‘I shall read them before going to sleep,’ said Stephen, moving towards his room. ‘God bless, now, and give my dear love to Sophie.’
‘You will be amazed,’ called Jack up the stairs. ‘And this is only the beginning, ha, ha, ha!’
The birthday levee was a crowded affair. Mr Harrington kissed hands as Governor of Bermuda and Sir John Hollis as Principal Secretary and many gentlemen attended to share their triumph and to contemplate the faces of their disappointed rivals. As well as these there was of course the brilliant spectrum of officers – the particoloured Scots were particularly admired – people from the various ministries in their comparatively subfusc court dress, and civilians of all sorts, the levee being a wonderful place for discreet contacts, for the gathering of information, and for learning just how influence and favour waxed or waned. Stephen and Sir Joseph exchanged bows at a distance, but did not speak: Stephen also saw him bow to Wray, who was standing by a short, wooden-faced man
who was obviously unused to his sword. ‘It will have him down before the end of the day,’
observed Stephen. ‘I suppose he is Mr Barrow.’ This notion was strengthened by the man’s ill-bred jerk in reply to Sir Joseph’s salute, and Stephen reflected for some little while on the exact degree of calculated incivility allowed in a well-bred man. The example of Talleyrand’s exquisitely-dosed insolence came to his mind, but before he could recall more than half a dozen examples a general movement at the top of the room broke in upon his thoughts. The various ceremonies were over; the new Petty Bag had received his staff and the Clerk of the Hanaper his fee. All those present formed the usual circle and the Regent, followed by some of his brothers, began his progress. He might lack elegance of form, conduct and constancy, but no one could deny him the regal quality of remembering names:
he recognized almost every other face and made some amiable, generally appropriate remark. He did not speak to Stephen, but his brother the Duke of Clarence did so for him, calling out in his quarterdeck voice, ‘Why, there you are, Maturin! Are you back?’
‘I am, sir,’ said Stephen.
‘So you are, so you are. We must have a word when ’tis all over, hey, hey?’ He was wearing an admiral’s uniform, wearing it with much more right than most royals, and he was particularly attentive to the sea-officers attending. Stephen heard him greet Heneage Dundas with a fine roar as he passed down the line. The house of Hanover was not Stephen’s favourite family, and he disapproved of almost all he knew of the Duke; but there was a remainder that he could not help liking
– a simplicity, directness and at times a generosity that he had no doubt learnt in the Navy.
Stephen had been called in when the Duke was dangerously ill: the patient thought it was Stephen’s treatment that had cured him (a naval doctor must necessarily have a better understanding of naval officers’ diseases than a civilian) and he was quite touchingly grateful; they had seen a good deal of one another during his convalescence, and since Stephen was used to dealing with rough, self-willed, boisterous, domineering patients, and since he added a good deal of natural authority to that of a physician, they got along well enough.
Now, when ’twas all over and people were moving about, greeting their friends and seeing who would be civil to whom, he came across, took Stephen by the elbow and said ‘Well, and how are you coming along, eh? eh? And how is Aubrey? I am so sorry to learn about Surprise – the sweetest sailer on a bowline, and in capital order – but she is old, Maturin, old; it is a question of anno Domini, like the rest of us. Do you know, I am nearly fifty! Ain’t it shocking? What a crowd! You would say Common Hard on a Saturday evening. Half the Admiralty must be here. There’s Croker, the new secretary. Do you know him?’
‘We met in Ireland long ago, sir. He was at Trinity College.’
‘Oh? Then I shan’t call him over. Anyway,’ – in a low voice – ‘he’s no friend of mine. And there’s the Second Secretary. You know him too, I dare say? But no, I don’t suppose you do. He is not an Irishman, and anyhow the Sick and Hurt people are more in your way.’ He beckoned and Barrow came hurrying over with a look of devotion on his face. ‘So you are back among us, Barrow?’ said the Duke in a voice attuned to the imperfect hearing of a former invalid, and in an aside to Stephen, ‘He was ill for a great while.’ Then to Barrow again, ‘Here is Dr Maturin. He would have set you on your feet in a trice. I advise you to ask his advice next time you are seized with the marthambles.’
