Gerald Fitzgerald: The Chevalier Part 2

said MacNiel sternly, as he threw himself down into a seat. Who ever saw a morning break with brighter hopes; and see already, scarcely an hour past the noon, and they are all gone--wafted to the winds.'

'No, no, MacNiel,' said O'Sullivan gravely; 'you are wrong, believe me.

These b.u.t.terflies knew well that it was only a gleam of suns.h.i.+ne, not a summer. The hopes of the Stuarts are gone for ever.'

'Why are you here, then, if you think so?' cried the other impetuously.

'For that very reason, sir. I feel, as you and all these gentlemen here do, that fidelity is a contract made for life.'

'They were the luckiest that closed that account first,' muttered one of the lairds, half aloud. 'By my saul, Culloden wasn't colder lying than the Campagna.'

'Come along, we may as well follow the rest,' said MacNiel, rising.

'Will you dine with us, O'Sullivan? Mac-Allister and Brane are coming.'

'No, MacNiel. I have made this anniversary a day of fasting for many a year back. I took a vow never to taste meat or wine on this festival, till I should do so beneath the king's roof, in his own land.'

'Ye 're like to keep a black Lent o' it, then,' muttered the old laird, with a dry laugh, and shuffled along after his chieftain, as he led the way toward the door.

O'Sullivan waited till they had gone; and then, with a sad glance around him, as if like a leave-taking, left the palace and turned homeward.

CHAPTER III. THE ALTIERI PALACE

In a large and splendid chamber, whose only light was a small lamp within a globe of alabaster, Charles Edward lay, full-dressed, upon his bed. His eyes were closed, but his features did not betoken sleep: on the contrary, his flushed cheek told of intemperance, and the table, covered with wine-decanters and gla.s.ses, beside him, confirmed the impression. His breathing was thick and laboured, and occasionally broken by a dry, short cough. There was, indeed, little to remind one of the handsome chevalier in the bloated face, the heavy, hanging jaws, and the ungainly figure of him who, looking far older than his real age, now lay there. Though dressed with peculiar care, and covered with the insignia of several orders, his embroidered vest was unb.u.t.toned, and showed the rich lace of his jabot, stained and discoloured by wine. A splendidly ornamented sword lay beside him, on which one hand rested, the fingers tremulously touching the richly embossed hilt. Near the foot of the bed, on a low, well-cus.h.i.+oned chair, sat another figure, whose easy air of jocularity and good-humoured, sensual countenance presented a strong contrast to the careworn expression of the Prince's face.

Dressed in a long loose robe of white cloth, which he wore not ungracefully, his well-rounded legs crossed negligently in front of him, and his hands clasped with an air of quiet and happy composure, the man was a perfect picture of a jolly friar, well-to-do and contented. This was George Kelly, the very type of happy, self-satisfied sensuality. If a phrenologist would have augured favourably from the n.o.ble development of forehead and temples, the ma.s.sive back-head and widely spreading occiput would have quickly shown that nature had alloyed every good gift with a counterpoise of low tastes and bad pa.s.sions, more than enough to destroy the balance of character.

'Who 's there? Who 's in waiting?' muttered the Prince, half aloud, as if suddenly arousing himself.

'Kelly--only Kelly,' answered the friar. 'Then the wine is not finished, George, eh? that's certain; the decanters are not empty. What hour is it?' 'As well as I can see, it wants a few minutes of five.'

'Of five! of five! Night or morning, which?'

'Five in the evening. I believe one might venture to call it night, for they're lighting the lamps in the streets already.'

'What's this here for, George,' said the Prince, lifting up the sword.

'We're not going to Bannockburn, are we? Egad! if we be, I trust they 'll give me a better weapon. What nonsense of yours is all this?'

'Don't you remember it was your Majesty's birthday, and that you dressed to receive the ministers?'

'To be sure I do; and we did receive them, George, didn't we? Have I not been drinking loyal toasts to every monarchy of Europe, and wis.h.i.+ng well to those who need it not? Fifty-one, or fifty-two, which are we, George?'

'Faith, I forget,' said Kelly carelessly; 'but, like this Burgundy, quite old enough to be better.'

'The reproach comes well from _you_, you old reprobate! Whose counsels have made me what I am? Bolingbroke warned me against you many a long year back. Atterbury knew you too, and told me what you were. By Heaven!' cried he, with a wilder energy, 'it was that very spirit of dictation, that habit of prescribing to me whom to know, where to lean, what to say, and what to leave unsaid, has made me so rash and headstrong through life. A fellow of your caste had otherwise obtained no hold upon me; a lowbred, illiterate drunkard----'

A hearty burst of laughter from Kelly here stopped the speaker, who seemed actually overwhelmed by the cool insolence of the friar.

