Castle Richmond by Anthony Trollope (best memoirs of all time txt) 📕

Hall; and there, at the privileged door between the lamps on his left hand, he saw busy men going in and out, some slow and dignified, others hot, hasty, and anxious, and he felt as though the regions to and from which they passed must be far out of his reach. Could he aspire to pass those august lamp-posts, he whose very name depended on what in truth might have been the early doings of a low scoundrel who was now skulking from the law?

And then he went on, and mounting by the public stairs and anterooms found his way to the lobby of the house. There he stood with his back to the ginger-beer stall, moody and melancholy, looking on as men in the crowd pushed forward to speak to members whom they knew; or, as it sometimes appeared, to members whom they did not know. There was somewhat of interest going on in the house, for the throng was thick, and ordinary men sometimes jostled themselves on into the middle of the hall—with impious steps; for on those centre stones none but legislators should presume to stand.

"Stand back, gentlemen, stand back; back a little, if you please, sir," said a very courteous but peremptory policeman, so moving the throng that Herbert, who had been behind, in no way anxious for a forward place, or for distinguishing nods from passing members, found himself suddenly in the front rank, in the immediate neighbourhood of a cluster of young senators who were cooling themselves in the lobby after the ardour of the debate.

"It was as pretty a thing as ever I saw in my life," said one, "and beautifully ridden." Surely it must have been the Spring Meeting and not the debate that they were discussing.

"I don't know much about that," said another, and the voice sounded on Herbert's ears as it might almost be the voice of a brother. "I know I lost the odds. But I'll have a bottle of soda-water. Hallo, Fitzgerald! Why—;" and then the young member stopped himself, for Herbert Fitzgerald's story was rife about London at this time.

"How do you do, Moulsey?" said Herbert, very glumly, for he did not at all like being recognized. This was Lord Moulsey, the eldest son of the Earl of Hampton Court, who was now member for the River Regions, and had been one of Herbert's most intimate friends at Oxford.

"I did not exactly expect to see you here," said Lord Moulsey, drawing him apart. "And upon my soul I was never so cut up in my life as when I heard all that. Is it true?"

"True! why no;—it was true, but I don't think it is. That is to say—upon my word I don't know. It's all unsettled—Good evening to you." And again nodding his head at his old friend in a very sombre manner, he skulked off and made his way out of Westminster Hall.

"Do you know who that was?" said Lord Moulsey going back to his ally. "That was young Fitzgerald, the poor fellow who has been done out of his title and all his property. You have heard about his mother, haven't you?"

"Was that young Fitzgerald?" said the other senator, apparently more interested in this subject than he had even been about the pretty riding. "I wish I'd looked at him. Poor fellow! How does he bear it?"

"Upon my word then, I never saw a fellow so changed in my life. He and I were like brothers, but he would hardly speak to me. Perhaps I ought to have written to him. But he says it's not settled."

"Oh, that's all gammon. It's settled enough. Why they've given up the place. I heard all about it the other day from Sullivan O'Leary. They are not even making any fight. Sullivan O'Leary says they are the greatest fools in the world."

"Upon my word I think young Fitzgerald was mad just now. His manner was so very odd."

"I shouldn't wonder. I know I should go mad if my mother turned out to be somebody else's wife." And then they both sauntered away.

Herbert was doubly angry with himself as he made his way down into the noble old hall,—angry that he had gone where there was a possibility of his being recognized, and angry also that he had behaved himself with so little presence of mind when he was recognized. He felt that he had been taken aback, that he had been beside himself, and unable to maintain his own dignity; he had run away from his old intimate friend because he had been unable to bear being looked on as the hero of a family tragedy. "He would go back to Ireland," he said to himself, "and he would never leave it again. Perhaps he might teach himself there to endure the eyes and voices of men around him. Nothing at any rate should induce him to come again to London." And so he went home to bed in a mood by no means so happy as might have been expected from the result of the day's doings. And yet he had been cheerful enough when he went to Mr. Die's chambers in the morning.

 

 

CHAPTER XLII. ANOTHER JOURNEY.
 

On the following day he did go back to Ireland, stopping a night in Dublin on the road, so that his mother might receive his letter, and that his cousin and Somers might receive those written by Mr. Prendergast. He spent one night in Dublin, and then went on, so that he might arrive at Castle Richmond after dark. In his present mood he dreaded to be seen returning, even by his own people about the place.

At Buttevant he was met by his own car and by Richard, as he had desired; but he found that he was utterly frustrated as to that method of seating himself in his vehicle which he had promised to himself. He was still glum and gloomy enough when the coach stopped, for he had been all alone, thinking over many things—thinking of his father's death and his mother's early life—of all that he had suffered and might yet have to suffer, and above all things dreading the consciousness that men were talking of him and staring at him. In this mood he was preparing to leave the coach when he found himself approaching near to that Buttevant stage; but he had more to go through at present than he expected.

"There's his honour—Hurrah! God bless his sweet face that's come among us agin this day! Hurrah for Sir Herbert, boys! hurrah! The rail ould Fitzgerald 'll be back agin among us, glory be to God and the Blessed Virgin! Hurrah for Sir Herbert!" and then there was a shout that seemed to be repeated all down the street of Buttevant.

