THE SQUIRE.
The dinners at Glanyravon were always unexceptionable. Mr Gwynne was a
bit of an epicure, and kept a capital cook, and his daughter liked to
see everything done in good style. Even Mrs. Jonathan Prothero declared
that the dinner-parties at her cousin's, Sir Philip Payne Perry's, were
scarcely more agreeable or better managed.
Still, at the dinner in question, all the elements were not quite well
amalgamated. Although the dishes were so discreetly seasoned, and the
_entremets_ so exquisitely prepared, that the most fastidious critic of
the gastronomic art would not have found a grain too much of any one
ingredient, there was a less judicious mixture amongst the guests.
Nothing could be more perfect than the bearing of the host and hostess.
Mr Gywnne was a gentleman, even in his peculiarities--fastidiously a
gentleman--and comported himself as such to every one. But he was too
nervous, and had too low a voice to put his guests at ease: one half did
not hear him at all, and the rest were slightly afraid of him on account
of this extreme fastidiousness, his nervous complaints and his being
very easily tired, or bored. Miss Gwynne was more successful at her end
of the table, but she rather annoyed some of her guests by being too
much bent on bringing out her friend Netta, and playing her off against
Miss Nugent.
She was, however, very polite to all, and, for so young a woman, made a
very agreeable and fascinating hostess. So, apparently, thought all the
gentlemen, as they principally addressed their conversation to her, and
had manoeuvred, particularly the young ones, to sit as near her as
possible. The Rev Jonathan Prothero had the place of honour at her
right, and did not take up much of her time. He appeared to be deep in
the speculation concerning the ancient castle of which we have already
heard, and was learnedly descanting upon it to Mrs Rice Rice, a lady on
his other side. The said Mrs Rice Rice, having _un oeil aux champs, et
l'autre a la ville,_ was ostensibly listening to him, whilst she was
really attending to her son, who was making visible efforts on the heart
of the heiress, Miss Gwynne.
The Rice Rices were people of family and fortune, living in the
neighbouring town. Mr Rice Rice was in the law, and was at that moment
engaged in discussing the affairs of the deceased Mr. Griffith Jenkins
and his quondam articled pupil, Howel, with Rowland Prothero across Miss
Nugent. He was a portly well-to-do-looking man, with a bald head and
good-humoured countenance. His wife was even more portly than himself,
and sat, in black velvet and marabout feathers, as stately as a princess
at a drawing-room. The task of keeping up the family reputation of the
ancient house of Rice Rice devolved in a great measure on this lady,
assisted by her daughter; and, it must be said, that if any one could
have doubted the antiquity of this honourable race after an hour's
conversation with this enthusiastic pair he must have been a sceptic
indeed! Family pride is a common weakness, but one could almost call it
the stronghold of Mrs. Rice Rice, just as the various archaeological and
historical glories of Wales and the Welsh was the fortress of Mr.
Jonathan Prothero.
It was into these towers of strength that these worthies retreated on
all occasions. One saw the bulwark in Mrs. Rice Rice's ample, immoveable
figure, and in the glance of the eyes that looked over the somewhat
mountainous cheek; one saw it in a certain extension of the chin, turn
of the mouth, and slightly _retrousse_ nose. One saw it, above all, in
her manner to the Protheros.
But Mrs. Jonathan Prothero was quite as capable of sustaining the
dignity of the Philip Payne Perrys as the Welsh lady that of the Rice
Rices, and a satirist might have made a clever caricature of these
patriotic dames--the one thin and stiff, the other stout and stiff--as
they compared their family honours.
But the lady of undoubted rank and pretension of the party is Lady Mary
Nugent, who can afford to patronise or throw over-board whomsoever she
will. She is seated next to Mr Gwynne, and is lavishing a considerable
share of good looks and eloquence on that gentleman. Still in the prime
of life, elegant, refined, pretty, and a skilful tactician, she is a
dangerous rival of the young ladies, and is not wholly innocent of a
desire to eclipse them. She and her daughter are dressed very nearly
alike, in some white and light material, and at a little distance she
might pass for the fair Wilhelmina's elder sister. A profusion of
ornaments, too well arranged to appear too numerous, alone distinguish
mother and daughter. She has a handsome profile and a captivating
manner, two dangerous things in woman; but therewith she has an
occasionally malicious expression of eye and mouth, that somewhat
impairs the effect of the captivation.
