In their passage to the Hall, the Marquess and Mrs. Million met Vivian
Grey, booted and spurred, and covered with mud.
“Oh! Mrs. Million--Mr. Vivian Grey. How is this, my dear fellow? you
will be too late.”
“Immense honour!” said Vivian, bowing to the ground to the lady. “Oh! my
Lord I was late, and made a short cut over Fearnley Bog. It has proved a
very Moscow expedition. However, I am keeping you. I shall be in time
for the guava and liqueurs, and you know that is the only refreshment I
ever take.”
“Who is that, Marquess?” asked Mrs. Million.
“That is Mr. Vivian Grey, the most monstrous clever young man, and
nicest fellow I know.”
“He does, indeed, seem, a very nice young man,” said Mrs. Million.
Some steam process should be invented for arranging guests when they are
above five hundred. In the present instance all went wrong when they
entered the Hall; but, at last, the arrangements, which, of course, were
of the simplest nature, were comprehended, and the guests were seated.
There were three tables, each stretching down the Hall; the dais was
occupied by a military band. The number of guests, the contrast between
the antique chamber and their modern costumes, the music, the various
liveried menials, all combined to produce a whole, which at the same
time was very striking, and “in remarkable good taste.”
In process of time, Mr. Vivian Grey made his entrance. There were a few
vacant seats at the bottom of the table, “luckily for him,” as kindly
remarked Mr. Grumbleton. To the astonishment and indignation, however,
of this worthy squire, the late comer passed by the unoccupied position,
and proceeded onward with undaunted coolness, until he came to about the
middle of the middle table, and which was nearly the best situation
in the Hall.
“Beautiful Cynthia,” said Vivian Grey, softly and sweetly whispering in
Miss Courtown’s ear, “I am sure you will give up your place to me; you
have nerve enough, you know, for anything, and would no more care for
standing out than I for sitting in.” There is nothing like giving a
romp credit for a little boldness. To keep up her character she will
out-herod Herod.
“Oh! Grey, is it you? certainly, you shall have my place immediately;
but I am not sure that we cannot make room for you. Dormer Stanhope,
room must be made for Grey, or I shall leave the table immediately. You
men!” said the hoyden, turning round to a set of surrounding servants,
“push this form down and put a chair between.”
The men obeyed. All who sat lower in the table on Miss Cynthia
Courtown’s side than that lady, were suddenly propelled downwards about
the distance of two feet. Dr. Sly, who was flourishing a carving-knife
and fork, preparatory to dissecting a gorgeous haunch, had these fearful
instruments suddenly precipitated into a trifle, from whose sugared
trellis-work he found great difficulty in extricating them; while Miss
Gusset, who was on the point of cooling herself with some exquisite iced
jelly, found her frigid portion as suddenly transformed into a plate of
peculiarly ardent curry, the property, but a moment before, of old
Colonel Rangoon. Everything, however, receives a civil reception from a
toad-eater, so Miss Gusset burnt herself to death by devouring a
composition, which would have reduced anyone to ashes who had not fought
against Bundoolah.
“Now that is what I call a sensible arrangement; what could go off
better?” said Vivian.
“You may think so, sir,” said Mr. Boreall, a sharp-nosed and
conceited-looking man, who, having got among a set whom he did not the
least understand, was determined to take up Dr. Sly’s quarrel, merely
for the sake of conversation. “You, I say, sir, may think it so, but I
rather imagine that the ladies and gentlemen lower down can hardly think
it a sensible arrangement;” and here Boreall looked as if he had done
his duty, in giving a young man a proper reproof.
Vivian glanced a look of annihilation. “I had reckoned upon two deaths,
sir, when I entered the Hall, and finding, as I do, that the whole
business has apparently gone off without any fatal accident, why, I
think the circumstances bear me out in my expression.”
Mr. Boreall was one of those unfortunate men who always take things to
the letter: he consequently looked amazed, and exclaimed, “Two
deaths, sir?”
“Yes, sir, two deaths; I reckoned, of course, on some corpulent parent
being crushed to death in the scuffle, and then I should have had to
shoot his son through the head for his filial satisfaction. Dormer
Stanhope, I never thanked you for exerting yourself: send me that
fricandeau you have just helped yourself to.”
