Rodney Stone, Arthur Conan Doyle [e reader comics .txt] 📗

all showing the utmost deference to my uncle, and for his sake an easy tolerance of me. The talk was always such as I had already heard at the Pavilion: talk of politics, talk of the King’s health, talk of the Prince’s extravagance, of the expected renewal of war, of horse-racing, and of the ring. I saw, too, that eccentricity was, as my uncle had told me, the fashion; and if the folk upon the Continent look upon us even to this day as being a nation of lunatics, it is no doubt a tradition handed down from the time when the only travellers whom they were likely to see were drawn from the class which I was now meeting.

It was an age of heroism and of folly. On the one hand soldiers, sailors, and statesmen of the quality of Pitt, Nelson, and afterwards Wellington, had been forced to the front by the imminent menace of Buonaparte. We were great in arms, and were soon also to be great in literature, for Scott and Byron were in their day the strongest forces in Europe. On the other hand, a touch of madness, real or assumed, was a passport through doors which were closed to wisdom and to virtue. The man who could enter a drawing-room walking upon his hands, the man who had filed his teeth that he might whistle like a coachman, the man who always spoke his thoughts aloud and so kept his guests in a quiver of apprehension, these were the people who found it easy to come to the front in London society. Nor could the heroism and the folly be kept apart, for there were few who could quite escape the contagion of the times. In an age when the Premier was a heavy drinker, the Leader of the Opposition a libertine, and the Prince of Wales a combination of the two, it was hard to know where to look for a man whose private and public characters were equally lofty. At the same time, with all its faults it was a STRONG age, and you will be fortunate if in your time the country produces five such names as Pitt, Fox, Scott, Nelson, and Wellington.

It was in Watier’s that night, seated by my uncle on one of the red velvet settees at the side of the room, that I had pointed out to me some of those singular characters whose fame and eccentricities are even now not wholly forgotten in the world. The long, many-pillared room, with its mirrors and chandeliers, was crowded with full-blooded, loud-voiced men-about-town, all in the same dark evening dress with white silk stockings, cambric shirt-fronts, and little, flat chapeau-bras under their arms.

“The acid-faced old gentleman with the thin legs is the Marquis of Queensberry,” said my uncle. “His chaise was driven nineteen miles in an hour in a match against the Count Taafe, and he sent a message fifty miles in thirty minutes by throwing it from hand to hand in a cricket-ball. The man he is talking to is Sir Charles Bunbury, of the Jockey Club, who had the Prince warned off the Heath at Newmarket on account of the in-and-out riding of Sam Chifney, his jockey. There’s Captain Barclay going up to them now. He knows more about training than any man alive, and he has walked ninety miles in twenty-one hours. You have only to look at his calves to see that Nature built him for it. There’s another walker there, the man with a flowered vest standing near the fireplace. That is Buck Whalley, who walked to Jerusalem in a long blue coat, top-boots, and buckskins.”

“Why did he do that, sir?” I asked, in astonishment.

My uncle shrugged his shoulders.

“It was his humour,” said he. “He walked into society through it, and that was better worth reaching than Jerusalem. There’s Lord Petersham, the man with the beaky nose. He always rises at six in the evening, and he has laid down the finest cellar of snuff in Europe. It was he who ordered his valet to put half a dozen of sherry by his bed and call him the day after to-morrow. He’s talking to Lord Panmure, who can take his six bottles of claret and argue with a bishop after it. The lean man with the weak knees is General Scott who lives upon toast and water and has won 200,000 pounds at whist. He is talking to young Lord Blandford who gave 1800 pounds for a Boccaccio the other day. Evening, Dudley!”

“Evening, Tregellis!” An elderly, vacant-looking man had stopped before us and was looking me up and down.

“Some young cub Charlie Tregellis has caught in the country,” he murmured. “He doesn’t look as if he would be much credit to him. Been out of town, Tregellis?”

“For a few days.”

“Hem!” said the man, transferring his sleepy gaze to my uncle. “He’s looking pretty bad. He’ll be going into the country feet foremost some of these days if he doesn’t pull up!” He nodded, and passed on.

“You mustn’t look so mortified, nephew,” said my uncle, smiling. “That’s old Lord Dudley, and he has a trick of thinking aloud. People used to be offended, but they take no notice of him now. It was only last week, when he was dining at Lord Elgin’s, that he apologized to the company for the shocking bad cooking. He thought he was at his own table, you see. It gives him a place of his own in society. That’s Lord Harewood he has fastened on to now. Harewood’s peculiarity is to mimic the Prince in everything. One day the Prince hid his queue behind the collar of his coat, so Harewood cut his off, thinking that they were going out of fashion. Here’s Lumley, the ugly man. ‘L’homme laid’ they called him in Paris. The other one is Lord Foley—they call him No. 11, on account of his thin legs.”

