ARTHUR HAS A LITTLE DINNER.
Arthur was thinking of getting up a little dinner for some of his most
worthy friends and most valuable acquaintances, and he was sitting in
the reading room of his favorite club, trying to make up his list.
There was a reception at the Livingstones that afternoon, and he
proposed going; but this deuce of a list took much more time than one
would suppose possible. He threw impatiently into the waste-paper
basket the third tentative sketch which had proved impossible, and
looked at his watch. The cards said half-past three--“to meet Miss
Holyoke”--it was indeed the first time Gracie was to appear out of her
deep mourning.
Arthur looked at his watch. It was after three already. He had thought
of going early, before the people came; however, he would make one
attempt more, and meantime ring and order the cab.
John Haviland--he must come of course--he was the man he really
esteemed most, of all the men he knew. But Birmingham did not like
Haviland--and Arthur could not possibly do without the earl--well,
so much the worse for his lordship; they could be put at opposite
ends of the table. So Haviland went in. Then there was Van Kull and
Charlie Townley; there had been some trouble, about a woman, between
these two men, and they were not upon the best of terms. But then
Arthur particularly wanted Van Kull; his presence at a stag-party was
sure to give it just the cachet that it needed, and Charlie was by no
means so popular, among the men. After all, he could not be forever
deferring to his friends; he would tell Charlie who was coming, and
if he didn’t like it, he could stay away. Besides, the dinner was but
an impromptu affair, gotten up for that very evening; at least, the
invitations were to be sent out then, though Arthur had schemed about
it for several days; and they might not half of them be disengaged. He
had spoken to Birmingham already; and he had promised to come. Caryl
Wemyss--there was another man. Him, at least, he would cut; for he
disliked him thoroughly. But, after all, Wemyss was a great card; he
affected to look down on young men, and it would be quite a social
triumph for him to get him. (It is difficult perhaps for us, who have
seen this celebrated personage from the inside, to realize what a
figurehead he had made himself in that portion of American society
which has aspirations beyond the ocean.) Yet it would give him the
keenest pleasure to leave this man out for once, more so than to put in
all the others; for he knew that Wemyss would like to go. Which was the
greatest pleasure--ambition or revenge?
A servant came up just here, and whispered that Mr. Holyoke’s cab was
ready. “Tell him to wait,” said Arthur, impatiently; and he admitted
Mr. Wemyss, with a sigh, to his list. Who next? There was Lucie Gower,
of course; everyone liked Lucie; and Arthur wrote the name, this time
with a sigh of relief. Then there was Lionel Derwent. He himself liked
him very much.--But confound it, no; Van Kull and Birmingham would
leave the room if that self-assertive, carelessly-dressed radical were
of the party. Who else was there? Mr. Tamms? Arthur was anxious enough
to get on in his business, and had even thought of his angular employer
at first. But it really would not do; that was a trifle too much of the
shop; he could ask him alone some time, to Coney Island. The list would
do as it was: the earl, Wemyss, Van Kull, Gower, Townley and Haviland.
He looked at his watch again; it was after four, and little Gussie
Mortimer, that dried-up old beau, would be sure to be there by this
time; he always went first, to get his fine work in with the very
youngest girls, while the coast was clear. There was no use seeing
Gracie with Gussie Mortimer. He might as well write the notes and
get them off; some of the men he could see at the Livingstones, and
Birmingham he was sure of, as that gentleman had lately been accepting
his hospitality at the Hill-and-Dale Club, and he had asked him
yesterday.
But Jimmy De Witt came in just then, and began to talk; it was nice to
be clapped on the shoulder by him, for he was very rich, in the right
of his wife, and given to entertaining. An enviable fellow, popular,
a great athlete, with a rich and pretty wife, who did not look much to
his comings in and goings out, having far too good a time herself for
that. It will be seen that Arthur’s ideas had changed a little from his
poetry days; but what would you have? He had been studying _les moyens
de parvenir_ since then. New York life is not a lyric, nor yet an epic,
or we had not called this book a satire. Before he knew it, Arthur had
asked him to dinner also, and Tony Duval; and then remembered that the
latter always cut John Haviland. But everything seemed to go wrong that
afternoon; the very de’il was in it. Derwent came in too, and asked him
if he was not going to the Livingstones. Arthur answered irritably;
and felt glad he had not invited him. He should go, he said, if he got
time. So, that we may not miss the kettledrum ourselves, perhaps we had
better accompany Derwent.
For Gracie has long been wondering why Arthur has not come; she has
looked forward to her “coming out” chiefly that she might see our hero
every day once more. Derwent goes to her at once. “I have just left a
friend of yours lamenting that he cannot get here sooner,” says he.
