew the clew to
your proceeding: are you at liberty to give it? I did not
answer the question in your last letter.—Of course I am
tired of Ireland; but as the alternatives are a “compound
in Calcutta, or the Government House, Quebec,” I may as well
remain where I am. I don't know that a staff-officer, like
Madeira, improves by a sea-voyage.
You say nothing of Georgina, so that I hope her chest is
better, and that Nice may not be necessary. I believe, if
climate were needed, you would find Lisbon, or rather
Cintra, better than any part of Italy, and possessed of one
great advantage,—few of our rambling countrymen. N———
commended your haunch so highly, and took such pains to
record his praises, that I suspect he looks for a repetition
of the favor. If you are shooting bucks, perhaps you would
send him a quarter.
Two sentences, half finished and erased, here showed that the writer experienced a difficulty in continuing. Indeed, his flurried manner as he resumed the letter proved it. At last he went on:—
I hate asking favors, my dear Sydney, but there is one
which, if not positively repugnant to you to grant, will
much oblige me. There is a young millionnaire here, a Mr.
Cashel, wishes to be a member of your Yacht Club; and as I
have given a promise to make interest in his behalf with
you, it would be conferring a great obligation on me were I
to make the request successfully. So far as I can learn,
there is no reason against his admission, and, as regards
property, many reasons in his favor. If you can do this for
me, then, you will render me a considerable service.
Of course I do not intend to fix any acquaintanceship upon
you, nor in any other way, save the bean in the ballot-box,
and a civil word in proposing, inflict you with what Rigby
calls “Protective Duties.” I should have been spaced in
giving you this trouble but for Tom Linton, who, with his
accustomed good nature at other men's cost, suggested the
step to Cashel, and told him, besides, that my brother was
vice-admiral of the yacht fleet.
If Emily wants a match for the chestnut pony, I know of one
here perfect in every respect, and to be had very cheap. Let
me know about this soon, and also the club matter, as I have
promised to visit Cashel at his country-house; and in case
of refusal on your part, this would be unpleasant Thanks for
your invitation for Christmas, which I cannot accept of.
Hope and Eversham are both on leave, so that I must remain
here. N———continues to ask you here; but my advice is,
as it has ever been, not to come. The climate detestable,—
the houses dull and dirty; no shooting, nor any hunting,—
at least with such horses as you are accustomed to ride.
I am glad you took my counsel about the mortgage. There is
no property here worth seventeen years' purchase, in the
present aspect of politics. Love to Jane and the girls, and
believe me ever yours,
Charles Frobisher.
The task completed, he turned to the morning papers, which, with a mass of tradesmen's bills, notes, and cards of invitation, littered the table. He had not read long, when a deep-drawn yawn from the further end of the room aroused him, and Frobisher arose and walked towards a sofa, on which was stretched a man somewhat about the middle of life, but whose bright eye and fresh complexion showed little touch of time. His dress, slightly disordered, was a dinner costume, and rather inclined towards over-particularity; at least, the jewelled buttons of his vest and shirt evinced a taste for display that seemed not ill to consort with the easy effrontery of his look.
Taking his watch from his pocket, he held it to his ear, saying, “There is an accomplishment, Charley, I 've never been able to acquire,—to wind my watch at supper-time. What hour is it?”
“Two,” said the other, laconically.
“By Jove! how I must have slept Have you been to bed?”
“Of course. But, I 'd swear, with less success than you have had on that old sofa. I scarcely closed my eyes for ten minutes together.”
“That downy sleep only comes of a good conscience and a heart at ease with itself,” said the other. “You young gentlemen, who lead bad lives, know very little about the balmy repose of the tranquil mind.”
“Have you forgotten that you were to ride out with Lady Cecilia this morning?” said Frobisher, abruptly.
“Not a bit of it. I even dreamed we were cantering together along the sands, where I was amusing her ladyship with some choice morceaux of scandal from that set in society she professes to hold in such horror that she will not receive them at court, but for whose daily sayings and doings she has the keenest zest.”
“Foster is gone with her,” rejoined Lord Charles, “and I suspect she is just as well pleased. Before this he has told her everything about our late sitting, and the play, and the rest of it!”
“Of course he has; and she is dying to ask Mr. Softly, the young chaplain's advice, whether rooting us all out would not be a 'good work.'”
“Since when have you become so squeamish about card-playing, Mr. Linton?”
