The moment Harry reseated himself at the dining-table, two of his old
college friends placed themselves beside him, and plunging at once into
recollections of “auld-lang-syne,” completely monopolised him. The
sound of his own name eagerly pronounced, roused him at length from an
interesting reminiscence of how gloriously drunk Jones of Magdalen had
been at Tippleton’s wine-party (when he _would_ sing a pathetic ballad,
beginning, “There’s a wail on the mountain!” and was stopped by a roar
of laughter, chorusing the inquiry, “how the deuce it--the whale--got
there?”). The speaker was Mr. Hazlehurst. “Excuse my interrupting your
conversation for a few minutes, Mr. Coverdale,” he began, “but we want
your opinion. You’ve travelled and seen the working of different tariff
regulations, and had opportunities of comparing the prosperity of
other nations with that of our own, while at the same time you are a
sufficiently large landed-proprietor to give you a stake in the country,
and to induce you to feel a strong interest in the general prospects
of the agricultural population. I am sure you must agree with me in
considering protection a most essential and salutary measure.”
“If I might be allowed to make just one observation before Mr. Coverdale
favours us with his views on this important question,” insinuated
Mr. Crane, in the mildest and most affectionate tone of voice
imaginable--wine always reducing this excellent man to a state of weak
and inappropriate philanthropy--“if I might observe that, with the
highest respect for, and admiration of, the agricultural population
of this great country, I feel it incompatible with my feelings as a
Protestant, and therefore, so to speak, in a general way as a brother,
not to say as a man also, and more particularly as a mill-owner, to
forget the thousands of operatives who crowd our large cities, and who,
when satisfied with cheap bread, add to the dignity and prosperity
of the nation; but, on the contrary, when deprived of this means
of support, object to resign themselves to the dispensations of a
beneficent Providence, and fly in the face of society as chartists,
levellers, red-republicans, and all that is dangerous and subversive of
morality and security of property. If I may so far presume as to call
Mr. Coverdale’s attention to the desirableness of providing food at
a rate which will enable the manufacturing classes to exist without
constantly working themselves up into a state of illegal desperation, I
shall feel that I have, if I may be allowed the expression, unburthened
my conscience.” Thus saying, Mr. Crane cast a timid and appealing look
from Harry to his host, and sipped a glass of Burgundy with the air of a
man apologising for some misdeed.
“It is not a subject upon which I have ever expended any vast amount
of consideration,” began Coverdale, wishing in his secret soul that he
might have the feeding of Mr. Crane for the ensuing six months
entrusted to him, in which case he would have afforded that gentleman
an opportunity of practically testing the merits of _very_ cheap bread
indeed, and of nothing else--except, perhaps, cold spring water; “but
the common sense of the matter appears to lie in a nutshell: the two
great divisions of the poorer classes are the manufacturing poor and
the agricultural poor, the manufacturers being the most numerous--to
sacrifice one to the other is unfair, but to offer up the greater to the
less is ridiculous. Free-trade has had a fair trial, and has been proved
to benefit the masses, though it lies heavily on the land-owners. Well,
then, relieve land of its burthens, and make the income-tax permanent
to reimburse the Exchequer. That’s the line I should take if I were
Premier, which, thank heaven, I’m not.”
As Harry concluded, two or three men began to speak at once, but Mr.
Hazlehurst, by a solemn wave of the hand, immediately silenced them.
That excellent magistrate had drunk more wine than was by any means good
for him; his constitution was gouty, and he had not had a fit for some
time; before such attacks he was usually as irritable as though his
brain were a hedgehog, and society at large a pack of wire-haired
terriers attempting to unroll it. Claret was the most unwholesome wine
he could take, and on the evening in question he had imbibed nearly
a bottle thereof; but of all this _dessous des cartes_, Harry was
innocently unconscious.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” began Mr. Hazlehurst, solemnly, “but the
right of reply at present rests with myself. Moreover, if my ears did
not deceive me, Mr. Coverdale has made an observation which I must call
upon him either to explain or retract; but in the first place, let
me express my surprise and regret, sir,” here he addressed himself
pointedly to Harry, “that a young man in your position, a large
landed-proprietor, a lover of field-sports, possessing a practical
knowledge of land, and a personal acquaintance with the habits and
customs of the agricultural poor--the bone and sinews of our country,
should thus turn against and betray the interests of the class to
which he belongs, and league himself with those who would, in their
shortsightedness, sap the vitals of that free and independent character
which has made us the great nation that we are. With regard to the
observation to which I alluded, I believe, that having stigmatised
the opinions I hold as a sacrifice of the greater to the less, you
deliberately pronounced those opinions ridiculous. Have I not repeated
your words correctly?”