“Holyoke was positively savage that he was kept so long down town.”
It was a white lie, I know; yet few men would have been at the pains
to tell it. And Gracie smiles once more; and the burly, blond-bearded
man stays by her, like some comforting, protecting power. But he seems
destined to annoy his friends that afternoon; for Charlie Townley finds
him near by, too, and with quite other feelings. Charlie was there
early enough, you may be sure; and he is sitting with pretty Mamie
Livingstone on a sofa just behind them. And Birmingham, I fear, is
cursing Derwent too; such a knack have fanatics of making themselves
disagreeable! For every time he makes a pretty compliment to Miss
Farnum--and pretty compliments are slow and heavy things for our peer
of the realm to struggle with--it seems as if his beautiful companion
caught Derwent’s eye. And the beauty is, even to the Briton’s eye, a
bit unconscious of his fine speeches; and looks about her as if she too
were looking for some other swain. Only Mrs. Gower and Wemyss seem to
have escaped; but they are sitting by a certain screen in the tea-room
and fancy themselves unseen; so they are, indeed, save by the eyes of
some old dowagers--the same who had called upon her the day of the
drive--barbed by a touch of malice to a keener sight than even “that
damned adventurer’s,” as Birmingham calls him. But Pussie De Witt is
there, in a gorgeous dress her novel matronhood permits her, perfectly
happy yet; and Kill Van Kull, her partner, manages to get his amusement
out of all the world and everywheres.
Then Derwent takes his seat by Mamie, calmly turning Charlie’s flank.
So the Wall Street knight has to retreat; and Derwent flirts most
desperately, so that her little head--heart--what shall I say? is
tickled. And it is very late when Arthur comes, and he finds that
Gracie has gone up-stairs with a headache; so that he is angrier than
ever.
But the dinner that night is a great success. Everybody came--except
Van Kull, which is, indeed, a little of a disappointment--and the wines
and cooking are most excellent. A great success, that is, until Wemyss,
most unfortunately, began to talk of American families. Some one said
something about Kitty Farnum, and what a fine woman she was, and what a
pity it was that her people was so ordinary. “Pooh!” says his lordship,
“all your Yankee families are just alike.”
“Without impugning Birmingham’s knowledge of American families,” says
Wemyss, thinking of his own, “I think I may submit that there are
differences. Take Mrs. Gower, for instance, Mrs. Levison Gower, I
mean--I think that is a family name not unknown in England, and blood
shows itself in every line of her face, and, in every motion of her
figure, breeding.” Wemyss never forgets his polished periods, even in
the heat of argument. “Or take,” he goes on, “Miss Holyoke, whom we saw
to-day, she is perhaps even a better example of what I mean. She has
not perhaps much style; she is countrified, if you like--but she comes
of the best old Massachusetts stock, and I submit there is no older
blood in the England of to-day than hers.”
“Oh, come, now, I say,” says his lordship, “you don’t mean to set up
that little filly against us? That’s the sort of thing our governesses
are in England.”
It is a little hard for Arthur to sit by and hear this; but he
remembers that Birmingham is the guest of the evening and keeps
silent. But Haviland takes it up. “If that is true, Lord Birmingham, I
congratulate you upon your _governess’s_ breeding; and am only sorry
that its lessons are so soon forgotten.”
“I think, sir; you should remember the lady is a cousin of our host,”
adds Lucie Gower, pluckily.
“Damn it, man,” cries Birmingham, “we all think so in England. Do you
suppose the prince cares a curse for your shop-keeping distinctions?
As much as I do for Jess the farrier’s daughter and Nell the draper’s
wife in my county town. He only takes up one Yankee woman after another
because they’re easier than the women that he’s used to. That’s why
your Buffalo Bills get to the Queen’s levees as well as your poker
Schencks--we might as well marry a Chicago pork man’s pretty daughter
as any Yankee Boston professor’s--if she’s got the money and the looks.”
“And damn it, sir,” cries little Lucie Gower, “I tell you that if you
had spoken but just now of my wife as you did of poor Miss Holyoke, I’d
have shied this bottle at your head.”
Gower looks fierce, as he stands up, grasping his decanter; and
Charlie Townley interposes to pour oil on troubled waters. “Sit down,
Lucie,” says he, “I’ve no doubt all our ancestors were no better than
they should be; Lord Birmingham’s own included.” With which American
reflection, and something in the ludicrousness of Gower’s gentle
nickname, the altercation passes for the time. Birmingham, being a bit
of a coward, is brought to apologize; “and perhaps,” adds Charlie,
“Lord B. has just been touched upon a tender point.” All laugh at
this, save Birmingham, who blushes red and angrily. But John has said
nothing, and is twirling his mustache grimly.
