The ladies were much interested by Colonel Albert. Mrs. Neuchatel
exercised on him all the unrivalled arts by which she so unmistakably
discovered character. She threw on him her brown velvet eyes with a
subdued yet piercing beam, which would penetrate his most secret and
even undeveloped intelligence. She asked questions in a hushed mystical
voice, and as the colonel was rather silent and somewhat short in
his replies, though ever expressed in a voice of sensibility and with
refined deference of manner, Mrs. Neuchatel opened her own peculiar
views on a variety of subjects of august interest, such as education,
high art, the influence of women in society, the formation of character,
and the distribution of wealth, on all of which this highly gifted
lady was always in the habit of informing her audience, by way of
accompaniment, that she was conscious that the views she entertained
were peculiar. The views of Mrs. Neuchatel were peculiar, and therefore
not always, or even easily, comprehended. That indeed she felt was
rather her fate in life, but a superior intelligence like hers has a
degree of sublimated self-respect which defies destiny.
When she was alone with the ladies, the bulletin of Mrs. Neuchatel was
not so copious as had been expected. She announced that Colonel Albert
was sentimental, and she suspected a poet. But for the rest she had
discovered nothing, not even his nationality. She had tried him both
in French and German, but he persisted in talking English, although he
spoke of himself as a foreigner. After dinner he conversed chiefly
with the men, particularly with the Governor of the Bank, who seemed
to interest him much, and a director of one of the dock companies, who
offered to show him over their establishment, an offer which Colonel
Albert eagerly accepted. Then, as if he remembered that homage was
due at such a moment to the fairer sex, he went and seated himself
by Adriana, and was playful and agreeable, though when she was
cross-examined afterwards by her friends as to the character of his
conversation, she really could not recall anything particular except
that he was fond of horses, and said that he should like very much to
take a ride with her. Just before he took his departure, Colonel Albert
addressed Myra, and in a rather strange manner. He said, “I have been
puzzling myself all dinner, but I cannot help feeling that we have met
before.”
Myra shook her head and said, “I think that is impossible.”
“Well,” said the colonel with a look a little perplexed and not
altogether satisfied, “I suppose then it was a dream. May dreams so
delightful,” and he bowed, “never be wanting!”
“So you think he is a poet, Emily,” said Mr. Neuchatel when they had all
gone. “We have got a good many of his papers in Bishopsgate Street, but
I have not met with any verses in them yet.”
The visit of Colonel Albert was soon repeated, and he became a rather
frequent guest at Hainault. It was evident that he was a favourite with
Mr. Neuchatel. “He knows very few people,” he would say, “and I wish him
to make some friends. Poor young fellow: he has had rather a hard
life of it, and seen some service for such a youth. He is a perfect
gentleman, and if he be a poet, Emily, that is all in your way. You like
literary people, and are always begging that I should ask them. Well,
next Saturday you will have a sort of a lion--one of the principal
writers in ‘Scaramouch.’ He is going to Paris as the foreign
correspondent of the ‘Chuck-Farthing,’ with a thousand a year, and one
of my friends in the Stock Exchange, who is his great ally, asked me to
give him some letters. So he came to Bishopsgate Street--they all come
to Bishopsgate Street--and I asked him to dine here on Saturday. By the
by, Miss Ferrars, ask your brother to come on the same day and stay with
us till Monday. I will take him up to town with me quite in time for his
office.”
This was the first time that Endymion had remained at Hainault. He
looked forward to the visit with anticipation of great pleasure.
Hainault, and all the people there, and everything about it, delighted
him, and most of all the happiness of his sister and the consideration,
and generosity, and delicate affection with which she was treated. One
morning, to his astonishment, Myra had insisted upon his accepting from
her no inconsiderable sum of money. “It is no part of my salary,” she
said, when he talked of her necessities. “Mr. Neuchatel said he gave it
to me for outfit and to buy gloves. But being in mourning I want to
buy nothing, and you, dear darling, must have many wants. Besides, Mrs.
Neuchatel has made me so many presents that I really do not think that I
shall ever want to buy anything again.”
