By the following Sunday I judged that the Earl of Westport and his
family had returned to London, and so I walked abroad in the hopes of
catching a glimpse of some of them among the brilliant gentry who on
this day thronged the public gardens. I had both Jem Bottles and Paddy
accompany me, for I feared that they would get into mischief if I left
them to themselves. The innkeeper had told me that Kensington Gardens
was the place where the grand people mostly chose to walk and flirt
and show their clothes on a clear Sunday. It was a long way to these
Gardens, but we footed out bravely, although we stopped once to see a
fight between five drunken apprentices, as well as several times for
much-needed refreshment.
I had no idea that the scene at the Gardens would be so splendid.
Outside, the road was a block of gleaming chariots and coaches with
servants ablaze in their liveries. Here I left Paddy and Jem to amuse
themselves as suited them.
But the array of carriages had been only a forecast of what my eyes
would encounter in the Garden itself. I was involved at once in a
swarm of fashionable people. My eyes were dazzled with myriad colours,
and my nostrils, trained as they were to peat smoke, were saluted by a
hundred delicious perfumes. Priceless silks and satins swept against
my modest stockings.
I suffered from my usual inclination to run away, but I put it down
with an iron will. I soon found a more retired spot from which I could
review the assemblage at something like my leisure. All the highly
fashionable flock knew each other intimately, it appeared, and they
kept off with figurative pikes attempts of a certain class not quite
so high and mighty, who seemed for ever trying to edge into situations
which would benefit them on the social ladder. Their failures were
dismal, but not so dismal as the heroic smiles with which they covered
their little noiseless defeats.
I saw a lady, sumptuously arrayed, sweep slowly along with her
daughter, a beautiful girl who greatly wished to keep her eyes fixed
on the ground. The mother glanced everywhere with half-concealed
eagerness and anxiety. Once she bowed impressively to a dame with a
cold, pale aristocratic face, around whom were gathered several
officers in the uniform of His Majesty's Guards. The grand dame lifted
her lorgnette and stared coolly at that impressive bow; then she
turned and said something amusing to one of the officers, who
smilingly answered. The mother, with her beautiful daughter, passed
on, both pairs of eyes now on the ground.
I had thought the rebuff would settle this poor misguided creature,
but in the course of an hour I saw three more of her impressive bows
thrown away against the icy faces of other women. But as they were
leaving the Gardens they received attention from members of the very
best society. One lordling nudged another lordling, and they stared
into the face of the girl as if she had been a creature of the street.
Then they leisurely looked her up and down from head to toe. No
tailor could have taken her measurements so completely. Afterward they
grinned at each other, and one spoke behind his hand, his insolent
speculative eyes fixed on the retiring form of the girl. This was the
social reward of the ambitious mother.
It has always been clear to me why the women turn out in such cohorts
to any sort of a function. They wish to see the frocks, and they are
insistent that their own frocks shall be seen. Moreover they take
great enjoyment in hating such of their enemies as may come under
their notice. They never have a really good time; but of this fact
they are not aware, since women are so constituted that they are able
to misinterpret almost every one of their emotions.
The men, knowing something of their own minds at times, stealthily
avoid such things unless there are very special reasons. In my own
modest experience I have seen many a popular hostess hunting men with
a net. However it was plain why so many men came to Kensington Gardens
on a Sunday afternoon. It was the display of feminine beauty. And when
I say "display" I mean it. In my old age the fashion balloons a lady
with such a sweep of wires and trellises that no Irishman could marry
her because there is never a door in all Ireland through which his
wife could pass. In my youth, however, the fashion required all
dresses to be cut very low, and all skirts to cling so that if a
four-legged woman entered a drawing-room everybody would know it. It
would be so easy to count them. At present a woman could have eight
legs and nobody be the wiser.
It was small wonder that the men came to ogle at Kensington Gardens
on a fine Sunday afternoon. Upon my word, it was worth any young
gentleman's time. Nor did the beauties blush under the gaze of banks
of fastidious beaus who surveyed them like men about to bid at a
horse-fair. I thought of my father and how he would have enjoyed the
scene. I wager he would have been a gallant with the best of them,
bowing and scraping, and dodging ladies' skirts. He would have been in
his very element.
But as for me I had come to gain a possible glimpse of Lady Mary.
Beyond that I had no warm interest in Kensington Gardens. The crowd
was too high and fine; many of the people were altogether too well
bred. They frightened me.
However, I turned my head by chance to the left, and saw near me a
small plain man who did not frighten me at all. It was Doctor Chord,
the little scientist. He was alone and seemed to be occupied in
studying the crowd. I moved over to him.
"A good day to you, sir," I said, extending my hand.
