MY FIRST DINNER PARTY.
At a quarter to eight I stood in the great hall of Ravenor Castle. On my
first visit its vastness and gloom had somewhat chilled me; now it was
altogether different. A small army of servants in picturesque livery and
with powdered hair were moving noiselessly about. Soft lights were
burning on many brackets, dispelling the deep shades which had hung
somewhat drearily about; and there was a fragrant perfume of flowers and
a pleasant sense of warmth in the air. I began to understand at once the
stories I had heard of the luxury and magnificence with which Mr. Ravenor
entertained his guests on the rare occasions when he threw open his
doors.
Mr. Ravenor was in his private rooms, I was told, and his own groom of
the chambers, who had been summoned to take my name, ushered me, after a
moment's hesitation, into the library. I walked to the fire, for I was
cold, probably through being unused to wearing such thin clothes; and,
standing there with my hands behind my back, looked around with a feeling
almost of awe at the vast collection of books with which I was
surrounded.
"And who are you, please?"
I started and looked in the direction from which the voice--a sweet,
childish treble--came. Seated demurely in the centre of a large armchair,
with tumbled hair, and a book upon her lap, was a very young lady. Her
clear blue eyes were fixed calmly but inquiringly upon me, as though
expecting an immediate answer, and there was a slight frown upon her
forehead. Altogether, for such a diminutive maiden, she appeared rather
formidable.
"I didn't know that you were there," I said, in explanation of my start.
"My name is Morton--Philip Morton."
She looked me over gravely and critically, and succeeded in making me
feel uncomfortable. Apparently, however, the examination ended in my
favour, for the frown disappeared and she closed her book.
"Philip is pretty," she said condescendingly. "I don't think much of
Morton. I rather like Philip, though."
"I--I'm glad of that," I answered lamely. It was very ridiculous, but I
could think of nothing else to say. I wanted to say something brilliant,
but it wouldn't come; so I stood still and looked at her and got rather
red in the face.
"Do you know who I am?" she asked.
"Haven't the least idea," I admitted.
She leaned her small, delicate head upon her hand and began swaying her
feet slowly backwards and forwards.
"I am Lady Beatrice Cecilia--my mother is Lady Silchester," she said. "Do
you think it is a pretty name?"
"Very," I answered, biting my lip; "much prettier than mine."
"Do you know, I think you are a nice boy!" she proceeded. "I rather like
you."
"I'm so glad!" I answered, feeling unreasonably delighted. "I'm sure that
I like you," I added fervently.
"It's very good of you to say so, when you've only just seen me," she
remarked; "but you can't be quite sure. You don't know anything about me,
you see. I might be dreadfully disagreeable."
"But I'm sure you're not," I answered, feeling that I was getting on.
She was good enough to seem pleased at my confidence; but she made no
further remark for a minute or two, during which I racked my brains in
vain for some effective remark, with my eyes fixed upon her. She
certainly made a very charming picture, curled up in the great black oak
chair, with the firelight playing upon her ruddy golden hair and
glistening in her bright eyes.
"You've been reading, haven't you?" I asked, pointing to the book which
lay in her lap.
"It's not a nice book at all!" she said decidedly. "I don't like any of
the books here. Oh!"
I turned round quickly, for I saw that she was looking behind me.
Standing on the threshold of his inner room was the tall, dark figure of
Mr. Ravenor, handsomer than ever, it seemed to me, in his plain evening
dress.
Slowly he advanced out of the shadows, with a faint smile upon his pale
face, and laid his hand upon her shoulder, looking first at my little
hostess and then at me.
"So you've been entertaining one of my guests for me, Trixie, have you?"
he said. "Rather late for you to be up, isn't it? Your nurse has been
looking for you everywhere."
"Then I suppose I must go," Lady Beatrice Cecilia remarked deliberately.
She rose, shook her hair out, and, replacing the book which she had been
reading upon the shelf, prepared to depart. But first she came up to
where I was standing on the hearthrug and held out her little white hand.
