Randal reached home in time to dress for a late dinner at Baron Levy’s.
The Baron’s style of living was of that character especially affected both
by the most acknowledged exquisites of that day, and, it must be owned,
also, by the most egregious _parvenus_. For it is noticeable that it is
your _parvenu_ who always comes nearest in fashion (so far as externals
are concerned) to your genuine exquisite. It is your _parvenu_ who is most
particular as to the cut of his coat, and the precision of his equipage,
and the minutiæ of his _ménage_. Those between the _parvenu_ and the
exquisite who know their own consequence, and have something solid to rest
upon, are slow in following all the caprices of fashion, and obtuse in
observation as to those niceties which neither give them another ancestor,
nor add another thousand to the account at their banker’s;—as to the last,
rather indeed the contrary! There was a decided elegance about the Baron’s
house and his dinner. If he had been one of the lawful kings of the
dandies, you would have cried, “What perfect taste!”—but such is human
nature, that the dandies who dined with him said to each other, “He
pretend to imitate D——! vulgar dog!” There was little affectation of your
more showy opulence. The furniture in the room was apparently simple, but,
in truth, costly, from its luxurious comfort—the ornaments and china
scattered about the commodes were of curious rarity and great value; and
the pictures on the walls were gems. At dinner, no plate was admitted on
the table. The Russian fashion, then uncommon, now more prevalent, was
adopted—fruits and flowers in old Sèvres dishes of priceless _vertu_, and
in sparkling glass of Bohemian fabric. No lively servant was permitted to
wait; behind each guest stood a gentleman dressed so like the guest
himself, in fine linen and simple black, that guest and lackey seemed
stereotypes from one plate.
The viands were exquisite; the wine came from the cellars of deceased
archbishops and embassadors. The company was select; the party did not
exceed eight. Four were the eldest sons of peers (from a baron to a duke);
one was a professed wit, never to be got without a month’s notice, and,
where a _parvenu_ was host, a certainty of green-pease and peaches—out of
season; the sixth, to Randal’s astonishment, was Mr. Richard Avenel;
himself and the Baron made up the complement.
The eldest sons recognized each other with a meaning smile; the most
juvenile of them, indeed (it was his first year in London), had the grace
to blush and look sheepish. The others were more hardened; but they all
united in regarding with surprise both Randal and Dick Avenel. The former
was known to most of them personally; and to all, by repute, as a grave,
clever, promising young man, rather prudent than lavish, and never
suspected to have got into a scrape. What the deuce did he do there? Mr.
Avenel puzzled them yet more. A middle-aged man, said to be in business,
whom they had observed “about town” (for he had a noticeable face and
figure)—that is, seen riding in the park, or lounging in the pit at the
opera, but never set eyes on at a recognized club, or in the coteries of
their “set;”—a man whose wife gave horrid third-rate parties, that took up
half-a-column in the _Morning Post_ with a list of “The Company
Present”—in which a sprinkling of dowagers out of fashion, and a foreign
title or two, made the darkness of the obscurer names doubly dark. Why
this man should be asked to meet _them_, by Baron Levy, too—a decided
tuft-hunter and would-be exclusive—called all their faculties into
exercise. The wit, who, being the son of a small tradesman, but in the
very best society, gave himself far greater airs than the young lords,
impertinently solved the mystery. “Depend on it,” whispered he to
Spendquick—“depend on it the man is the X. Y. of the _Times_, who offers
to lend any sums of money from £10 to half-a-million. He’s the man who has
all your bills: Levy is only his jackall.”
“’Pon my soul,” said Spendquick, rather alarmed, “if that’s the case, one
may as well be civil to him.”
“_You_, certainly,” said the wit. “But I never yet found an X. Y. who
would advance me the L. s.; and, therefore, I shall not be more respectful
to X. Y. than to any other unknown quantity.”
By degrees, as the wine circulated, the party grew gay and sociable. Levy
was really an entertaining fellow: had all the gossip of the town at his
fingers’-ends; and possessed, moreover, that pleasant art of saying
ill-natured things of the absent, which those present always enjoy. By
degrees, too, Mr. Richard Avenel came out; and as the whisper had
circulated round the table that he was X. Y., he was listened to with a
profound respect, which greatly elevated his spirits. Nay, when the wit
tried once to show him up, or mystify him, Dick answered with a bluff
spirit, that, though very coarse, was found so humorous by Lord Spendquick
and other gentlemen similarly situated in the money-market, that they
turned the laugh against the wit, and silenced him for the rest of the
night—a circumstance which made the party go off much more pleasantly.
After dinner, the conversation, quite that of single men, easy and
_débonnair_, glanced from the turf, and the ballet, and the last scandal,
toward politics; for the times were such that politics were discussed
every where, and three of the young lords were county members.
Randal said little, but, as was his wont, listened attentively; and he was
aghast to find how general was the belief that the government was doomed.