“I? Not in the least! I 'm only afraid that some of my friends may turn to be so when they hear of my successes. You know what happened to Wycherley when he got that knack of always turning up a king? Some one asked Buxton what was to be done about it. 'Is it certain?' said he. 'Perfectly certain; we have seen him do it a hundred times!' 'Then back him,' said old Ruxton; 'that's my advice to you.'” As he said this he drew a chair towards the table and proceeded to fill out a cup of chocolate. “Where do you get these anchovies, Charley? Burke has got some, but not half the size.”
“They are ordered for the household. Lawson can tell you all about 'em,” said the other, carelessly. “But, I say, what bets did you book on Laplander?”
“Took him against the field for seven hundred even.”
“A bad bet, then,—I call it a very bad bet.”
“So should I, if I did n't know Erebus is dead lame.”
“I've seen a horse run to win with a contracted heel before now,” said Lord Charles, with a most knowing look.
“So have I; but not on stony ground. No, no, you may depend upon it.”
“I don't want to depend upon it,” said the other, snappishly. “I shall not venture five pounds on the race. I remember once something of an implicit reliance on a piece of information of the kind.”
“Well! you know how that happened. I gave Hilyard's valet fifty pounds to get a peep at his master's betting-book, and the fellow told Hilyard, who immediately made up a book express, and let us all in for a smart sum. I am sure I was the heaviest loser in the affair.”
“So you ought, too. The contrivance was a very rascally one, and deserved its penalty.”
“The expression is not parliamentary, my Lord,” said Linton, with a slight flushing of the cheek, “and so I must call you to order.”
“Is Turcoman to run?” asked Lord Charles, negligently.
“No. I have persuaded Cashel to buy him, and he has taken him out of training.”
“Well, you really go very straightforward in your work, Linton. I must say you are as plucky a rogue as I 've ever heard of. Pray, now, how do you manage to keep up your influence over that youth? He always appears to me to be a rash-headed, wilful kind of fellow there would be no guiding.”
“Simply, by always keeping him in occupation. There are people like spavined horses, and one must always get them warm in their work, and they never show the blemish. Now, I have been eternally alongside of Cashel. One day buying horses,—another, pictures,—another time it was furniture, carriages, saddlery,—till we have filled that great old house of the ex-Chancellor's with an assemblage of objects, living and inanimate, it would take a month to chronicle.”
“Some kind friend may open his eye to all this one of these days, Master Linton; and then—”
“By that time,” said Linton, “his clairvoyance will be too late. Like many a man I 've known, he 'll be a capital judge of claret when his cellar has been emptied.”
“You were a large winner last night, Linton?”
“Twelve hundred and fifty. It might have been double the amount, but I 've taken a hint from Splasher's Physiology. He says nothing encourages a plethora like small bleedings. And you, Charley; what did you do?”
“Sixty pounds!” replied he, shortly. “I never venture out of my depth.”
“And you mean to infer that I do, my Lord,” said Linton, trying to smile, while evidently piqued by the remark. “Well, I plead guilty to the charge. I have a notion in my head that seven feet of water drowns a man just as effectually as seven hundred fathoms in the blue Atlantic. Now you know, as well as I, that neither of us could afford to lose sixty pounds thrice running; so let us not talk of venturing out of our depth, which, I take it, would be to paddle in very shallow water indeed.”
For an instant it seemed as if Lord Charles would have given an angry reply to this sally; but, as hastily checking the emotion, he walked to the window, and appeared to be lost in thought, while Linton continued his breakfast with all the zest of a hungry man.
“I'll give up play altogether,” said Frobisher. “That I've resolved upon. This will go abroad, rely upon it Some of the papers will get hold of it, and we shall see some startling paragraphs about 'Recent Discoveries in the Vice-regal Household,'—'Nefarious System of High Play at the Castle,' and so on. Now it 's all very well for you, who neither care who 's in or out, or hold any appointment here; but remember, there are others—myself for instance—who have no fancy for this kind of publicity.”
