Rodney Stone - Arthur Conan Doyle (best 7 inch ereader .TXT) 📗

pay HIS debts to the tune of nearly a million, whilst I can’t get a hundred thousand out of them. And look at all they’ve done for my brothers! York is Commander-in-Chief. Clarence is Admiral. What am I? Colonel of a damned dragoon regiment under the orders of my own younger brother. It’s my mother that’s at the bottom of it all. She always tried to hold me back. But what’s this you’ve brought, Tregellis, eh?”

My uncle put his hand on my sleeve and led me forward.

“This is my sister’s son, sir; Rodney Stone by name,” said he. “He is coming with me to London, and I thought it right to begin by presenting him to your Royal Highness.”

“Quite right! Quite right!” said the Prince, with a good-natured smile, patting me in a friendly way upon the shoulder. “Is your mother living?”

“Yes, sir,” said I.

“If you are a good son to her you will never go wrong. And, mark my words, Mr. Rodney Stone, you should honour the King, love your country, and uphold the glorious British Constitution.”

When I thought of the energy with which he had just been cursing the House of Commons, I could scarce keep from smiling, and I saw Sheridan put his hand up to his lips.

“You have only to do this, to show a regard for your word, and to keep out of debt in order to insure a happy and respected life. What is your father, Mr. Stone? Royal Navy! Well, it is a glorious service. I have had a touch of it myself. Did I ever tell you how we laid aboard the French sloop of war Minerve—hey, Tregellis?”

“No, sir,” said my uncle. Sheridan and Francis exchanged glances behind the Prince’s back.

“She was flying her tricolour out there within sight of my pavilion windows. Never saw such monstrous impudence in my life! It would take a man of less mettle than me to stand it. Out I went in my little cock-boat—you know my sixty-ton yawl, Charlie?—with two four-pounders on each side, and a six-pounder in the bows.”

“Well, sir! Well, sir! And what then, sir?” cried Francis, who appeared to be an irascible, rough-tongued man.

“You will permit me to tell the story in my own way, Sir Philip,” said the Prince, with dignity. “I was about to say that our metal was so light that I give you my word, gentlemen, that I carried my port broadside in one coat pocket, and my starboard in the other. Up we came to the big Frenchman, took her fire, and scraped the paint off her before we let drive. But it was no use. By George, gentlemen, our balls just stuck in her timbers like stones in a mud wall. She had her nettings up, but we scrambled aboard, and at it we went hammer and anvil. It was a sharp twenty minutes, but we beat her people down below, made the hatches fast on them, and towed her into Seaham. Surely you were with us, Sherry?”

“I was in London at the time,” said Sheridan, gravely.

“You can vouch for it, Francis!”

“I can vouch to having heard your Highness tell the story.”

“It was a rough little bit of cutlass and pistol work. But, for my own part, I like the rapier. It’s a gentleman’s weapon. You heard of my bout with the Chevalier d’Eon? I had him at my sword-point for forty minutes at Angelo’s. He was one of the best blades in Europe, but I was a little too supple in the wrist for him. ‘I thank God there was a button on your Highness’s foil,’ said he, when we had finished our breather. By the way, you’re a bit of a duellist yourself, Tregellis. How often have you been out?”

“I used to go when I needed exercise,” said my uncle, carelessly. “But I have taken to tennis now instead. A painful incident happened the last time that I was out, and it sickened me of it.”

“You killed your man—?”

“No, no, sir, it was worse than that. I had a coat that Weston has never equalled. To say that it fitted me is not to express it. It WAS me—like the hide on a horse. I’ve had sixty from him since, but he could never approach it. The sit of the collar brought tears into my eyes, sir, when first I saw it; and as to the waist—”

“But the duel, Tregellis!” cried the Prince.

“Well, sir, I wore it at the duel, like the thoughtless fool that I was. It was Major Hunter, of the Guards, with whom I had had a little tracasserie, because I hinted that he should not come into Brookes’s smelling of the stables. I fired first, and missed. He fired, and I shrieked in despair. ‘He’s hit! A surgeon! A surgeon!’ they cried. ‘A tailor! A tailor!’ said I, for there was a double hole through the tails of my masterpiece. No, it was past all repair. You may laugh, sir, but I’ll never see the like of it again.”

I had seated myself on a settee in the corner, upon the Prince’s invitation, and very glad I was to remain quiet and unnoticed, listening to the talk of these men. It was all in the same extravagant vein, garnished with many senseless oaths; but I observed this difference, that, whereas my uncle and Sheridan had something of humour in their exaggeration, Francis tended always to ill-nature, and the Prince to self-glorification. Finally, the conversation turned to music—I am not sure that my uncle did not artfully bring it there, and the Prince, hearing from him of my tastes, would have it that I should then and there sit down at the wonderful little piano, all inlaid with mother-of-pearl, which stood in the corner, and play him the accompaniment to his song. It was called, as I remember, “The Briton Conquers but to Save,” and he rolled it out in a very fair bass voice, the others joining in the chorus, and clapping vigorously when he finished.