It was rather a grand party at Hainault, such as Endymion had little
experience of. There was a cabinet minister and his wife, not only
an ambassador, but an ambassadress who had been asked to meet them,
a nephew Neuchatel, the M.P. with a pretty young wife, and several
apparently single gentlemen of note and position. Endymion was nervous
when he entered, and more so because Myra was not in the room. But
his trepidation was absorbed in his amazement when in the distance he
observed St. Barbe, with a very stiff white cravat, and his hair
brushed into unnatural order, and his whole demeanour forming a singular
contrast to the rollicking cynicisms of Joe’s and the office.
Mr. Neuchatel presented St. Barbe to the lady of the mansion. “Here is
one of our greatest wits,” said the banker, “and he is going to Paris,
which is the capital of wits.” The critical moment prevented prolonged
conversation, but the lady of the mansion did contrive to convey to St.
Barbe her admiring familiarity with some of his effusions, and threw out
a phrase which proved how finely she could distinguish between wit and
humour.
Endymion at dinner sate between two M.P.’s, whom his experience at the
House of Commons allowed him to recognise. As he was a young man whom
neither of them knew, neither of them addressed him, but with delicate
breeding carried on an active conversation across him, as if in fact he
were not present. As Endymion had very little vanity, this did not at
all annoy him. On the contrary, he was amused, for they spoke of matters
with which he was not unacquainted, though he looked as if he knew or
heard nothing. Their conversation was what is called “shop:” all
about the House and office; criticisms on speakers, speculations as to
preferment, what Government would do about this, and how well Government
got out of that.
Endymion was amused by seeing Myra, who was remote from him, sitting
by St. Barbe, who, warmed by the banquet, was evidently holding forth
without the slightest conception that his neighbour whom he addressed
had long become familiar with his characteristics.
After dinner St. Barbe pounced upon Endymion. “Only think of our meeting
here!” he said. “I wonder why they asked you. You are not going to
Paris, and you are not a wit. What a family this is!” he said; “I had
no idea of wealth before! Did you observe the silver plate? I could not
hold mine with one hand, it was so heavy. I do not suppose there are
such plates in the world. It gives one an idea of the galleons and
Anson’s plunder. But they deserve their wealth,” he added, “nobody
grudges it to them. I declare when I was eating that truffle, I felt a
glow about my heart that, if it were not indigestion, I think must have
been gratitude; though that is an article I had not believed in. He is
a wonderful man, that Neuchatel. If I had only known him a year ago! I
would have dedicated my novel to him. He is a sort of man who would have
given you a cheque immediately. He would not have read it, to be sure,
but what of that? If you had dedicated it to a lord, the most he would
have done would have been to ask you to dinner, and then perhaps cut up
your work in one of the Quality reviews, and taken money for doing it
out of our pockets! Oh! it’s too horrid! There are some topsawyers here
to-day, Ferrars! It would make Seymour Hicks’ mouth water to be here. We
should have had it in the papers, and he would have left us out of
the list, and called us, etc. Now I dare say that ambassador has been
blundering all his life, and yet there is something in that star and
ribbon; I do not know how you feel, but I could almost go down on my knees
to him. And there is a cabinet minister; well, we know what he is; I
have been squibbing him for these two years, and now that I meet him I
feel like a snob. Oh! there is an immense deal of superstition left in
the world. I am glad they are going to the ladies. I am to be honoured
by some conversation with the mistress of the house. She seems a
first-rate woman, familiar with the glorious pages of a certain classic
work, and my humble effusions. She praised one she thought I wrote,
but between ourselves it was written by that fellow Seymour Hicks, who
imitates me; but I would not put her right, as dinner might have been
announced every moment. But she is a great woman, sir,--wonderful eyes!
They are all great women here. I sat next to one of the daughters,
or daughters-in-law, or nieces, I suppose. By Jove! it was tierce and
quart. If you had been there, you would have been run through in a
moment. I had to show my art. Now they are rising. I should not be
surprised if Mr. Neuchatel were to present me to some of the grandees. I
believe them to be all impostors, but still it is pleasant to talk to a
man with a star.
“‘Ye stars, which are the poetry of heaven,’
“Byron wrote; a silly line; he should have written,
“‘Ye stars, which are the poetry of dress.’”