“I certainly said that to sacrifice the greater number to the less would
be ridiculous,” returned Harry, completely taken aback at this sudden
and unexpected accusation; “but I only meant--”
“You meant what you said, I presume?” interposed Mr. Hazlehurst, in the
magisterial tone of voice in which he was accustomed to cross-examine
and be down upon equivocating poachers.
“Of course I did,” returned Harry, his eyes flashing as he observed a
sarcastic smile upon the face of Horace D’Almayne. “I always mean what I
say; but my remark related solely to general principles, and had not the
smallest reference to you personally, sir.”
“Which is equivalent to saying, that I do not understand the common
meaning of words,” returned Mr. Hazlehurst, in the same irritating tone
of voice. “Really, Mr. Coverdale, your explanations do not tend to do
away with the unfavourable impression your observation forced upon me.”
“It is equivalent to nothing of the kind, sir,” rejoined Harry, losing
his self-command as a second glance at D’Almayne revealed the fact that
he was hiding a laugh behind an elaborately-worked cambric handkerchief;
“but if you chose to put a wrong construction upon every word I
utter, it is useless for me to discuss the matter further with a man
so--a--so----”
At this critical moment, Tom Hazlehurst, who had been listening with a
countenance of blank dismay to the altercation between his father and
his friend, contrived, either by accident or design, to throw down
and break a valuable china plate. This incident created a diversion by
calling forth an outburst of parental wrath, under cover whereof Harry
regained sufficient self-control to enable him to suppress the word
“wrong-headed,” with which he had been on the point of concluding his
sentence. At the same time, Mr. Crane, having a mortal antipathy to
anything like quarrelling, which, as he said, produced “an insalubrious
agitation of his nervous system,” or, in plain English, frightened him
out of his wits, suggested that they should join the ladies--a proposal
which led to a general move. Five minutes’ reflection, in an atmosphere
less oppressive than that of the heated dining-room, caused Harry to
perceive that, by having allowed himself to be provoked by the obstinacy
of a pig-headed and slightly tipsy old gentleman into even a momentary
forgetfulness of the respect due to Mr. Hazlehurst’s years and
position, he had acted wrongly and foolishly. It moreover occurred to
him, now that it was too late to be of the slightest use, that owing to
this unfortunate disagreement he must have completely neutralised any
influence he might have possessed with his host, and thus, in fact,
frustrated the whole purpose of his visit: by which means Arthur would
be vexed, and the possibility of Alice’s marriage with Mr. Crane rather
increased than otherwise. Just as he was about to exchange the cool
air of the garden (whither on leaving the dining-room he had betaken
himself) for the less agreeable temperature of a crowded drawing-room, he
was patted on the shoulder by one of his college acquaintance.
“Ah, Knighton! what is it man?” Observed Harry, wishing his dear
friend at Jericho. “I took you for the stem of a tree, you stood so
motionless.”
“Why the fact is, my dear fellow,” returned Knighton, a well-disposed
goose, who, when Harry first commenced his college career, had formed
an enthusiastic attachment for him, in return for which he expected his
friend to advise him how to act and what to say upon every occasion,
trifling as well as important--a tax which even Harry’s good-nature
found somewhat oppressive, “the fact is, I consider it quite
providential, if I may say so, finding you here to-night: you know I
always like to have your opinion before I make up my mind; there is
nobody with such good sense as you, at least, nobody that I’ve ever met
with. My dear Coverdale, I’m going to take the most important step--that
is, if you see no reason against it, which I can scarcely feel a doubt
of; but I’ll tell you the whole affair, beginning properly at the
beginning. When I was down in Hampshire three years ago----” but we will
not inflict Mr. Knighton’s amiable prolixity on the reader, suffice it
to say that, having linked his arm within that of Coverdale, he paraded
his victim up and down a gravel walk for the space of at least three
quarters of an hour, while he poured into his ears as dull a tale of
true love as ever ran smooth: true love of the very mildest quality,
which, from the beginning, was certain to end simply and naturally in
a stupid marriage, about the whole of which affair there could not by
possibility be two opinions. At length, when Harry had agreed, with
everything and to everything at least twice over, and strongly advised
his tormentor to act as he felt certain he would have done if his advice
had been just the other way (for this young man, although he eagerly
sought counsel, by no means considered himself bound to walk thereby),
it suddenly occurred to Mr. Knighton that he was doing an unkind thing
by his friend, and a rude one by his host, in not sooner joining the
ladies; accordingly, at (literally) the eleventh hour, he exercised thus
much self-denial, viz. having nothing more to say, he said it.
