With the company that composed the dinner-party we have only a very
passing concern. They were--including Skeffington and Tony--eight in
all. Three were young officials from Downing Street; two were guardsmen;
and one an inferior member of the royal household,--a certain Mr. Arthur
Mayfair, a young fellow much about town, and known by every one.
The dinner was ostensibly to celebrate the promotion of one of the
guardsmen,--Mr. Lyner; in reality, it was one of those small orgies
of eating and drinking which our modern civilization has imported from
Paris.
A well-spread and even splendid table was no novelty to Tony; but such
extravagance and luxury as this he had never witnessed before; it was,
in fact, a banquet in which all that was rarest and most costly figured,
and it actually seemed as if every land of Europe had contributed
some delicacy or other to represent its claims to epicurism, at this
congress. There were caviare from Russia, and oysters from Ostend,
and red trout from the Highlands, and plover-eggs and pheasants from
Bohemia, and partridges from Alsace, and scores of other delicacies,
each attended by its appropriate wine; to discuss which, with all the
high connoissèurship of the table, furnished the whole conversation.
Politics and literature apart, no subject could have been more removed
from all Tony's experiences. He had never read Brillat-Savarin, nor so
much as heard of M. Ude,--of the great controversy between the merits
of white and brown truffles, he knew positively nothing; and he had
actually eaten terrapin, and believed it to be very exquisite veal!
He listened, and listened very attentively. If it might have seemed to
him that the company devoted a most extravagant portion of the time to
the discussion, there was such a realism in the presence of the good
things themselves, that the conversation never descended to frivolity;
while there was an earnestness in the talkers that rejected such an
imputation.
To hear them, one would have thought--at least, Tony thought--that all
their lives had been passed in dining, Could any memory retain the
mass of small minute circumstances that they recorded, or did they keep
prandial records as others keep game-books? Not one of them ever forgot
where and when and how he had ever eaten anything remarkable for its
excellence; and there was an elevation of language, an ecstasy imported
into the reminiscences, that only ceased to be ludicrous when he grew
used to it. Perhaps, as a mere listener, he partook more freely than
he otherwise might of the good things before him. In the excellence and
endless variety of the wines, there was, besides, temptation for cooler
heads than his; not to add that on one or two occasions he found
himself in a jury empanelled to pronounce upon some nice question of
flavor,--points upon which, as the evening wore on, he entered with a
far greater reliance on his judgment than he would have felt half an
hour before dinner.
He had not what is called, in the language of the table, a “made
head,”--that is to say, at Lyle Abbey, his bottle of Sneyd's Claret
after dinner was more than he liked well to drink; but now, when
Sauterne succeeded Sherry, and Marcobrunner came after Champagne, and
in succession followed Bordeaux, and Burgundy, and Madeira, and then
Bordeaux again of a rarer and choicer vintage, Tony's head grew addled
and confused. Though he spoke very little, there passed through his mind
all the varied changes that his nature was susceptible of. He was gay
and depressed, daring and cautious, quarrelsome and forgiving, stern and
affectionate, by turns. There were moments when he would have laid down
his life for the company, and fleeting instants when his eye glanced
around to see upon whom he could fix a deadly quarrel; now he felt
rather vainglorious at being one of such a distinguished company, and
now a sharp distrust shot through him that he was there to be the
butt of these town-bred wits, whose merriment was nothing but a covert
impertinence.
All these changeful moods only served to make him drink more deeply. He
filled bumpers and drank them daringly. Skeffington told the story of
the threat to kick Willis,--not much in itself, but full of interest to
the young officials who knew Willis as an institution, and could no
more have imagined his personal chastisement than an insult to the royal
arms. When Skeff, however, finished by saying that the Secretary of
State himself rather approved of the measure, they began to feel that
Tony Butler was that greatest of all created things, “a rising man.” For
as the power of the unknown number is incommensurable, so the height to
which a man's success may carry him can never be estimated.
“It's deuced hard to get one of these messenger-ships,” said one of the
guardsmen; “they say it's far easier to be named Secretary of Legation.”
“Of course it is. Fifty fellows are able to ride in a coach for one that
can read and write,” said May fair.
“What do you mean by that?” cried Tony, his eyes flashing fire.
“Just what I said,” replied the other, mildly,--“that as there is no
born mammal so helpless as a real gentleman, it's the rarest thing to
find an empty shell to suit him.”
“And they're, well paid, too,” broke in the soldier. “Why, there's no
fellow so well off. They have five pounds a day.”
“No, they have not.”
“They have.”
“They have not.”
“On duty--when they're on duty.”
“No, nor off duty.”
“Harris told me.”
“Harris is a fool.”
“He's my cousin,” said a sickly young fellow, who looked deadly pale,
“and I'll not hear him called a liar.”
“Nobody said liar. I said he was a fool.”
“And so he is,” broke in Mayfair, “for he went and got married the other
day to a girl without sixpence.”