Her daughter is like her in profile, but has not her fascination of
manner. She is, however, beautiful as a statue, with chiselled features
and marble complexion. But she does not at present appear to have
character enough to possess the clever malice of her mother. This may
possibly come with suitors and rivals, who generally draw out all the
evil, and sometimes much of the good, of woman's nature.
She is now simpering and blushing and saying pretty nothings between
Rowland Prothero and a certain Sir Hugh Pryse, who, on their respective
parts, think her a goose, being attracted elsewhere. Sir Hugh is
exerting his lungs to their utmost, and much beyond the boundaries that
etiquette would vainly try to impose upon them, in endeavouring to
attract the attention of Miss Gwynne; whilst Rowland is, as we before
said, discussing the death of Mr Jenkins and the prospects of his son.
Perhaps the most uncomfortable person at the table is Netta, who really
does not quite understand how to behave herself in the new atmosphere in
which she finds herself. She never was at a dinner-party before, never
waited upon by grand servants, never surrounded by such gay people; and,
in spite of her ambition to eclipse by her beauty the Misses Nugent and
Rice Rice, she feels and looks rather awkward. Miss Gwynne does all in
her power to reassure her, but she sits, looking very pretty--by far the
prettiest person in the room--and very ill at ease, until the ladies
adjourn to the drawing-room, and she takes refuge in the pictures of the
drawing-room scrap-book and her aunt.
The gentlemen arrive in course of time, which they must do, linger as
long as they will over the delights of port and politics, and then the
various schemes and thoughts engendered at the dinner-table are brought
to light over the coffee-cup.
Miss Gwynne patronisingly singles out Rowland Prothero, who, reserved by
nature, feels doubly so amongst the ill-assorted elements around him.
'Have you seen that poor girl since I was last at your house, Mr
Prothero, and how is she to-day?' inquires the heiress.
'She asked to see me yesterday, and I went to her. She seemed more
composed, and liked being read to; but she is in a very precarious
state.'
'Is your father more reconciled to her being with you?'
'Not at all. And it certainly is very unfortunate. But he would not
allow her to be neglected now she is thrown on his kindness.'
'I wish she had never come,' interposed Netta, who had ventured to cross
the room to Miss Gwynne.
'Have you heard of the great catch you are all likely to have, Miss
Gwynne?' here broke in Sir Hugh Pryse, of stentorian reputation.
'I do not know what you mean,' said Miss Gwynne.
'Why, Mr Rice Rice tells me there is more than a hundred thousand pounds
to be raffled for by all the young ladies in the country. They have
simply to put themselves into the lottery, and only one can have the
prize.'
'I never knew you so figurative before. Sir Hugh.' 'Don't pay any
attention to him, Miss Gwynne,' said a fresh addition to the circle that
stood round that young lady's chair. 'He means that old Griffey Jenkins,
the miser, is dead, and that Howel comes into all his immense wealth.'
Miss Gwynne gave her head such a magnificent toss that her neck looked
quite strained.
'I do not imagine many _young ladies_ will purchase tickets in that
lottery,' she said, with a stress upon the 'young ladies.'
'I have no doubt there are dozens who would, and will, do it at once,'
responded Sir Hugh. 'And quite right too. Such a fortune is not to be
had every day.'
'But it is gentlemen, and not ladies, who are fortune-hunters,' said
Miss Gwynne, changing her tone, when she suddenly perceived that Netta's
face and neck were crimson.
But the subject was become quite an interesting piece of local gossip,
and, one after another, all the party joined in it.
'Howel Jenkins might make anything of himself if he would but be
steady,' said Mr Rice Rice.
'Except a gentleman by birth,' said his lady.
'Or the least bit of an archaeologist,' said Mr Jonathan Prothero. 'I
tried one day--you will scarcely believe it, Mr Gwynne--to make him
understand that Garn Goch was an old British encampment, but he would
not take it in.'
'Ah, really; I do not very much wonder myself, for I cannot quite "take
in" those heaps of stones and all that sort of thing,' responded the
host.
