“What an admirable actor John Kemble is, my Lord,” said Heffernan, with a quiet smile; “don't you think so?”
Lord Castlereagh nodded his assent: the transition was too abrupt to please him, and he appeared to suspect that it concealed some other object than that of changing the topic.
“Kemble,” continued Heffernan, while he sipped his wine carelessly,—” Kemble is, I suspect strongly, the greatest actor we have ever had on the English stage. Have you seen him in 'Macbeth'?”
“Several times, and always with renewed pleasure,” said the Secretary, gradually recovering from his reserve.
“What a force of passion he throws into the part! How terrible he makes the conflict between a great purpose and a weak nature! Do you remember his horror at the murderers who come to tell of Banquo's death? The sight of their bloody hands shocks him as though they were not the evidences of his own success.”
Lord Castlereagh's calm countenance became for a second crimson, and his lip trembled with struggling indignation; and then, as if subduing the temptation of anger, he broke into a low, easy laugh, and with an imitation at Kemble's manner, called out, “There 's blood upon thy face!”
“Talking of a bloody hand, my Lord,” said Heffernan, at once resuming his former easy jocularity, “reminds me of that Mr. Hickman, or Hickman O'Reilly, as the fashion is to call him: is he to have the baronetcy?”
“Not, certainly, if we can secure him without it.”
“And I think we ought. It should be quite sufficient remuneration for a man like him to vote with the Government; his father became a Protestant because it was the gentlemanly faith; and I don't see why the son should not choose his politics on the same principle. Have you ever asked him to dinner, my Lord?”
“Yes, and his father, too. I have had the three generations, but I rather fear the party did not go off well. I had not in those days, Heffernan, the benefit of your admirable counsels, and picked my company unwisely.”