Part 16 (1/2)
My father sighed, but it was more in weariness than sorrow; and Rutledge said,--
”I came out to have a long chat with you, Walter, about various things; but I fear talking fatigues you.”
”It does fatigue me,--I'm not equal to it,” said my father, faintly.
”It's unlucky too,” said the other, half peevishly, ”one so seldom can catch you alone; and though MacNaghten is the best fellow in the world--”
”You must still say nothing against him, at least in my hearing,” added my father, as if to finish the sentence for him.
”I was only going to observe that in all that regards politics--”
”Pardon my interrupting you again,” broke in my father, ”but Dan never pretended to know anything about them; nor is it likely that a fellow that felt the turf a contamination will try to cultivate his morals by the intrigues of party.”
Rutledge affected to laugh at the sneering remark, and after a moment resumed,--
”Do you know, then, it was precisely about that very subject of politics I came out to talk with you to-day. The Duke told me of the generous way you expressed yourself to him during his visit here, and that although not abating anything of your attachment to what you feel a national cause, you never would tie yourself hand and foot to party, but stand free to use your influence at the dictates of your own honest conviction. Now, although there is no very important question at issue, there are a number of petty, irritating topics kept continually before Parliament by the Irish party, which, without the slightest pretension to utility, are used as means of hara.s.sing and annoying the Government.”
”I never heard of this before, Rutledge; but I know well, if the measures you speak of have Grattan and Flood and Ponsonby, and others of the same stamp, to support them, they are neither frivolous nor contemptible; and if they be not advocated by the leaders of the Irish party, you can afford to treat them with better temper.”
”Be that as it may, Walter, the good men of the party do not side with these fellows. But I see all this worries you, so let 's forget it!” And so, taking a turn through the room, he stopped opposite a racing print, and said: ”Poor old Gadfly, how she reminds me of old times! going along with her head low, and looking dead-beat when she was just coming to her work. That was the best mare ever you had, Carew!”
”And yet I lost heavily on her,” said my father, with a half sigh.
”Lost! Why the report goes that you gained above twenty thousand by her the last year she ran.”
”'Common report,' as Figaro says, 'is a common liar;' my losses were very nearly one-half more! It was a black year in my life. I began it badly in Ireland, and ended it worse abroad!”
The eager curiosity with which Rutledge listened, suddenly caught my father's attention, and he stopped short, saying: ”These are old stories now, and scarcely worth remembering. But here comes my wife; she 'll be glad to see you, and hear all the news of the capital, for she has been leading a stupid life of it these some weeks back.”
However uneasy my mother and MacNaghten might have been lest Rutledge should have alluded to the newspaper attacks, they were soon satisfied on that point, and the evening pa.s.sed over pleasantly in discussing the sayings and doings of the Dublin world.
It was late when Rutledge rose to take his leave, and my father had so far rallied by the excitement of conversation that he already felt himself restored to health; and his last words to his guest at parting were,--
”I'll call and see you, Rutledge, before the week is over.”
CHAPTER XII. SHOWING THAT ”WHAT IS CRADLED IN SHAME IS HEa.r.s.eD IN SORROW.”
Accustomed all his life to the flattery which surrounds a position of some eminence, my father was not a little piqued at the coldness of his friends during his illness. The inquiries after him were neither numerous nor hearty. Some had called once or twice to ask how he was; others had written brief excuses for their absence; and many contented themselves with hearing that it was a slight attack, which a few days would see the end of. Perhaps there were not many men in the kingdom less given to take umbrage at trifles than my father. Naturally disposed to take the bold and open line of action in every affair of life, he never suspected the possibility of a covert insult; and that any one could cherish ill-feeling to another, without a palpable avowal of hostility, was a thing above his conception. At any other time, therefore, this negligence, or indifference, or whatever it was, would not have occasioned him a moment's unpleasantness. He would have explained it to himself in a dozen ways, if it ever occurred to him to require explanation. Now, however, he was irritable from the effects of a malady peculiarly disposed to ruffle nervous susceptibility; while the chagrin of the late Viceregal visit, and its abrupt termination, was still over him. There are little eras in the lives of the best-tempered men, when everything is viewed in wrong and discordant colors, and when, by a perverse ingenuity, they seek out reasons for their own unhappiness in events and incidents that have no possible bearing on the question.
Having once persuaded himself that his friends were faithless to him, he set about accounting for it by every casuistry he could think of. I have lived too long abroad; I have mixed too much in the great world, thought he, to be able to conform to this small and narrow circle. I am not local enough for them. I cannot trade on the petty prejudices they love to cherish, and which they foolishly think means being national. My wider views of life are a rebuke to their pettiness; and it 's clear we do not suit each other. To preserve my popularity I should have lived at home, and married at home; never soared beyond a topic of Irish growth, and voted at the tail of those two or three great men who comprise within themselves all that we know of Irish independence. ”Even idolatry would be dear at that price,” cried he, aloud, at the end of his reflections,--bitter and unpleasant reveries in which he had been sunk as he travelled up to town some few days after the events related in the last chapter.
Matters of business with his law agent had called him to the capital, where he expected to be detained for a day or two. My mother had not accompanied him, her state of health at the time requiring rest and quietude. Alone, an invalid, and in a frame of, to him, unusual depression, he arrived at his hotel at nightfall. It was not the ”Drogheda Arms,” where he stopped habitually, but the ”Clare,” a smaller and less frequented house in the same street, and where he hoped to avoid meeting with his ordinary acquaintances.
Vexed with everything, even to the climate, to which he wrongfully ascribed the return of his malady, he was bent on making immediate arrangements to leave Ireland, and forever. His pecuniary affairs were, it is true, in a condition of great difficulty and embarra.s.sment; still, with every deduction, a very large income, or at least what for the Continent would be thought so, would remain; and with this he determined to go abroad and seek out some spot more congenial to his tastes and likings, and, as he also fancied, more favorable to his health.
The hotel was almost full, and my father with difficulty obtained a couple of rooms; and even for these he was obliged to await the departure of the occupant, which he was a.s.sured would take place immediately. In the mean while, he had ordered his supper in the coffee-room, where now he was seated, in one of those gloomy looking stalls which in those times were supposed to comprise all that could be desired of comfort and isolation.
It was, indeed, a new thing for him to find himself thus,--he, the rich, the flattered, the high-spirited, the centre of so much wors.h.i.+p and adulation, whose word was law upon the turf, and whose caprices gave the tone to fas.h.i.+on, the solitary occupant of a dimly lighted division in a public coffee-room, undistinguished and unknown. There was something in the abrupt indifference of the waiter that actually pleased him, ministering, as it did, to the self-tormentings of his reflections. All seemed to say, ”This is what you become when stripped of the accidents of wealth and fortune,--these are your real claims.” There was no deference to him there. He had asked for the newspaper, and been curtly informed ”that 'Falkner' was engaged by the gentleman in the next box;”