Dormer, who was, as Vivian well knew, something of an epicure, looked
rather annoyed, but by this time he was accustomed to Vivian Grey, and
sent him the portion he had intended for himself. Could epicure do more?
“Whom are we among, bright Cynthia?” asked Vivian.
“Oh! an odd set,” said the lady, looking dignified; “but you know we can
be exclusive.”
“Exclusive! pooh! trash! Talk to everybody; it looks as if you were
going to stand for the county. Have we any of the millionaires near us?”
“The Doctor and Toady are lower down.”
“Where is Mrs. Felix Lorraine?”
“At the opposite table, with Ernest Clay.”
“Oh! there is Alhambra, next to Dormer Stanhope. Lord Alhambra, I am
quite rejoiced to see you.”
“Ah! Mr. Grey, I am quite rejoiced to see you. How is your father?”
“Extremely well; he is at Paris; I heard from him yesterday. Do you ever
see the Weimar Literary Gazette, my Lord?”
“No; why?”
“There is an admirable review of your poem in the last number I have
received.”
The young nobleman looked agitated. “I think, by the style,” continued
Vivian, “that it is by Goëthe. It is really delightful to see the oldest
poet in Europe dilating on the brilliancy of a new star on the
poetical horizon.”
This was uttered with a perfectly grave voice, and now the young
nobleman blushed. “Who is _Gewter_?” asked Mr. Boreall, who possessed
such a thirst for knowledge that he never allowed an opportunity to
escape him of displaying his ignorance.
“A celebrated German writer,” lisped the modest Miss Macdonald.
“I never heard his name,” persevered the indefatigable Boreall; “how do
you spell it?”
“GOETHE,” re-lisped modesty.
“Oh! _Goty_!” exclaimed the querist. “I know him well: he wrote the
Sorrows of Werter.”
“Did he indeed, sir?” asked Vivian, with the most innocent and inquiring
face.
“Oh! don’t you know that?” said Boreall, “and poor stuff it is!”
“Lord Alhambra! I will take a glass of Johannisberg with you, if the
Marquess’ wines are in the state they should be:
The Crescent warriors sipped their sherbet spiced,
For Christian men the various wines were _iced_.
I always think that those are two of the best lines in your Lordship’s
poem,” said Vivian.
His Lordship did not exactly remember them: it would have been a wonder
if he had: but he thought Vivian Grey the most delightful fellow he ever
met, and determined to ask him to Helicon Castle for the
Christmas holidays.
“Flat! flat!” said Vivian, as he dwelt upon the flavour of the Rhine’s
glory. “Not exactly from the favourite bin of Prince Metternich, I
think. By-the-bye, Dormer Stanhope, you have a taste that way; I will
tell you two secrets, which never forget: decant your Johannisberg, and
ice your Maraschino. Ay, do not stare, my dear Gastronome, but do it.”
“O, Vivian! why did not you come and speak to me?” exclaimed a lady who
was sitting at the side opposite Vivian, but higher in the table.
“Ah! adorable Lady Julia! and so you were done on the grey filly.”
“Done!” said the sporting beauty with pouting lips; “but it is a long
story, and I will tell it you another time.”
“Ah! do. How is Sir Peter?”
“Oh! he has had a fit or two, since you saw him last.”
“Poor old gentleman! let us drink his health. Do you know Lady Julia
Knighton?” asked Vivian of his neighbour. “This Hall is bearable to dine
in; but I once breakfasted here, and I never shall forget the ludicrous
effect produced by the sun through the oriel window. Such complexions!
Every one looked like a prize-fighter ten days after a battle. After
all, painted glass is a bore; I wish the Marquess would have it knocked
out, and have it plated.”
“Knock out the painted glass!” said Mr. Boreall; “well, I must confess,
I cannot agree with you.”
“I should have been extremely surprised if you could. If you do not
insult that man, Miss Courtown, in ten minutes I shall be no more. I
have already a nervous fever.”
“May I have the honour of taking a glass of champagne with you, Mr.
Grey?” said Boreall.
“Mr. Grey, indeed!” muttered Vivian: “Sir, I never drink anything but
brandy.”