"Good-night, Philip Morton," she said, looking up at me with a grave
smile. "I am very glad that you came in here to talk to me. I was so
dull."
I made some reciprocative speech, which, if it was somewhat awkwardly
expressed, had at least the merit of earnestness, and my eyes followed
her admiringly as she walked to the door and disappeared with a backward
glance and a smile. Then I started and coloured, to find that Mr. Ravenor
was watching me.
"I don't know why they should have brought you here," he said. "Come this
way."
I followed Mr. Ravenor across the hall into a suite of rooms hung with
satin, opening out one from another, and seeming to my inexperience like
a succession of brilliantly-lit fairy chambers. In the smallest and most
remote room three men were standing talking together, and in a low chair
by their side reclined Lady Silchester, holding a dainty screen of
peacock feathers between her face and the fire, and listening to the
conversation with a slightly bored air. She was in full evening toilette,
and several rows of diamonds flashed and sparkled with every rise and
fall of her snow-white throat. Afterwards I grew to look upon Lady
Silchester as a good type of the well-bred society woman; but then she
was a revelation to me--the revelation of a new species.
My appearance seemed at first to surprise and then slightly to discompose
her, but both emotions passed away at once and she welcomed me with a
charming little smile as she languidly raised her hand and placed it
within mine for a moment.
At our entrance the conversation ceased for a moment. Mr. Ravenor laid
his hand upon my shoulder and turned towards the little group.
"Sir Richard, let me introduce to you a young ward of mine and a disciple
of yours. Sir Richard Hibbet--Mr. Morton; Professor Marris--Mr. Morton;
Mr. Later--Mr. Morton."
They all shook hands with me, and, widening their circle a little,
continued the conversation.
This was interrupted presently by the announcement of dinner, the
Professor taking in our hostess, the others following, Mr. Ravenor and I
bringing up the rear.
There was no lack of conversation during dinner, though gradually it
turned towards purely literary matters and remained there. To me it was
altogether fascinating, although it was often beyond my comprehension.
Long after Lady Silchester had departed we sat round the small table
glittering with plate and finely-cut glass, and loaded with choice
flowers and wonderful fruits; and my senses were almost dazed by the
brilliancy of my material surroundings, and the ever-flowing
conversation, which seemed always to be teaching me something new and
opening up fresh fields of thought. At times I scarcely knew which most
to admire--the dry, pungent wit and caustic remarks of the Professor; the
perfectly expressed, classical English of Mr. Later; the sound, good
sense of Sir Richard, seasoned with an apparently inexhaustible stock of
anecdotes and quotations culled from all imaginable sources; or the
brilliant epigrams, the trenchant criticisms, and the occasional flashes
of genuine eloquence by means of which Mr. Ravenor, with rare art,
continually stimulated the talk.
Almost unnoticed, Mr. Marx, still in his morning coat, with pale face and
dark rims under his eyes, had entered and sank wearily into a seat; but,
although he listened with apparent interest, he took no part in the war
of words which was flashing around him. Suddenly it all came to an end.
Mr. Ravenor glanced at his watch and rose.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I must ask you to excuse me for an hour. If you
care to see the library, Mr. Marx will show it you, or the smoking-room
and billiard-room are at your service. Or if you care to remain here
there is plenty more of the yellow-seal claret and the cigars are upon
the table. Philip, I want you."
I rose and followed him towards the door. As I did so I had to pass Mr.
Marx, who had left his seat on some pretext. He leaned over towards me,
haggard and pale, and pushed a slip of paper into my fingers.
"Read it at once," he muttered, in a quick, low tone. Then he moved up
and took Mr. Ravenor's place at the head of the table.
I felt inclined to throw it back to him; but I did not. Passing across
the hall, I unfolded it and read these few words, scrawled in a large,
shaking hand:
"You must not go to Dr. Randall's. Mr. Ravenor will give you a choice. Go
anywhere but there. If you neglect this warning you will repent it all
your life. I swear it. Tear this up,"