'Leave me, sir; leave the room!' cried Charles Edward haughtily. 'Let Lord Nairn--no, not him; let Murray of Blair, or Kinloch, attend me.'

Kelly never stirred nor uttered a word, but sat calm and motionless, while Charles, breathing heavily from his recent outburst of pa.s.sion, lay back, half-exhausted, on the bed. After a few minutes he stretched out his hand and caught his wine-gla.s.s; it was empty, and Kelly filled it.

'I say, George,' cried he, after a pause, 'it must be growing late.

Shall we not have these people coming to our levee soon?'

'They 've come and gone, sire, six hours ago. I would not permit your Majesty to be disturbed for such a pack of falsehearted sycophants; the more that they sent such insolent messages, demanding as a right to be received, and asking how long they were to wait your royal pleasure.'

'Did they so, George? Is this true?'

'True as Gospel. That Spaniard, with the red-brown beard, came even to your Majesty's antechamber, and spoke so loud I thought he'd have awoke you'; nor was Count Boyor much better-mannered----'

'Come and gone!' broke in Charles. 'What falsehoods will grow out of this! You should have told me, Kelly. Health, ease, happiness--I 'd have sacrificed all to duty. Ay, George, kings have duties like other men.

Were there many here?'

'I never saw one-half the number. The carriages filled the Corso to the Piazza del Popolo. There was not a minister absent.'

'And of our own people?'

'They were all here. O'Sullivan, Barra, Clangavin----'

'Where was Tullybardine?--Ah! I forgot,' broke in Charles, with a deep sigh. '"Here's to them that are gone," George, as the old song says. Did they seem dissatisfied at my absence?--how did you explain it?'

'I said your Majesty was indisposed; that State affairs had occupied you all the preceding night, and that you had at last fallen into a slumber.'

'Was Glengariff among them?'

'You forget, sire. We buried him six weeks ago.'

'To be sure we did. Show me that gla.s.s, George--no, the looking-gla.s.s, man--and light those tapers yonder.'

Kelly obeyed, but with an evident reluctance, occupying time, so as to withdraw the other's attention from his project. This stratagem did not succeed, and Charles waited patiently till his orders were fulfilled, when, taking the mirror in his hand, he stared long and steadfastly at the reflection of his features. It was several minutes before he spoke, and when he did, the voice was tremulous and full of deep feeling.

'George, I am sadly changed; there is but little of the handsome Chevalier here. I didn't think to look like this these fifteen years to come.'

'Faith! for one who has gone through all that you have, I see no such signs of wear and tear,' said Kelly. 'Had you been a Pope or a Cardinal--had you lived like an Elector of Hanover, with no other perils than a bare head in a procession, or the gouty twinges of forty years'

"sauer kraut----"'

'Keep your coa.r.s.e ribaldry for your equals, sirrah. Let there be some, at least, above the mark of your foul slander,' cried Charles angrily; and then, throwing the looking-gla.s.s from him, he fell back upon his bed like one utterly exhausted. Kelly (who knew him too well to continue an irritating topic, his habit being to leave quietly alone the spirit that forgot more rapidly than it resented) sipped his wine in silence for some minutes. 'This day, sixteen years ago, I breakfasted in Carlisle, at the house of a certain Widow Branards. It's strange how I remember a name I have never heard since,' said Charles, in a voice totally altered from its late tone of excitement. 'Do you know, Kelly, that it was on the turn of a straw the fate of England hung that morning? Keppoch had cut his hand with the hilt of his claymore, and instead of counselling--as he ever did--a forward movement, he joined those who advised retreat. Had we gone on, George, the game was our own. There is now no doubt on the matter.'

'I have always heard the same,' said Kelly; 'and that your Majesty yielded with a profound conviction that the counsel was ruinous. Is it true, sire, that O'Sullivan agreed with your Majesty?'

'Quite true, George; and the poor fellow shed tears--perhaps for the only time in his life--when he heard that the decision was given against us. Stuart of Appin and Kerr were of the same mind; but _Dits aliter visum_, George. We turned our back on Fortune that morning, and she never showed us her face after.'

'You are not forgetting Falkirk, surely?' said Kelly, who never lost an opportunity of any flattering allusion to the Prince's campaigns.

'Falkirk was but half what it ought to have been. The chieftains got to quarrel among themselves, and left Hawley to pursue his retreat unmolested; as the old song says,

'"The turnkey spat in the jailer's face, While the prisoner ran away!"