“There is Mr. Brummell, sir,” said I.

“Yes, he’ll come to us presently. That young man has certainly a future before him. Do you observe the way in which he looks round the room from under his drooping eyelids, as though it were a condescension that he should have entered it? Small conceits are intolerable, but when they are pushed to the uttermost they become respectable. How do, George?”

“Have you heard about Vereker Merton?” asked Brummell, strolling up with one or two other exquisites at his heels. “He has run away with his father’s woman-cook, and actually married her.”

“What did Lord Merton do?”

“He congratulated him warmly, and confessed that he had always underrated his intelligence. He is to live with the young couple, and make a handsome allowance on condition that the bride sticks to her old duties. By the way, there was a rumour that you were about to marry, Tregellis.”

“I think not,” answered my uncle. “It would be a mistake to overwhelm one by attentions which are a pleasure to many.”

“My view, exactly, and very neatly expressed,” cried Brummell. “Is it fair to break a dozen hearts in order to intoxicate one with rapture? I’m off to the Continent next week.”

“Bailiffs?” asked one of his companions.

“Too bad, Pierrepoint. No, no; it is pleasure and instruction combined. Besides, it is necessary to go to Paris for your little things, and if there is a chance of the war breaking out again, it would be well to lay in a supply.”

“Quite right,” said my uncle, who seemed to have made up his mind to outdo Brummell in extravagance. “I used to get my sulphur-coloured gloves from the Palais Royal. When the war broke out in ‘93 I was cut off from them for nine years. Had it not been for a lugger which I specially hired to smuggle them, I might have been reduced to English tan.”

“The English are excellent at a flat-iron or a kitchen poker, but anything more delicate is beyond them.”

“Our tailors are good,” cried my uncle, “but our stuffs lack taste and variety. The war has made us more rococo than ever. It has cut us off from travel, and there is nothing to match travel for expanding the mind. Last year, for example, I came upon some new waistcoating in the Square of San Marco, at Venice. It was yellow, with the prettiest little twill of pink running through it. How could I have seen it had I not travelled? I brought it back with me, and for a time it was all the rage.”

“The Prince took it up.”

“Yes, he usually follows my lead. We dressed so alike last year that we were frequently mistaken for each other. It tells against me, but so it was. He often complains that things do not look as well upon him as upon me, but how can I make the obvious reply? By the way, George, I did not see you at the Marchioness of Dover’s ball.”

“Yes, I was there, and lingered for a quarter of an hour or so. I am surprised that you did not see me. I did not go past the doorway, however, for undue preference gives rise to jealousy.”

“I went early,” said my uncle, “for I had heard that there were to be some tolerable debutantes. It always pleases me vastly when I am able to pass a compliment to any of them. It has happened, but not often, for I keep to my own standard.”

So they talked, these singular men, and I, looking from one to the other, could not imagine how they could help bursting out a-laughing in each other’s faces. But, on the contrary, their conversation was very grave, and filled out with many little bows, and opening and shutting of snuff-boxes, and flickings of laced handkerchiefs. Quite a crowd had gathered silently around, and I could see that the talk had been regarded as a contest between two men who were looked upon as rival arbiters of fashion. It was finished by the Marquis of Queensberry passing his arm through Brummell’s and leading him off, while my uncle threw out his laced cambric shirt-front and shot his ruffles as if he were well satisfied with his share in the encounter. It is seven-and-forty years since I looked upon that circle of dandies, and where, now, are their dainty little hats, their wonderful waistcoats, and their boots, in which one could arrange one’s cravat? They lived strange lives, these men, and they died strange deaths—some by their own hands, some as beggars, some in a debtor’s gaol, some, like the most brilliant of them all, in a madhouse in a foreign land.

“There is the card-room, Rodney,” said my uncle, as we passed an open door on our way out. Glancing in, I saw a line of little green baize tables with small groups of men sitting round, while at one side was a longer one, from which there came a continuous murmur of voices. “You may lose what you like in there, save only your nerve or your temper,” my uncle continued. “Ah, Sir Lothian, I trust that the luck was with you?”

A tall, thin man, with a hard, austere face, had stepped out of the open doorway. His heavily thatched eyebrows covered quick, furtive grey eyes, and his gaunt features were hollowed at the cheek and temple like water-grooved flint. He was dressed entirely in black, and I noticed that his shoulders swayed a little as if he had been drinking.

“Lost like the deuce,” he snapped.

“Dice?”

“No, whist.”

“You couldn’t get very hard hit over that.”

“Couldn’t you?” he snarled. “Play a hundred a trick and a thousand on the rub, losing steadily for five hours, and see what you think of it.”

My uncle was evidently struck by the haggard look upon the other’s face.

“I hope it’s