When he recognized me, his face broke into a beaming smile.
"Why, sir," he cried, "I am very glad to see you, sir. Perchance, like
me, you have come here for an hour's quiet musing on fashionable
folly."
"That's it, sir," said I. "You've hit it exactly."
I have said that he was a bashful man, but it seemed that his timidity
was likely to show itself only in the presence of other great
philosophers and scientists. At any rate, he now rattled on like a
little engine, surveying the people keenly and discoursing upon their
faults.
"There's the old Marquis of Stubblington," observed my friend. "He
beats his wife with an ebony stick. 'Tis said she always carries a
little bottle of liniment in the pocket of her skirt. Poor thing, her
only pleasure in life is to talk scandal; but this she does on such a
heroic scale that it occupies her time completely. There is young Lord
Gram walking again with that soap-boiler and candle-maker. 'Tis
disgraceful! The poor devil lends Gram money, and Gram repays him by
allowing him to be seen in his company. Gram gambles away the money,
but I don't know what the soap-boiler does with his distinguished
honours. However, you can see that the poor wretch is delighted with
his bargain. There are the three Banellic girls, the most
ill-tempered, ugly cats in England. But each will have a large
marriage portion, so they have no fears, I warrant me. I wonder the
elder has the effrontery to show her face here so soon if it is true
that the waiting-woman died of her injuries. Little Wax is talking to
them. He needs one of those marriage portions. Aye, he needs all
three, what with his very boot-maker almost inclined to be insolent to
him. I see that foreign count is talking to the Honourable Mrs.
Trasky. He is no more nor less than a gambler by trade, and they say
he came here from Paris because he was caught cheating there, and was
kicked and caned with such intense publicity that he was forced to
leave in the dead of night. However, he found many young birds here
eager to be plucked and devoured. 'Tis little they care, so long as
they may play till dawn. Did you hear about Lady Prefent? She went
after her son to the Count's rooms at night. In her younger days she
lived rather a gay life herself, 'tis rumoured, and so she was not to
be taken by her son's lies as to where he spent his evenings and his
money. Ha, I see the Countess Cheer. There is a citadel of virtue! It
has been stormed and taken so many times that I wonder it is not in
ruins, and yet here it is defiant, with banners flying. Wonderful.
She--"
"Hold!" I cried. "I have enough. I would have leave to try and collect
my wits. But one thing I would know at once. I thought you were a shy
scholar, and here you clatter away with the tongue of an old rake. You
amaze me. Tell me why you do this? Why do you use your brain to
examine this muck?"
"'Tis my recreation," he answered simply. "In my boyhood I was allowed
no games, and in the greater part of my manhood I have been too busy.
Of late years I have more leisure, and I often have sought here a
little innocent amusement, something to take one's mind off one's own
affairs, and yet not of such an arduous nature as would make one's
head tired."
"By my faith, it would make my head tired," I said. "What with
remembering the names of the people and all the different crimes, I
should go raving mad." But what still amazed me was the fact that this
little man, habitually meek, frightened and easily trodden down in
most ordinary matters, should be able to turn himself upon occasion
into a fierce and howling wolf of scandal, baying his betters, waiting
for the time when an exhausted one fell in the snow, and then burying
his remorseless teeth in him. What a quaint little Doctor Chord.
"But tell me truly," said I. "Is there no virtuous lady or honest
gentleman in all this great crowd?"
He stared, his jaw dropping. "Strap me, the place is full of them," he
ejaculated. "They are as thick as flies in a fish-market."
"Well, then," said I, "let us talk of them. 'Tis well to furbish and
burnish our minds with tales of rectitude and honour."
But the little Doctor was no longer happy. "There is nought to say,"
he answered gloomily. "They are as quiet as Bibles. They make no
recreation for me. I have scant interest in them."
"Oh, you little rogue, you!" I cried. "What a precious little bunch of
evil it is! 'They make no recreation for me,' quoth he. Here's a
great, bold, outspoken monster. But, mark you, sir, I am a younger
man, but I too have a bold tongue in my head, and I am saying that I
have friends among ladies in London, and if I catch you so much as
whispering their names in your sleep, I'll cut off your ears and eat
them. I speak few words, as you may have noted, but I keep my
engagements, you little brew of trouble, you!"
"Strap me," whimpered the little Doctor, plucking feverishly at the
buttons of his coat, rolling his eyes wildly, not knowing at all what
he did. "The man's mad! The man's mad!"
"No," said I, "my blood is cold, very cold."
The little Doctor looked at me with the light of a desperate
inspiration in his eye. "If your blood is cold, sir," said he, "I can
recommend a gill of port wine."
I needs must laugh. "Good," I cried, "and you will join me."