“Allow me to give _you_ some champagne, Miss,” resumed Boreall, as he
attacked the modest Miss Macdonald: “champagne, you know,” continued he,
with a smile of agonising courtesy, “is quite the lady’s wine.”
“Cynthia Courtown,” whispered Vivian with a sepulchral voice, “‘tis all
over with me: I have been thinking what would come next. This is too
much: I am already dead. Have Boreall arrested; the chain of
circumstantial evidence is very strong.”
“Baker!” said Vivian, turning to a servant, “go and inquire if Mr.
Stapylton Toad dines at the Castle to-day.”
A flourish of trumpets announced the rise of the Marchioness of Carabas,
and in a few minutes the most ornamental portion of the guests had
disappeared. The gentlemen made a general “move up,” and Vivian found
himself opposite his friend, Mr. Hargrave.
“Ah! Mr. Hargrave, how d’ye do? What do you think of the Secretary’s
state paper?”
“A magnificent composition, and quite unanswerable. I was just speaking
of it to my friend here, Mr. Metternich Scribe. Allow me to introduce
you to Mr. Metternich Scribe.”
“Mr. Metternich Scribe, Mr. Vivian Grey!” and here Mr. Hargrave
introduced Vivian to an effeminate-looking, perfumed young man, with a
handsome, unmeaning face and very white hands; in short, as dapper a
little diplomatist as ever tattled about the Congress of Verona, smirked
at Lady Almack’s supper after the Opera, or vowed “that Richmond Terrace
was a most convenient situation for official men.”
“We have had it with us some time before the public received it,” said
the future under-secretary, with a look at once condescending and
conceited.
“Have you?” said Vivian: “well, it does your office credit. It is a
singular thing that Canning and Croker are the only official men who can
write grammar.”
The dismayed young gentleman of the Foreign Office was about to mince a
repartee, when Vivian left his seat, for he had a great deal of business
to transact. “Mr. Leverton,” said he, accosting a flourishing grazier,
“I have received a letter from my friend, M. De Noé. He is desirous of
purchasing some Leicestershires for his estate in Burgundy. Pray, may I
take the liberty of introducing his agent to you?”
Mr. Leverton was delighted.
“I also wanted to see you about some other little business. Let me see,
what was it? Never mind, I will take my wine here, if you can make room
for me; I shall remember it, I dare say, soon. Oh! by-the-bye: ah! that
was it. Stapylton Toad; Mr. Stapylton Toad; I want to know all about Mr.
Stapylton Toad. I dare say you can tell me. A friend of mine intends to
consult him on some parliamentary business, and he wishes to know
something about him before he calls.”
We will condense, for the benefit of the reader, the information of Mr.
Leverton.
Stapylton Toad had not the honour of being acquainted with his father’s
name; but as the son found himself, at an early age, apprenticed to a
solicitor of eminence, he was of opinion that his parent must have been
respectable. Respectable! mysterious word! Stapylton was a diligent and
faithful clerk, but was not so fortunate in his apprenticeship as the
celebrated Whittington, for his master had no daughter and many sons; in
consequence of which, Stapylton, not being able to become his master’s
partner, became his master’s rival.
On the door of one of the shabbiest houses in Jermyn Street the name of
Mr. Stapylton Toad for a long time figured, magnificently engraved on a
broad brass plate. There was nothing however, otherwise, in the
appearance of the establishment, which indicated that Mr. Toad’s
progress was very rapid, or his professional career extraordinarily
prosperous. In an outward office one solitary clerk was seen, oftener
stirring his office fire than wasting his master’s ink; and Mr. Toad was
known by his brother attorneys as a gentleman who was not recorded in
the courts as ever having conducted a single cause. In a few years,
however, a story was added to the Jermyn Street abode, which, new
pointed and new painted, began to assume a mansion-like appearance. The
house-door was also thrown open, for the solitary clerk no longer found
time to answer the often agitated bell; and the eyes of the entering
client were now saluted by a gorgeous green baize office door; the
imposing appearance of which was only equalled by Mr. Toad’s new private
portal, splendid with a brass knocker and patent varnish. And now his
brother attorneys began to wonder “how Toad got on! and who Toad’s
clients were!”
