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.