When Coverdale entered the drawing-room, he cast round his eyes to
discover what might have become of Alice and Mr. Crane, and failing to
perceive them, was about to find some excuse for making his way into the
boudoir beyond, when Emily pounced upon him to entreat him to sing for
the edification of some dear Mary Jane or other, who was dying to hear
him; and the very identical Mary Jane herself seconding the request in
a mild, insinuating, blatant tone of voice, as of some bashful but
persuasive sheep, there remained nothing for him but to consent, which
he did with a very ill grace indeed. Having dashed through a tender and
sentimental Italian love-ditty in a ferocious, not to say sanguinary,
style, he declared he was so hoarse that he could not sing another note,
and again made an attempt to enter the boudoir, which he succeeded
in reaching just in time to see Alice quit the room with a heightened
colour, and in a manner which betokened hurry and agitation, while Mr.
Crane remained gazing after her with a countenance indicative of the
deepest and most helpless bewilderment. From these symptoms Harry
rightly conjectured that while he had been off duty the cotton-spinner
had popped; but whether his offer had been accepted or rejected he was
utterly unable to divine. Mr. Crane looked stupid and puzzle-pated--but
_that_ he was sure to do in any case. For the rest of the evening
Coverdale was in a fearful state of mind; people stayed late, and it
seemed to him as if everybody had entered into a league to worry and
torment him. First, the young lady who had sat next him at dinner got at
him again, and flirted at him so violently, that (his thoughts running
entirely on marrying and giving in marriage) he became possessed of a
nervous dread lest she should be going to make him an offer--this idea
gaining confirmation from its suddenly occurring to him that it was
Leap-year, he grew desperate, and pretending that Emily had made him
promise to sing again, astonished that damsel by crossing over to inform
her that his hoarseness had entirely departed, and that he should have
the greatest pleasure in favouring her friend with the song she had
wished to hear; for which piece of inconsistency Emily bestowed upon him
a glance so penetrating and satirical, that he longed to box her pretty
pert little ears for it. When the song was over, Knighton emerged from
behind a broad old lady, somebody’s mother-in-law, very far gone in
Curaçoa, which she concealed behind a pious zeal for clothing the
female natives of Barelyaragon (an unknown island, discovered by Juan
de Chuzacruz in the sixteenth century, and forgotten ever since) in the
cast-off garments of the Bluecoat-School boys. The moment Knighton
got clear of this philanthropic elder he pounced upon Coverdale,
and carrying him off to a recess, then and there related to him an
additional episode in his amatory career, which was not of the slightest
importance either to himself or to anybody else, but which took nearly
as long to communicate as the original history. During this infliction,
Harry’s attention was occupied by observing the behaviour of Mr. Crane.
Almost as soon as Alice quitted the boudoir, Kate Marsden had entered
it, and begun a long and apparently interesting conversation with Mr.
Crane, during which that gentleman, who at the commencement appeared
rather low and desponding, gradually brightened up, and, under the
influence of his fair companion’s society, grew quite lively and
animated; in fact (if by any stretch of imagination the reader can
connect two such antagonistic and incongruous ideas as Mr. Crane
and flirtation), an uninitiated spectator, beholding the pair, might
legitimately have come to the conclusion that Kate Marsden and the
cotton-spinner were very decidedly and unmistakably flirting.
The longest evenings come to an end at last, and Coverdale having seen
Knighton safely deposited in a dog-cart, with nobody to bore but
a sleepy groom, was making his way to the spot where the bedroom
candlesticks were usually to be discovered, when he suddenly encountered
Mr. Hazlehurst. Standing aside to let him pass, Harry, in his most
polite and conciliatory manner, wished him good-night. The only reply
vouchsafed was the slightest and stiffest possible nod of the head, and
with a countenance as dark and lowering as the most viciously disposed
thunder-cloud, the offended autocrat passed on.