Is there any thing more musical to the ear of the time-sick lounger at a
fashionable watering-place than the dinner-bell? Talk of the melody of
running streams, the sighing of summer winds, the carol of forest birds!
they may be all very pleasant sounds in certain moods of the mind, but
for a music which never fails to please, a sound which never falls
wearily upon the senses, a voice which is never uttered to a listless
ear, commend me to that dinner-bell. The dullest face brightens into
something like intelligence, the most confirmed valetudinarian forgets
all elegant debility, the most intellectual remember the pressing claims
of the physical man, and the most refined of women venture to look
somewhat interested in the vulgar duty of dining. The saloon was crowded
with company all eager for the summons which was to transform them into
eating animals.
“Pray why,” said a gentleman who was somewhat famous for puns,
conundrums and such little witticisms, preferring as it seemed to shoot
the “rats and mice and such small deer” of literature, because he could
draw a _long_ rather than a _strong_ bow; “Pray,” said he in that half
suppressed voice which, like a theatrical aside, is sure to be
distinctly heard in a crowd, “why is this saloon like the President’s
levee? do ye give it up? why it is filled with a crowd of _hungry
expectants_! ha! ha! ha!”
The joke would have been excellent as an after dinner speech, but the
audacity of uttering an idle jest while so many persons were keenly
alive to one of the sufferings of frail humanity, was very properly
punished. No body laughed, and, to his infinite regret, the great Mr.
—— saw that he had wasted his wit. The first stroke of the second bell
brought all to their feet, as suddenly as if they had been subjected to
the power of a galvanic battery. Cecil Forrester, attired with unusual
care, all the lurking dandyism of his character fully but not
offensively displayed, had been one of the first in the saloon,
determined to give Miss Oriel a lesson in indifference. But she did not
appear, and, as the band struck up a march, the usual signal for
deploying into the dining-room, he took the hand of his neighbor, who
happened to be a very pretty woman, and followed the somewhat rapid pace
of the procession.
The important business of the dinner-table was half finished: the soup,
the fish, even the joints had disappeared, and the voracity of the
_élégants_ had given place to fastidiousness as they amused themselves
with a bit of _ris de veau glacé_ or a _petit pâte de Périgord_, when a
slight bustle at the door attracted universal attention. A dumpy,
over-dressed old lady, leaning on the arm of a delicate, fair-haired
girl, entered with that fussy manner so characteristic of an
out-of-place feeling, while, immediately following her, with a
complexion as cool and fresh as marble, if one could only imagine marble
tinged with the rose-tint of youth and health—a complexion such as
nothing but a morning bath can give—came the elegant Miss Oriel. There
was the very perfection of art in her whole appearance. She had chosen
for her entrance the moment when the fierce appetites of those who eat
to kill time (and sometimes end by killing themselves) were sufficiently
appeased to enable them to admire something else beside the reeking
dishes. Among the heated and flushed beauties who sat around the table,
with relaxed ringlets and moistened brows, she appeared like some fairy
of the fountain, some water nymph fresh from her sub-marine grotto,
diffusing about her a cool and refreshing atmosphere as she moved
gracefully onward. Her dress was white transparent muslin, which
displayed rather than veiled the fine form of her arms, while her neck
and shoulders, actually dazzling in their snowy hue and polish, were
only shadowed by a single jet-black ringlet, which seemed to have
accidentally fallen from the clustering mass gathered at the back of her
head. A pale, pearl-like japonica was her only ornament. As she slowly
paced the length of the hall to a seat near the head of the table,
reserved for her by a well-bribed waiter, a murmur of admiration ran
through the apartment. All eyes were fixed upon her, and she knew better
than to break the spell of her fascinations by condescending to the
vulgar taste for eating; (a brace of woodcock had been sent to her room
only an hour previous.) Mrs. Oriel, who seemed determined to make amends
for past delay by present haste, sent her plate to be filled and
re-filled; but her daughter only trifled with some delicate French
combination of odor and tastelessness, and finished the meal by a morsel
of _Charlotte au russe_ and Vanilla cream. A glass of iced _eau sacré_
was her only beverage, and she was thus enabled to retain her cool fresh
tint even in the heated atmosphere so redolent of spices, and gravies,
and vinous distillations.