“In the first place,” interrupted Linton, “there is no danger; and in the second, if there were, it's right well remunerated. Your appointment here, with all its contingent advantages, of which, not to excite your blushes, we shall say nothing, is some three or four hundred a year. Now, a lucky evening and courage to back the luck—a quality, by the way, I never yet found in one Englishman in a hundred—is worth this twice or thrice told. Besides, remember, that this wild bull of the prairies has come of himself into our hunting-grounds. If we don't harpoon him, somebody else will. A beast of such fat on the haunches is not going to escape scot free; and lastly, by falling into good hands, he shall have the advantage of being cut up artistically, and not mauled and mangled by the rude fingers of the ignorant Faith, as for myself, I think I richly merit all the spoils I shall obtain!”
“As how, pray?” asked Lord Charles, languidly.
“In the first place, to speak of the present, I have ridden out with him, sat beside him on the box of his drag; he is seen with me in public, and has been heard to call me 'Linton' on the ride at Dycer's. My tradespeople have become his tradespeople. The tailor who reserved his master stroke of genius for me now shares his favors with him. In fact, Charley, we are one. Secondly, as regards the future, see from what perils I shall rescue him. He shall not marry Livy Kennyfeck; he shall not go into Parliament for the Liberal interest, nor for any interest, if I can help it; he shall not muddle away a fine fortune in fattening Durham bulls and Berkshire boars; neither shall he excel in rearing mangel-wurzel or beet-root. I 'll teach him to have a soul above subsoiling, and a spirit above green crops. He shall not fall into the hands of Downie Meek, and barter his birthright for a Whig baronetcy; neither shall he be the victim of right honorable artifices, and marry a Lady Juliana or Cecilia. In fine, I 'll secure him from public meetings and agricultural societies, twaddling dinners, horticultural breakfasts, the Irish Academy, and Mrs. White.”
“These are great deservings indeed,” said Lord Charles, affectedly.
“So they are,” said the other; “nor do I believe there is another man about town could pilot the channel but myself. It is only reasonable, then, if I save the craft, that I should claim the salvage. Now, the next point is, will you be one of the crew? I'll take you with pleasure, but there's no impressment All I ask is secrecy, whether you say yea or nay.”
“Let me hear what the service is to be like.”
“Well, we shall first of all cruise; confound metaphors,—let us talk plainly. Cashel has given me a carte blanche to fill his house with guests and good things. The company and the cuisine are both to be among my attributions, and I intend that we should do the thing right royally. Selection and exclusiveness are, of course, out of the question. There are so many cock-tails to run,—there can be no disqualification. Our savage friend, in fact, insists on asking everybody he sees, and we are lucky if we escape the infantry and the junior bar. Here's the list,—a goodly catalogue truly, and such a macédoine of incongruities has been rarely assembled, even at old Kennyfeck's dinner-table.”
“Why, I see few others than the people we met there t' other day.”
“Not many; but please to remember that even a country house has limits, and that some of the guests, at least, must have separate rooms. To be serious, Charley, I have misused the King's press damnably; we have such a party as few have ever witnessed. There are the Kilgoffs, the Whites, the Hamiltons, along with the Clan Kennyfeck, the Ridleys, and Mathew Hannigan, Esquire, of Bally-Hanni-gan, the new Member of Parliament for Dunrone, and the last convert to the soothing doctrines of Downie Meek.”
“Is Downie coming?” lisped the aide-de-camp.
“Ay, and his daughter, too. He wrote one of his velvety epistles, setting forth the prayer of his petition in favor of 'a little girl yet only in the nursery.'”
“Yes, yes; I know all that. Well, I 'm not sorry. I like Jemmy. She is a confounded deal better than her father, and is a capital weight to put on a young horse, and a very neat hand too. Who next? Not the Dean, I hope.”
“No; we divided on the Dean, and carried his exclusion by a large majority. Mrs. Kennyfeck was, I believe, alone in the lobby.”
“Glad of that! No one can expect an Irish visit in the country without rain, and he 's an awful fellow to be caged with, when out-o'-door work is impracticable.”
“Then there are the Latrobes and the Heatherbys; in fact, the whole set, with a Polish fellow, of course a Count,—Deuroominski; a literary tourist, brought by Mrs. White, called Howie; and a small little dark man one used to see two seasons ago, that sings the melodies and tells Irish legends,—I forget the name.”
“Promiscuous and varied, certainly; and what is the order of the course? Are there to be games, rural sports, fireworks, soaped pigs, and other like intellectualities?”
