The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer — CompleteLever, Charles
General
The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer — Complete
Lever, Charles
Fiction
I jumped out of the bed, and hurled the boot-jack at him with all my
strength; but had only the satisfaction to hear him go down stairs
chuckling at his escape; and as he reached the parlour, the increase of
mirth and the loudness of the laughter told me that he was not the only
one who was merry at my expense. Any thing was preferable to this; down
stairs I resolved to go at once—but how; a blanket I thought would not
be a bad thing, and particularly as I had said I was ill; I could at
least get as far as Colonel Kamworth’s dressing-room, and explain to
him the whole affair; but then if I was detected en route, which I was
almost sure to be, with so many people parading about the house. No;
that would never do, there was but one alternative, and dreadful,
shocking as it was, I could not avoid it, and with a heavy heart, and
as much indignation at Waller for what I could not but consider a most
scurvy trick, I donned the yellow inexpressibles; next came the vest,
and last the coat, with its broad flaps and lace excrescenses, fifty
times more absurd and merry-andrew than any stage servant who makes off
with his table and two chairs amid the hisses and gibes of an upper
gallery.
If my costume leaned towards the ridiculous, I resolved that my air and
bearing should be more than usually austere and haughty; and with
something of the stride of John Kemble in Coriolanus, I was leaving my
bed-room, when I accidentally caught a view of myself in the glass; and
so mortified, so shocked was I, that I sank into a chair, and almost
abandoned my resolution to go on; the very gesture I had assumed for
vindication only increased the ridicule of my appearance; and the
strange quaintness of the costume totally obliterated every trace of
any characteristic of the wearer, so infernally cunning was its
contrivance. I don’t think that the most saturnine martyr of gout and
dyspepsia could survey me without laughing. With a bold effort, I flung
open my door, hurried down the stairs, and reached the hall. The first
person I met was a kind of pantry boy, a beast only lately emancipated
from the plough, and destined after a dozen years’ training as a
servant, again to be turned back to his old employ for incapacity; he
grinned horribly for a minute, as I passed, and then in a half whisper
said—
“Maester, I advise ye run for it; they’re a waiting for ye with the
constables in the justice’s room!” I gave him a look of contemptuous
superiority at which he grinned the more, and passed on.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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