“Beaumont's daughter?”
“Exactly. The 'Lively Kitty,' as we used to call her; a name she'll
scarce go by in a year or two.”
“I don't think,” said Tony, with a slow, deliberate utterance,--“I don't
think that he has made me a suit--suit--suitable apology for what he
said,--eh, Skeff?”
“Be quiet, will you?” muttered the other.
“Kitty had ten thousand pounds of her own.”
“Not sixpence.”
“I tell you she had.”
“Grant it. What is ten thousand pounds?” lisped out a little
pink-cheeked fellow, who had a hundred and eighty per annum at the Board
of Trade. “If you are economical, you may get two years out of it.”
“If I thought,” growled out Tony into Skeff's ear, “that he meant it for
insolence, I'd punch his head, curls and all.”
“Will you just be quiet?” said Skeff, again.
“I 'd have married Kitty myself,” said pink cheeks, “if I thought she
had ten thousand.”
“And I 'd have gone on a visit to you,” said Mayfair, “and we 'd have
played billiards, the French game, every evening.”
“I never thought Harris was so weak as to go and marry,” said the
youngest of the party, not fully one-and-twenty.
“Every one hasn't your experience, Upton,” said May-fair.
“Why do the fellows bear all this?” whispered Tony, again.
“I say, be quiet,--do be quiet,” mumbled Skeff.
“Who was it used to call Kitty Beaumont the Lass of Richmond Hill?” said
Mayfair; and now another uproar ensued as to the authority in question,
in which many contradictions were exchanged, and some wagers booked.
“Sing us that song Bailey made on her,--'Fair Lady on the River's Bank;'
you can sing it, Clinton?”
“Yes, let us have the song,” cried several together.
“I 'll wager five pounds I 'll name a prettier girl on the same spot,”
said Tony to Skeff.
“Butler challenges the field,” cried Skeff. “He knows, and will name,
the prettiest girl in Richmond.”
“I take him. What 's the figure?” said Mayfair.
“And I--and I!” shouted three or four in a breath.
“I think he offered a pony,” lisped out the youngest.
“I said, I 'd bet five pounds,” said Tony, fiercely; “don't misrepresent
me, sir.”
“I 'll take your money, then,” cried Mayfair.
“No, no; I was first: I said 'done' before you,” interposed a guardsman.
“But how can it be decided? We can't summon the rival beauties to our
presence, and perform Paris and the apple,” said Skeff.
“Come along with me and you shall see her,” broke in Tony; “she lives
within less than five minutes' walk of where we are. I am satisfied that
the matter should be left to your decision, Skefflngton.”
“No, no,” cried several, together; “take Mayfair with you. He is the
fittest man amongst us for such a criticism; he has studied these
matters profoundly.”
“Here 's a health to all good lasses!” cried out another; and goblets
were filled with champagne, and drained in a moment, while some
attempted the song; and others, imagining that they had caught the air,
started off with “Here's to the Maiden of Blooming Fifteen,” making up
an amount of confusion that was perfectly deafening, in which the waiter
entered to observe, in a very meek tone, that the Archdeacon of Halford
was entertaining a select party in the next room, and entreated that
they might be permitted to hear each other occasionally.
Such a burst of horror and indignation as followed this request! Some
were for an armed intervention at once; some for a general smash of all
things practicable; and two or three, haughtier in their drunkenness,
declared that the Star and Garter should have no more of their
patronage, and proudly ordered the waiter to fetch the bill.
“Thirty-seven--nine--six,” said Mayfair, as he held the document near
a candle; “make it an even forty for the waiters, and it leaves five
pounds a head, eh?--not too much, after all.”
“Well, I don't know; the asparagus was miserably small.”
“And I got no strawberries.”
“I have my doubts about that Moselle.”
“It ain't dear; at least, it's not dearer than anywhere else.”
While these criticisms were going forward, Tony perceived that each
one in turn was throwing down his sovereigns on the table, as his
contribution to the fund; and he approached Skeffington, to whisper that
he had forgotten his purse,--his sole excuse to explain, what he
would n't confess, that he believed he was an invited guest Skeff was,
however, by this time so completely overcome by the last toast that he
sat staring fatuously before him, and could only mutter, in a melancholy
strain, “To be, or not to be; that's a question.”
“Can you lend me some money?” whispered Tony. “I if want your purse.”
“He--takes my purse--trash--trash--” mumbled out the other.
“I 'll book up for Skeffy,” said one of the guardsmen; “and now it's all
right.”
“No,” said Tony, aloud; “I haven't paid. I left my purse behind, and I
can't make Skeffington understand that I want a loan from him;” and he
stooped down again and whispered in his ear.
While a buzz of voices assured Tony that “it did n't matter; all had
money, any one could pay,” and so on, Skeffington gravely handed out
his cigar-case, and said, “Take as much as you like, old fellow; it was
quarter-day last week.”