Out of regard to him, and with that delicacy of breeding which belongs to
a certain society, nothing personal to Egerton was said, except by Avenel,
who, however, on blurting out some rude expressions respecting that
minister, was instantly checked by the Baron.
“Spare my friend, and Mr. Leslie’s near connection,” said he, with a
polite but grave smile.
“Oh,” said Avenel, “public men, whom we pay, are public property—aren’t
they, my lord?” appealing to Spendquick.
“Certainly,” said Spendquick, with great spirit—“public property, or why
should we pay them? There must be a very strong motive to induce us to do
that! I hate paying people. In fact,” he subjoined, in an aside, “I never
do!”
“However,” resumed Mr. Avenel. graciously, “I don’t want to hurt your
feelings, Mr. Leslie. As to the feelings of our host, the Baron, I
calculate that they have got tolerably tough by the exercise they have
gone through.”
“Nevertheless,” said the Baron, joining in the laugh which any lively
saying by the supposed X. Y. was sure to excite—“nevertheless, ’love me,
love my dog,’ love me, love my Egerton.”
Randal started, for his quick ear and subtle intelligence caught something
sinister and hostile in the tone with which Levy uttered this equivocal
comparison, and his eye darted toward the Baron. But the Baron had bent
down his face, and was regaling himself upon an olive.
By-and-by the party rose from table. The four young noblemen had their
engagements elsewhere, and proposed to separate without re-entering the
drawing-room. As, in Goethe’s theory, monads which have affinities with
each other are irresistibly drawn together, so these gay children of
pleasure had, by a common impulse, on rising from table, moved each to
each, and formed a group round the fire-place. Randal stood a little
apart, musing; the wit examined the pictures through his eye-glass; and
Mr. Avenel drew the Baron toward the sideboard, and there held him in
whispered conference. This colloquy did not escape the young gentlemen
round the fire-place: they glanced toward each other.
“Settling the per centage on renewal,” said one, _sotto voce_.
“X. Y. does not seem such a very bad fellow,” said another.
“He looks rich, and talks rich,” said a third.
“A decided independent way of expressing his sentiments; those moneyed men
generally have.”
“Good heavens!” ejaculated Spendquick, who had been keeping his eye
anxiously fixed on the pair. “do look; X. Y. is actually taking out his
pocket-book; he is coming this way. Depend on it he has got our bills—mine
is due tomorrow.”
“And mine too,” said another, edging off. “Why, it is a perfect _guet à
pens_.”
Meanwhile, breaking away from the Baron, who appeared anxious to detain
him, and failing in that attempt, turned aside, as if not to see Dick’s
movements—a circumstance which did did not escape the notice of the group,
and confirmed all their suspicions, Mr. Avenel, with a serious, thoughtful
air, and a slow step, approached the group. Nor did the great Roman
general more nervously “flutter the dove-cotes in Corioli,” than did the
advance of the supposed X. Y. agitate the bosoms of Lord Spendquick and
his sympathizing friends. Pocket-book in hand, and apparently feeling for
something formidable within its mystic recesses, step by step came Dick
Avenel toward the fire-place. The group stood still, fascinated by horror.
“Hum,” said Mr. Avenel, clearing his throat.
“I don’t like that hum at all,” muttered Spendquick.
“Proud to have made your acquaintance, gentlemen,” said Dick, bowing.
The gentlemen, thus addressed, bowed low in return.
“My friend the Baron thought this not exactly the time to—” Dick stopped a
moment; you might have knocked down those four young gentlemen, though
four finer specimens of humanity no aristocracy in Europe could
produce—you might have knocked them down with a feather! “But,” renewed
Avenel, not finishing his sentence, “I have made it a rule in life never
to lose securing a good opportunity: in short, to make the most of the
present moment. And,” added he, with a smile, which froze the blood in
Lord Spendquick’s veins, “the rule has made me a very warm man! Therefore,
gentlemen, allow me to present you each with one of these”—every hand
retreated behind the back of its well-born owner—when, to the
inexpressible relief of all, Dick concluded with—“a little _soirée
dansante_,” and extended four cards of invitation.
“Most happy!” exclaimed Spendquick. “I don’t dance in general; but to
oblige X—— I mean to have a better acquaintance, sir, with _you_—I would
dance on the tight-rope.”
There was a good-humored pleasant laugh at Spendquick’s enthusiasm, and a
general shaking of hands and pocketing of the invitation cards.
“You don’t look like a dancing-man,” said Avenel, turning to the wit, who
was plump and somewhat gouty—as wits who dine out five days in the week
generally are; “but we shall have supper at one o’clock.”
Infinitely offended and disgusted, the wit replied dryly, “that every hour
of his time was engaged for the rest of the season,” and, with a stiff
salutation to the Baron, took his departure. The rest, in good spirits,
hurried away to their respective cabriolets; and Leslie was following them
into the hall, when the Baron, catching hold of him, said, “Stay, I want
to talk to you.”