“Precisely; a kind of coming-of-age thing on a grand scale. I have engaged Somerton's chef; he has just left his place. Gunter sends over one of his people; and Dubos, of the Cadran Bleu, is to forward two hampers per week from Paris. Hicksley is also to provide all requisites for private theatricals. In fact, nearly everything has been attended to, save the horse department; I wish you 'd take that under your protectorate; we shall want any number of screws for saddle and harness, with drags, breaks, and machines of all kinds, to drive about in. Do, pray, be master of the horse.”
“Thanks; but I hate and detest trouble of all kinds. So far as selling you two of my own,—a wall-eye and a bone-spavin included,—I consent.”
“Agreed. Everything in your stable carries a sidesaddle; that I know, so name your figure.”
“A hundred; they 'd bring close on fifty at Dycer's any day; so I am not exorbitant, as these are election times.”
“There 's the ticket, then,” said Linton, taking out a check-book and filling up a leaf for the sum, which he tore out and presented to Lord Charles.
“What! has he really so far installed you as to—” “As to give blank checks,” said the other, holding up the book in evidence, where “Roland Cashel” was written on a vast number of pages. “I never knew the glorious sense of generosity before, Charley. I have heard a great deal about liberal sentiments, and all that kind o' thing; but now, for the first time, do I feel the real enjoyment of indulgence. To understand this liberty aright, however, a man must have a squeeze,—such a squeeze as I have experienced myself once or twice in life; and then, my boy, as the song says,”—here, with a bold rattling air, he sang to a popular melody,—
“When of luck you 've no card up,
And feel yourself 'hard up,'
And cannot imagine a method to win;
When 'friends' take to shy you,
And Jews to deny you,
How pleasant to dip in another man's tin!
“Not seeking or craving
Some pettyful saving,
You draw as you like upon Drummond or Gwynne,
And, while pleasure pursuing
You know there 's no ruing
The cost that comes out of another man's tin.
“Eh, Charley! that's the toast we 'Chevaliers Modernes' should drink before the health of the royal family.”
“The royal family!” sneered Frobisher; “I never observed that loyalty was a very remarkable trait in your character.”
“The greater injustice yours, then,” said Linton. “I conceived a very early attachment to monarchy, on learning the importance of the king at écarte.”
“I should have thought the knave had more of your sympathy,” said the other.
“Inasmuch as he follows the queen, I suppose,” said Linton, good-humoredly, laughing. “But come, don't look so grave, old fellow; had I been a political intrigant, and devoted these goodly talents of mine to small state rogueries in committees and adjourned debates, I'd have been somebody in these dull times of aspiring mediocrity; but as my ambitions have never soared beyond the possession of what may carry on the war of life, irrespective of its graver honors, you moralists—Heaven bless the mark!—rather regard me distrustfully. Now, let me tell you a secret, and it's one worth the knowing. There's nothing so fatal to a man's success in life as 'a little character;' a really great one may dispense with every kind of ability and acquirement. Get your name once up in our English public, and you may talk, preach, and write the most rank nonsense with a very long impunity; but a little character, like a small swimming bladder, only buoys you up long enough to reach deep water and be drowned. To journey the road of life with this is to 'carry weight' Take my advice,—I give it in all sincerity; you are as poor a man as myself; there are thousands of luxuries you can afford yourself, but this is too costly an indulgence for a small fortune. Your 'little character' is a kind of cankering conscience, not strong enough to keep you out of wickedness, but sufficiently active to make you miserable afterwards. An everlasting suggester of small scruples, it leaves a man no time for anything but petty expedients and devices, and you hang suspended all your life between desire and denial, without the comfort of the one or the credit of the other.”
“Is the sermon over?” said Lord Charles, rather affectedly than really feeling tired of the “tirade,” “or are you only rehearsing the homily before you preach it to Roland Cashel?”
“Quite wrong there, my Lord,” said Linton, with the same imperturbable temper. “Cashel is rich enough to afford himself any caprice, even a good name, if he like it You and I take ours as we do railway tickets, any number that's given us!” And with this speech, delivered in an air of perfect quietude, but still emphatically slow, he settled his hat on before the glass, arranged his whiskers, and walked away.
Lord Charles, for a second, seemed disposed to make an angry reply, but, correcting the impulse, he walked to the window in silence. “I have half a mind to spoil your game, my worthy friend,” muttered he, as the other passed across the court-yard; “one word to Cashel would do it To be sure it is exploding the mine with one's own hand to the fusee; that's to be thought of.” And, so saying, he lay down on the sofa to ruminate.