“Bravo, Mr. Stone!” said he. “You have an excellent touch; and I know what I am talking about when I speak of music. Cramer, of the Opera, said only the other day that he had rather hand his baton to me than to any amateur in England. Halloa, it’s Charlie Fox, by all that’s wonderful!”

He had run forward with much warmth, and was shaking the hand of a singular-looking person who had just entered the room. The new-comer was a stout, square-built man, plainly and almost carelessly dressed, with an uncouth manner and a rolling gait. His age might have been something over fifty, and his swarthy, harshly-featured face was already deeply lined either by his years or by his excesses. I have never seen a countenance in which the angel and the devil were more obviously wedded. Above, was the high, broad forehead of the philosopher, with keen, humorous eyes looking out from under thick, strong brows. Below, was the heavy jowl of the sensualist curving in a broad crease over his cravat. That brow was the brow of the public Charles Fox, the thinker, the philanthropist, the man who rallied and led the Liberal party during the twenty most hazardous years of its existence. That jaw was the jaw of the private Charles Fox, the gambler, the libertine, the drunkard. Yet to his sins he never added the crowning one of hypocrisy. His vices were as open as his virtues. In some quaint freak of Nature, two spirits seemed to have been joined in one body, and the same frame to contain the best and the worst man of his age.

“I’ve run down from Chertsey, sir, just to shake you by the hand, and to make sure that the Tories have not carried you off.”

“Hang it, Charlie, you know that I sink or swim with my friends! A Whig I started, and a Whig I shall remain.”

I thought that I could read upon Fox’s dark face that he was by no means so confident about the Prince’s principles.

“Pitt has been at you, sir, I understand?”

“Yes, confound him! I hate the sight of that sharp-pointed snout of his, which he wants to be ever poking into my affairs. He and Addington have been boggling about the debts again. Why, look ye, Charlie, if Pitt held me in contempt he could not behave different.”

I gathered from the smile which flitted over Sheridan’s expressive face that this was exactly what Pitt did do. But straightway they all plunged into politics, varied by the drinking of sweet maraschino, which a footman brought round upon a salver. The King, the Queen, the Lords, and the Commons were each in succession cursed by the Prince, in spite of the excellent advice which he had given me about the British Constitution.

“Why, they allow me so little that I can’t look after my own people. There are a dozen annuities to old servants and the like, and it’s all I can do to scrape the money together to pay them. However, my”—he pulled himself up and coughed in a consequential way—“my financial agent has arranged for a loan, repayable upon the King’s death. This liqueur isn’t good for either of us, Charlie. We’re both getting monstrous stout.”

“I can’t get any exercise for the gout,” said Fox.

“I am blooded fifty ounces a month, but the more I take the more I make. You wouldn’t think, to look at us, Tregellis, that we could do what we have done. We’ve had some days and nights together, Charlie!”

Fox smiled and shook his head.

“You remember how we posted to Newmarket before the races. We took a public coach, Tregellis, clapped the postillions into the rumble, and jumped on to their places. Charlie rode the leader and I the wheeler. One fellow wouldn’t let us through his turnpike, and Charlie hopped off and had his coat off in a minute. The fellow thought he had to do with a fighting man, and soon cleared the way for us.”

“By the way, sir, speaking of fighting men, I give a supper to the Fancy at the Waggon and Horses on Friday next,” said my uncle. “If you should chance to be in town, they would think it a great honour if you should condescend to look in upon us.”

“I’ve not seen a fight since I saw Tom Tyne, the tailor, kill Earl fourteen years ago. I swore off then, and you know me as a man of my word, Tregellis. Of course, I’ve been at the ringside incog. many a time, but never as the Prince of Wales.”

“We should be vastly honoured if you would come incog. to our supper, sir.”

“Well, well, Sherry, make a note of it. We’ll be at Carlton House on Friday. The Prince can’t come, you know, Tregellis, but you might reserve a chair for the Earl of Chester.”

“Sir, we shall be proud to see the Earl of Chester there,” said my uncle.

“By the way, Tregellis,” said Fox, “there’s some rumour about your having a sporting bet with Sir Lothian Hume. What’s the truth of it?”

“Only a small matter of a couple of thous to a thou, he giving the odds. He has a fancy to this new Gloucester man, Crab Wilson, and I’m to find a man to beat him. Anything under twenty or over thirty-five, at or about thirteen stone.”

“You take Charlie Fox’s advice, then,” cried the Prince. “When it comes to handicapping a horse, playing a hand, matching a cock, or picking a man, he has the best judgment in England. Now, Charlie, whom have we upon the list who can beat Crab Wilson, of Gloucester?”

I was amazed at the interest and knowledge which all these great people showed