In a wild, uproarious burst of laughter they now broke up; some helping
Skeffington along, some performing mock-ballet steps, and two or three
attempting to walk with an air of rigid propriety, which occasionally
diverged into strange tangents.
Tony was completely bewildered. Never was a poor brain more addled than
his. At one moment he thought them all the best fellows in the world;
he 'd have risked his neck for any of them; and at the next he regarded
them as a set of insolent snobs, daring to show off airs of superiority
to a stranger, because he was not one of them; and so he oscillated
between the desire to show his affection for them, or have a quarrel
with any of them.
Meanwhile Mayfair, with a reasonable good voice and some taste, broke
out into a wild sort of air, whose measure changed at every moment One
verse ran thus:--
“By the light of the moon, by the light of the moon,
We all went home by the light of the moon.
With a ringing song
We trampled along,
Recalling what we 'll forget so soon,
How the wine was good,
And the talk was free,
And pleasant and gay the company.
“For the wine supplied
What our wits denied,
And we pledge the girls whose eyes we knew, whose eyes we knew.
You ask her name, but what's that to you, what's that to you?”
“Well, there 's where she lives, anyhow,” muttered Tony, as he came to a
dead stop on the road, and stared full at a small two-storeyed house in
front of him.
“Ah, that's where she lives!” repeated Mayfair, as he drew his arm
within Tony's, and talked in a low and confidential tone.
“And a sweet, pretty cottage it is. What a romantic little spot! What if
we were to serenade her!”
Tony gave no reply. He stood looking up at the closed shutters of the
quiet house, which, to his eyes, represented a sort of penitentiary for
that poor imprisoned hardworking girl. His head was not very clear, but
he had just sense enough to remember the respect he owed her condition,
and how jealously he should guard her from the interference of others.
Meanwhile Mayfair had leaped over the low paling of the little front
garden, and stood now close to the house. With an admirable imitation of
the prelude of a guitar, he began to sing,--
“Come dearest Lilla,
Thy anxious lover
Counts, counts the weary moments over--”
As he reached thus far, a shutter gently opened, and in the strong
glare of the moonlight some trace of a head could be detected behind the
curtain. Encouraged by this, the singer went on in a rich and flowery
voice,--
“Anxious he waits,
Thy voice to hear
Break, break on his enraptured ear.”
At this moment the window was thrown open, and a female voice, in an
accent strongly Scotch, called out, “Awa wi' ye,--pack o' ne'er-do-weels
as ye are,--awa wi' ye a'! I 'll call the police.” But Mayfair went
on,--
The night invites to love,
So tarry not above,
But Lilla--Lilla--Lilla, come down to me!
“I'll come down to you, and right soon,” shouted a hoarse masculine
voice. Two or three who had clambered over the paling beside Mayfair now
scampered off; and Mayfair himself, making a spring, cleared the fence,
and ran down the road at the top of his speed, followed by all but Tony,
who, half in indignation at their ignominious flight, and half with some
vague purpose of apology, stood his ground before the gate.
The next moment the hall door opened, and a short thickset man, armed
with a powerful bludgeon, rushed out and made straight towards him.
Seeing, however, that Tony stood firm, neither offering resistance nor
attempting escape, he stopped short, and cried out, “What for drunken
blackguards are ye, that canna go home without disturbing a quiet
neighborhood?”
“If you can keep a civil tongue in your head,” said Tony, “I 'll ask
your pardon for this disturbance.”
“What's your apology to me, you young scamp!” cried the other, wrenching
open the gate and passing out into the road. “I'd rather give you a
lesson than listen to your excuses.” He lifted his stick as he spoke;
but Tony sprang upon him with the speed of a tiger, and, wrenching the
heavy bludgeon out of his hand, flung it far into a neighboring field,
and then, grasping him by the collar with both hands, he gave him such
a shake as very soon convinced his antagonist how unequal the struggle
would be between them. “By Heaven!” muttered Tony, “if you so much as
lay a hand on me, I 'll send you after your stick. Can't you see that
this was only a drunken frolic, that these young fellows did not want to
insult you, and if I stayed here behind them, it was to appease, not to
offend you?”
“Dinna speak to me, sir. Let me go,--let go my coat I 'm not to be
handled in this manner,” cried the other, in passion.
“Go back to your bed, then!” said Tony, pushing him from him. “It's
clear enough you have no gentleman's blood in your body, or you 'd
accept an amends or resent an affront.”
Stung by this retort, the other turned and aimed a blow at Butler's
face; but he stopped it cleverly, and then, seizing him by the shoulder,
he swung him violently round, and threw him within the gate of the
garden.
“You are more angered than hurt,” muttered Tony, as he looked at him for
an instant.
“Oh, Tony, that this could be you!” cried a faint voice from a little
window of an attic, and a violent sob closed the words.
Tony turned and went his way towards London, those accents ringing in
his ears, and at every step he went repeating, “That this could be you!”