But that was nothing to what was coming. Herbert, when he first heard this, retreated for a moment back into the coach. But there was little use in that. It was necessary that he should descend, and had he not done so he would have been dragged out. He put his foot on the steps, and then found himself seized in the arms of a man outside, and pressed and embraced as though he had been a baby.

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!" exclaimed a voice, the owner of which intended to send forth notes of joy; but so overcome was he by the intensity of his own feelings that he was in nowise able to moderate his voice either for joy or sorrow. "Ugh, ugh, ugh! Eh! Sir Herbert! but it's I that am proud to see yer honour this day,—wid yer ouwn name, wid yer ouwn name. Glory be to God; oh dear! oh dear! And I knew the Lord'd niver forgit us that way, and let the warld go intirely wrong like that. For av you weren't the masther, Sir Herbert, as you are, the Lord presarve you to us, divil a masther'd iver be able to hould a foot in Castle Richmond, and that's God's ouwn thruth."

"And that's thrue for you, Richard," said another, whom Herbert in the confusion could not recognize, though his voice was familiar to him. "'Deed and the boys had it all made out. But what matthers now Sir Herbert's back?"

"And God bless the day and the hour that he came to us!" And then leaving his master's arm and coat to which he had still stuck, he began to busy himself loudly about the travelling gear. "Coachman, where's Sir Herbert's portmantel? Yes; that's Sir Herbert's hat-box. 'Deed, an' I ought to know it well. And the black bag; yes, that'll be Sir Herbert's, to be sure," and so on.

Nor was this all. The name seemed to run like wildfire through all the Buttevantians there assembled; and no sound seemed to reach our hero's name but that of Sir Herbert, Sir Herbert. Everybody took hold of him, and kissed his hand, and pulled his skirts, and stroked his face. His hat was knocked off, and put on again amid thousands of blessings. It was nearly dark, and his eyes were dazed by the coach lanterns which were carried about, so that he could hardly see his friends; but the one sound which was dinned into his ears was that of Sir Herbert, Sir Herbert.

Had he thought about it when starting from Dublin early that morning he would have said that it would have killed him to have heard himself so greeted in the public street, but as it was he found that he got over it very easily. Before he was well seated on his car it may be questioned whether he was not so used to his name, that he would have been startled to hear himself designated as Mr. Fitzgerald. For half a minute he had been wretched, and had felt a disgust at poor Richard which he thought at the moment would be insuperable; but when he was on the car, and the poor fellow came round to tuck the apron in under his feet, he could not help giving him his hand, and fraternizing with him.

"And how is my mother, Richard?"

"'Deed then, Sir Herbert, me lady is surprising—very quiet-like; but her leddyship was always that, and as sweet to them as comes nigh her as flowers in May; but sure that's nathural to her leddyship."

"And, Richard—"

"Yes, Sir Herbert."

"Was Mr. Owen over at Castle Richmond since I left?"

"Sorrow a foot, Sir Herbert. Nor no one ain't heard on him, nor seen him. And I will say this on him—"

"Don't say anything against him, Richard."

"No, surely not, seeing he is yer honour's far-away cousin, Sir Herbert. But what I war going to say warn't agin Mr. Owen at all, at all. For they do say that cart-ropes wouldn't have dragged him to Castle Richmond; and that only yer honour has come back to yer own,—and why not?—there wouldn't have been any masther in Castle Richmond at all, at all. That's what they do say."

"There's no knowing how it will go yet, Richard."

"'Deed, an' I know how it 'll go very well, Sir Herbert, and so does Mr. Somers, God bless him! 'Twas only this morning he tould me. An', faix, it's he has the right to be glad."

"He is a very old friend."

"So is we all ould frinds, an' we're all glad—out of our skins wid gladness, Sir Herbert. 'Deed an' I thought the eend of the warld had come when I heerd it, for my head went round and round and round as I stood in the stable, and only for the fork I had a hould of, I'd have been down among the crathur's legs."

And then it struck Herbert that as they were going on he heard the footsteps of some one running after the car, always at an equal distance behind them. "Who's that running, Richard?"

"Sure an' that's just Larry Carson, yer honour's own boy, that minds yer honour's own nag, Sir Herbert. But, faix, I suppose ye'll be having a dozen of 'em now."

"Stop and take him up; you've room there."

"Room enough, Sir Herbert, an' yer honour's so good. Here, Larry, yer born fool, Sir Herbert says ye're to get up. He would come over, Sir Herbert, just to say he'd been the first to see yer honour."

"God—bless—yer honour—Sir Herbert," exclaimed the poor fellow, out of breath, as he took his seat. It was his voice that Sir Herbert had recognized among the crowd, angry enough at that moment. But in future days it was remembered in Larry Carson's favour, that he had come over to Castle Richmond to see his master, contented to run the whole road back to Castle Richmond behind the car. A better fate, however, was his, for he made one in the triumphal entry up the avenue.

When they got to the lodge it was quite