'What can they find to interest them in that sort of person?' asked
Lady Mary in an aside to Mr Gwynne.
Miss Gwynne overheard it, and answered for her father.
'He is a young man of great talent, very rich, very handsome, and has
had a miser for a father. Is not that the case Mr Rowland?'
'I--I--really, it is scarcely fair to appeal to me, as he is a
relation.'
'And do you never say a good word in favour of your relations?'
'I hope so, when they deserve it,' said Rowland resolutely, glancing at
his sister, who was biting her glove.
'If I may be allowed an opinion,' said Mrs Jonathan decidedly, also
glancing at poor Netta, 'I should say that Howel Jenkins was a complete
scapegrace. What he may yet turn out remains to be proved.'
'Well, that is putting an end to him at once,' said Miss Gwynne, 'and I
think we had better play his funeral dirge. Lady Mary, will you give us
'The Dead March in Saul,' or something appropriate? Never mind, Netta; I
daresay cousin Howel will turn out a great man by-and-by;' this last
clause was whispered to Netta, whilst the young hostess went towards a
grand piano that stood invitingly open, and begged Lady Mary Nugent to
give them some music.
That lady played some brilliant waltzes, after which, her daughter
accompanied her in the small bass of a duet.
'Pon my soul, that's a pretty girl, that little Prothero!' said Sir Hugh
Pryse to young Rice Rice. 'I never saw such a complexion in my life.
Roses and carnations are nothing to it.'
'Rather a vulgar style of beauty, I think,' said Mr Rice Rice, junior,
taking up an eyeglass, and finding some difficulty in fixing it in his
eye. He had lately discovered that he was nearsighted, to the great
grief of his mother, who, however, sometimes spoke of the sad fact in
the same tone that she used to speak of the Rice Rice, and Morgan of
Glanwilliam families. She herself belonged to the latter.
'I vow she's lovely!' cried the baronet, so emphatically that every one
in the room might have heard him. Most of the ladies, doubtless, did,
and appropriated the sentiment, but, by-and-by, Netta was triumphant, as
he went and sat by her, and complimented her in very audible terms.
She blushed and coquetted very respectably for a country damsel, and
wondered whether a poor baronet, or a wealthy miser's son would best
help her to humble the pride and condescension of the Nugents and the
Rice Rices.
Whilst Lady Mary Nugent was playing, Mr Gwynne very nearly went to
sleep, and Rowland Prothero, who liked nothing but chants, and a solemn
kind of music that he chose to think befitting a clergyman, was, in his
turn, looking over the drawing-room scrap book. Miss Gwynne gave her
papa a sly push, and whispered, that she believed Mr Rowland Prothero
played chess.
Mr Gwynne aroused himself, and challenged his young neighbour. Miss
Gwyne, assisted by all the gentlemen, brought the chess-table, and the
game soon began.
There is no doubt that there is nothing in the world more selfish, more
absorbing, more disagreeable to every one excepting the players, than
chess. Mr Gwynne began his game half asleep; Rowland began his in a very
bad temper. The former was glad of anything that could keep him awake,
the latter was disgusted at having been made the victim of Miss Gwynne's
anxiety to preserve her father from falling fast asleep in the midst of
his guests. But, by degrees, the one was thoroughly aroused, and the
other forgot his annoyance. Both soon ignored the presence of any human
being save himself and his opponent.
Music and talking sounded on all sides, but they made no impression on
the chess-players. Lady Mary performed all her most brilliant airs and
variations in vain, as far as Mr Gwynne was concerned; and Rowland was
even unconscious that Netta had resolutely played through all the small
pieces she had learnt at school at the particular request of Sir Hugh
Pryse.
'That game will never finish,' at last exclaimed Lady Mary, approaching
Mr Gwynne. 'How can any one like chess?'
Mr Gwynne kept his finger on a piece he was about to move, glanced up,
but did not speak.
'They tell me you ought to have at least five or six moves in your eye
whilst you are making one,' said Sir Hugh. 'For my part, I always find
one move at a time more than I can manage. It certainly is the dullest
game ever invented.'