It was not until just before quitting the table that Miss Oriel allowed
herself to see any one in the room. She raised her large soft eyes
languidly and beheld, what she had for some time known, that her young
friend Ellen was familiarly chatting with Cecil Forrester. A graceful
bend of her fair neck and a most lovely smile marked her consciousness
of his presence, while Cecil, with a polite but rather careless bow
continued his conversation with Miss Grey; being incited to show her
peculiar attention by his consciousness that she, as well as himself,
was designed to be the tool of the selfish beauty. Miss Oriel was too
well schooled to exhibit any surprise at his cool manner, and as her
principal object was to attract the attention of Mr. Beauchamp, she gave
herself no further thought about the matter at that time.
Mr. Fitzroy Beauchamp, by a kind of “_gramerye_” which some ignorant
people might call _impudence_, had early established himself at the head
of the table, and assumed the manners of a host upon all occasions. He
was in fact that most admired, and courted, and flattered of men—the
Beau (_par excellence_) of a watering-place. Reader, if you have ever
seen such a person in such circumstances you will be able to imagine his
appearance, for he was only one of a rather numerous tribe of ephemera,
who appear every summer and waste their little lives in some fashionable
resort, whence they vanish with the first northeast wind, and if they do
not die, at least evaporate in something like empty air. Mr. Fitzroy
Beauchamp (he was very proud of his name, and was known to have refused
to dance in the same cotillion with Miss Phebe Pipkin, until his refined
taste was soothed by the intelligence that she was the heiress of half a
million) was rather diminutive in size, with a remarkably trim figure,
and very small feet. He had flaxen hair, elaborately curled, which no
one would have suspected to be a wig; and he wore the softest and
silkiest of whiskers, which nobody dreamed were an appendage of the self
same wig, ingeniously contrived to clasp with springs beneath his chin.
His cheek had that delicate peach bloom which rarely outlasts extreme
youth, and, in this case, certainly owed much of its richness to a
judicious touch of the hare’s foot. His hands were very white and loaded
with rings, the gifts, as he asserted, of various fair ladies; so that
he might be said to have the history of his conquests at his fingers’
ends. He wore a black dress coat lined with white silk, snow-white
inexpressibles, embroidered silk stockings, and pumps diminutive enough
to have served for a lady’s slippers. Mr. Fitzroy Beauchamp was what
ladies call “a love of a man,” and he was duly grateful for their
partiality. To conceal the ravages of time (alas! he had already
numbered half a century) and to decorate himself in the most pleasing
manner he considered a compliment due to the fair sex, while the proper
display of his wealth and luxury was a duty he owed to himself.
He had been wonderfully attracted by the grace and beauty of Miss Oriel.
Absorbed in admiration of her easy and modest self-possession, he forgot
to ask his former favorite, the pretty and _spirituelle_ Mrs. Dale, to
take wine with him, and the lady was quick-sighted enough to discover,
and wise enough to smile at the discovery that henceforth her reign over
the tilbury was at an end. She was quite right. Soon after dinner Mr.
Beauchamp solicited from Cecil Forrester the honor of an introduction to
Miss Oriel, and though Cecil would have been ready to fight a duel with
a fellow who should thus have presumed after a three days’ acquaintance,
had the lady been one whom he really respected, yet he now cordially
acquiesced in the wishes of both parties, and with a degree of
magnanimity quite surprising to Laura, afforded her exactly the
opportunity she had desired. About twenty minutes before sunset—the
hour Mr. Beauchamp usually selected for his daily drive—Miss Oriel was
handed into the elegant vehicle, and they drove off, leaving several
gentlemen in ecstasies at her beauty as she playfully kissed her hand to
her dear old fat Mamma, who had bustled out with “my sweet Laura’s
cashmere, lest the evening air should injure her delicate health.” Her
fears were quite unnecessary. Mr. Beauchamp never drove his horses more
than three miles at a time, and had no fancy for hardening his white
hands by curbing their impetuosity. He was seldom absent more than half
an hour, as his ambition was fully gratified by being envied as he drove
off, or dashed up to the door with the best horses before his carriage
and the most admired woman at his side.