Barrow said that he should certainly do so, if Dr Maturin would allow it, that he was much honoured, that he would always remember his Royal Highness’s condescension, and he would have gone on in this strain for some time if the Duke had not cried ‘What a’ God’s name is that uniform? The bottle-green – no, the waistcoat-green coat with a scarlet cape? Go and ask him, Barrow.’ Shortly after this a passing admiral caught the Duke’s eye and he quitted Stephen, giving him a friendly shake of the hand. He was succeeded by Heneage Dundas, who seemed very pleased with himself for an illegitimate father, though he cursed his ill-luck at missing Jack Aubrey. They quickly exchanged their gossip and news and then he had to tear himself away – he was posting down to Portsmouth directly – had only come up to see someone, that is to say, a young person, and must get back to his ship – if Maturin had any commissions for North America or if Dundas could be of any service whatsoever, a line to Eurydice would command him.
‘A line to Eurydice,’ said Stephen, with the bitterest sudden pang.
‘Cousin Stephen,’ said a voice at his side after Dundas had gone, and it was Thaddeus himself in a fine red coat. True to the ancient Irish way, Stephen’s Fitzgerald cousins had never taken much notice of his bastardy, and now Thaddeus led him over to three more of them, all soldiers, one in the English, one in the Austrian, and one (like Stephen’s father) in the Spanish service; they gave him news of Pamela, Lord Edward’s widow, and their kindness and the sound of their familiar voices did his heart good. When they had passed on he moved to some more acquaintance and some more quite surprising, interesting gossip; then he walked down to a place near the door from where he could survey the room and make sure that the main reason for his presence did not escape. He had been aware that Wray or Barrow were watching him much of the time; now he did the same by them, and presently Wray, feeling his cold gaze upon him, left his friends and came over with outstretched hand and a creditable appearance of friendly confusion.
‘My dear Maturin,’ he cried, ‘I owe you ten thousand apologies.’ In a low voice he explained that he no longer
had anything to do with American intelligence – that was in other hands – a reorganization was in course – Stephen’s long wait had been a mere muddling of messages, gross inefficiency rather than gross impoliteness – and could Maturin dine on Friday? Some interesting people were coming, and Fanny would be so pleased to see him. While he was speaking Stephen observed that his nails were bitten to the quick and that there was a flush of eczema on the back of his hands and under the powder on his forehead. Although he spoke well it was clear that he was under great nervous tension and Stephen was reminded of the reports he had just been hearing, reports to the effect that the great fortune Wray had married in the person of Admiral Harte’s daughter Fanny had proved to be tied up to the lady and her offspring with preternatural skill; that the couple did not agree – never had agreed – that Wray’s personal income was by no means adequate to his train of life, above all not to his almost nightly losses at Button’s, and that yesterday he had been carried home drunk.
‘You are very good,’ said Stephen, ‘but I am afraid I am engaged on Friday. Yet there are some matters that I should like to talk to you about and that cannot be discussed here. We will go to your house, if you please.’
‘Very well,’ said Wray, with a forced smile, and they made their way through the press. As they crossed the Green Park he gave Stephen a pretty clear account of the sequence of events in Malta, and Stephen listened attentively, though with not a tithe of the zeal he would have felt a few days before: not a hundredth part. Wray blamed himself exceedingly for the escape of Lesueur, the chief French agent in the island; but at least the organization had been destroyed and no information had been conveyed from Valletta to Paris since then. ‘The trouble was that I was horribly out of order,’ said Wray. ‘I still am. I wish you would prescribe for my poor liquescent belly,’ he said with a smile, opening the door of his house. ‘Pray walk in.’