'Chess is a game of great antiquity,' said the Rev. Jonathan
sententiously. 'It is supposed to have been invented in China or
Hindustan, and was known in the latter place by the name _Chaturanga_,
that is, four _angas_, or members of an army.'
'The army must be proud to send such members to parliament,' said young
Rice Rice, with a consciousness of superior wit, in which the remainder
of the party did not appear to participate.
'True, young gentleman,' said Mr Jonathan, 'and well she might, for they
were elephants, horses, chariots, and foot-soldiers; but what such
members of an army have to do with parliament, I should be glad to hear
you explain. I do not remember mention being made of parliament till the
twelfth century. It was first applied to general assemblies in France
during the reign of Louis the Seventh; and the earliest mention of it in
England is in the preamble to the statute of Westminster in 1272. It is
derived from the French word _parler_, to speak.'
'Then,' said Miss Gwynne, 'there must be some truth in what I have
heard, that the first parliament was composed of women.'
'Good, good, 'pon my soul!' roared Sir Hugh.
'But Sir William Jones says of chess,' continued Mr Jonathan, in the
same unchanged tone and manner, 'that the Hindus--'
'Oh, my dear, pray do not let us hear anything of Sir William Jones; I
am sick to death of all the Jones',' interrupted Mrs Prothero, causing a
diversion, and a suppressed laugh at her expense, instead of at young
Rice Rice's, who had made the last sally upon Mr Jonathan, and a
somewhat mortifying retreat.
It was remarkable, that whoever made a sly attack upon that worthy, with
a view to a joke, was sure to have the tables turned upon him, by the
matter-of-fact way in which his joke was received, refuted, and cut to
pieces.
'I assure you, my dear, there have been many very celebrated Jones', Sir
William at the head of them. He was a great Oriental scholar. Then there
was Inigo Jones, the architect; and John Paul Jones, the admiral; and Dr
John Jones, the grammarian, born in this very county; and--and--'
'That celebrated Mr David Jones, Mr Prothero, whose locker was so deep
that I am sure he must have been a relation of the admiral,' suggested
Miss Gwynne.
'Truly so, my dear--but I have read--'
'I am afraid I must trouble you to order my carriage, Mr Gwynne,' said
Lady Mary, looking impatiently, first at the chess-table, secondly at
her daughter, who was engaged in animated nonsense with Mr Rice Rice,
junior; and thirdly at Sir Hugh, still occupied in making Netta blush.
'I beg your pardon; one moment, Lady Mary; I must just castle my king.'
'Perhaps you had better put an end to the game, papa,' said Miss Gwynne.
'Not for the world, my dear. What do you say, Mr Rowland?'
'I should certainly like to finish it, but perhaps we are
inconveniencing others.'
'Ah, yes, to be sure. Then will you come and dine with me to-morrow, and
we will finish it?'
'Thank you, I shall be very happy,'
Mr Rice Rice, junior, and Sir Hugh wished that they were good chess
players. It was quite an honour to be invited to a family party at
Glanyravon.
'Put the chess-table into the book-room, Winifred, and lock the door.'
Mr Gwynne actually rose in the excitement of the moment.
'If the servants come they will disturb the men, and--and--all that sort
of thing, you know.'
Miss Gwynne and Rowland carried the chess-table into a small room,
opening into the drawing-room, and duly locked the door after them.
'I suppose you are fond of chess,' said Miss Gwynne for want of
something to say.
'Very,' said Rowland laconically, and she little knew what was passing
in his mind.
Always the same thoughts when in her presence--thoughts of mingled
approbation and dislike. But she cared little what he thought of her.
'Dry and pedantic, and very disagreeable,' was what she thought of him.
'Your nephew is rather a sinking-looking young man,' were Lady Mary's
words to Mrs Prothero, during his temporary absence.
'Yes, he is very clever and gentlemanlike. He gained high honours at
Oxford, and my cousin. Sir Philip Payne Perry, is going to procure him a
London curacy,'
Lady Mary looked still more favourably upon Rowland when he returned,
with a flush on his face, from the book-room.
'Do you know that young Prothero is a very handsome young man?' she said
to Miss Gwynne.
'Very handsome,' said Miss Gwynne, remembering her intentions for
Wilhelmina. And the carriages were announced.