Meantime the wine circulates again; and the earl, who has already taken
too much, takes a little more.
And every man has had some little irritation on that unfortunate day;
poor Arthur, who expected so much from his little dinner! For Arthur
has been thinking now of Gracie, and there is some uneasy feeling on
his mind he does not seek to analyze. Though, indeed, it was by her
wish that they had never been engaged.
No small talk seems to be quite ready; and Birmingham goes on. “Of
course, it’s all very well for you fellows to talk,” says he, as if he
meant to be amicable, “and I’m sorry that I said what I did. But you
must all know well enough that it’s ridiculous for Americans to talk
of family. Why, the country was settled by the very scum and refuse of
Old England; and all your ancestors were either thieves, or slaves, or
prostitutes and domestic servants shipped out here by the carload----”
He stammers a moment; for John Haviland, eying him calmly, as one might
eye some servant seeking for a place, rises, folds his napkin with
great deliberation, and stalks out of the room. Gower follows him,
assuring the Englishman first, with great particularity, that “he is
a confounded blackguard and knows where he may find him.” With which
grandiloquent speech, a little out of date perhaps, the other five are
left to continue their instructive conversation. Arthur is a little
pale, but Charlie Townley, when they have fairly left the room, breaks
into a roar of laughter, and Tony Duval seems to think it all good fun;
his grandfather, a French barber, had married a Paris grisette, and
both had come to America to make their fortunes.
“That’s like ’em all,” says the bellicose Briton, “they court our
company, just like the snobs at home, and then are vexed if we don’t
treat them as our equals. And all the fuss about a Kitty Farnum! I mean
to take her back with me, but damme if I’ve yet decided to marry her
first!”
“You will oblige me first by taking your name off this club; or as I
put you down, I’ll save you the trouble by doing that myself. Perhaps I
had better pay your bill for you too, lest you should forget it, as you
did that hundred I lent you last year. And I will write to Mrs. Farnum
and the ladies to whom I have introduced you, and apologize to them for
the disgrace of bringing you,” says Arthur. “Waiter, you need give this
gentleman no more wine; he has had too much already.” Arthur speaks in
a loud tone, so that all the other men in the dining-room have heard;
and then he too stalks away. “Oh, dammit, no, don’t do that,” begins
Birmingham, in answer to the last of Arthur’s threats but one; but our
hero is already beyond his hearing.
Charlie is still laughing, but now he finds his breath again. “Never
mind, old fellow, you were drunk,” he says, consolingly. “It’ll be all
right, to-morrow.” Birmingham is red and puffing like a turkey-cock:
and at the same time struggling with some clumsy speeches of repentance.
“Upon my word,” says Wemyss, who has been most uncomfortable throughout
this scene, “there has been no such time since the declaration of
independence.”
“The fact is,” adds Charlie, soothingly, “you touched them both on a
tender point; that fellow Haviland I suspect of being a rejected suitor
for Kitty F. herself; and Arthur, I know, has had a soft spot for his
cousin since he was a calf.”
But by this time Birmingham is going maudlin; his drunkenness has come
on him so quick that Wemyss and Townley have much ado to get him home
to bed. He is full of fulsome expressions of regret; and ends with
blubbering that he is sorry for what he did.
The next morning, he woke up late, and with a headache, in his room at
the hotel that he had found it pleasant (and economical) to abandon for
so long; and came down-stairs to find a portmanteau containing all his
clothes that he had left at the Hill-and-Dale. With it, but without a
letter, were his receipted bills from both the clubs.
Birmingham was very repentant. Late in the afternoon he took a
walk with Wemyss, and entered timidly the Piccadilly Club, where
Townley--good-naturedly--had put him down again. He passed two or three
ladies driving on Fifth Avenue who bowed to him no less cordially than
before; and in the club some men came up and spoke to him. He began to
fancy that the thing was being hushed up; it is so pleasant to hush up
disagreeable things, and we Americans do like to be on good terms with
everyone, lest someone say we are not good fellows. But the earl was
mortally ashamed of the evening’s occurrences; and finally he mustered
up courage, with many brandy-and-sodas, to sit down and compose to
Arthur a letter of repentant, almost grovelling apology.
Having done this, he felt that he had done all America could well
demand. Judge then of his indignation, when, on the morrow, the letter
was returned to him unopened.
It was the first time his lordship had ever had a letter sent back to
him unopened; and he curses Arthur for a cad up to this day. But what
he most feared was that someone should bear tales of his behavior to
Miss Farnum. For he had thrice asked her to marry him, already.