A few more years rolled over, and Mr. Toad was seen riding in the Park
at a classical hour, attended by a groom in a classical livery. And
now “the profession” wondered still more, and significant looks were
interchanged by “the respectable houses:” and flourishing practitioners
in the City shrugged up their shoulders, and talked mysteriously
of “money business,” and “some odd work in annuities.” In spite,
however, of the charitable surmises of his brother lawyers, it must
be confessed that nothing of even an equivocal nature ever transpired
against the character of the flourishing Mr. Toad, who, to complete the
mortification of his less successful rivals, married, and at the same
time moved from Jermyn Street to Cavendish Square. The new residence
of Mr. Toad had previously been the mansion of a noble client, and one
whom, as the world said, Mr. Toad “had got out of difficulties.” This
significant phrase will probably throw some light upon the nature of
the mysterious business of our prosperous practitioner. Noble Lords who
have been in difficulties will not much wonder at the prosperity of
those who get them out.
About this time Mr. Toad became acquainted with Lord Mounteney, a
nobleman in great distress, with fifty thousand per annum. His Lordship
“really did not know how he had got involved: he never gamed, he was not
married, and his consequent expenses had never been unreasonable: he was
not extraordinarily negligent; quite the reverse: was something of a man
of business, remembered once looking over his accounts; and yet in spite
of his regular and correct career, found himself quite involved, and
must leave England.”
The arrangement of the Mounteney property was the crowning stroke of Mr.
Stapylton Toad’s professional celebrity. His Lordship was not under the
necessity of quitting England, and found himself in the course of five
years in the receipt of a clear rental of five-and-twenty thousand per
annum. His Lordship was in raptures; and Stapylton Toad purchased an
elegant villa in Surrey, and became a Member of Parliament. Goodburn
Park, for such was the name of Mr. Toad’s country residence, in spite of
its double lodges and patent park paling, was not, to Mr. Toad, a very
expensive purchase; for he “took it off the hands” of a distressed
client who wanted an immediate supply, “merely to convenience him,” and,
consequently, became the purchaser at about half its real value.
“Attorneys,” as Bustle the auctioneer says, “have _such_ opportunities!”
Mr. Toad’s career in the House was as correct as his conduct out of it.
After ten years’ regular attendance, the boldest conjecturer would not
have dared to define his political principles. It was a rule with
Stapylton Toad never to commit himself. Once, indeed, he wrote an able
pamphlet on the Corn Laws, which excited the dire indignation of the
Political Economy Club. But Stapylton cared little for their subtle
confutations and their loudly expressed contempt. He had obliged the
country gentlemen of England, and ensured the return, at the next
election, of Lord Mounteney’s brother for the county. At this general
election, also, Stapylton Toad’s purpose in entering the House became
rather more manifest; for it was found, to the surprise of the whole
country, that there was scarcely a place in England; county, town, or
borough; in which Mr. Stapylton Toad did not possess some influence. In
short, it was discovered, that Mr. Stapylton Toad had “a first-rate
parliamentary business;” that nothing could be done without his
co-operation, and everything with it. In spite of his prosperity,
Stapylton had the good sense never to retire from business, and even to
refuse a baronetcy; on condition, however, that it should be offered
to his son.
Stapylton, like the rest of mankind, had his weak points. The late
Marquess of Almack’s was wont to manage him very happily, and Toad was
always introducing that minister’s opinion of his importance. “‘My time
is quite at your service, General,’ although the poor dear Marquess used
to say, ‘Mr. Stapylton Toad, your time is mine.’ He knew the business I
had to get through!” The family portraits also, in ostentatious frames,
now adorned the dining-room of his London mansion; and it was amusing to
hear the worthy M.P. dilate upon his likeness to his respected father.
“You see, my Lord,” Stapylton would say, pointing to a dark, dingy
picture of a gentleman in a rich court dress, “you see, my Lord, it is
not in a very good light, and it certainly is a very dark picture, by
Hudson; all Hudson’s pictures were dark. But if I were six inches
taller, and could hold the light just there, I think your Lordship would
be astonished at the resemblance; but it’s a dark picture, certainly it
is dark; all Hudson’s pictures were.”