There was a dinner-party at Mr. Neuchatel’s, to which none were asked
but the high government clique. It was the last dinner before the
dissolution: “The dinner of consolation, or hope,” said Lord Roehampton.
Lady Montfort was to be one of the guests. She was dressed, and her
carriage in the courtyard, and she had just gone in to see her lord
before she departed.
Lord Montfort was extremely fond of jewels, and held that you could not
see them to advantage, or fairly judge of their water or colour, except
on a beautiful woman. When his wife was in grand toilette, and he was
under the same roof, he liked her to call on him in her way to her
carriage, that he might see her flashing rivieres and tiaras, the lustre
of her huge pearls, and the splendour of her emeralds and sapphires and
rubies.
“Well, Berengaria,” he said in a playful tone, “you look divine. Never
dine out again in a high dress. It distresses me. Bertolini was the only
man who ever caught the tournure of your shoulders, and yet I am not
altogether satisfied with his work. So, you are going to dine with that
good Neuchatel. Remember me kindly to him. There are few men I like
better. He is so sensible, knows so much, and so much of what is going
on. I should have liked very much to have dined with him, but he is
aware of my unfortunate state. Besides, my dear, if I were better
I should not have enough strength for his dinners. They are really
banquets; I cannot stand those ortolans stuffed with truffles and those
truffles stuffed with ortolans. Perhaps he will come and dine with us
some day off a joint.”
“The Queen of Mesopotamia will be here next week, Simon, and we
must really give her what you call a joint, and then we can ask the
Neuchatels and a few other people.”
“I was in hopes the dissolution would have carried everybody away,” said
Lord Montfort rather woefully. “I wish the Queen of Mesopotamia were a
candidate for some borough; I think she would rather like it.”
“Well, we could not return her, Simon; do not touch on the subject. But
what have you got to amuse to-day?”
“Oh! I shall do very well. I have got the head of the French detective
police to dine with me, and another man or two. Besides, I have got
here a most amusing book, ‘Topsy Turvy;’ it comes out in numbers. I like
books that come out in numbers, as there is a little suspense, and you
cannot deprive yourself of all interest by glancing at the last page of
the last volume. I think you must read ‘Topsy Turvy,’ Berengaria. I am
mistaken if you do not hear of it. It is very cynical, which authors,
who know a little of the world, are apt to be, and everything is
exaggerated, which is another of their faults when they are only a
trifle acquainted with manners. A little knowledge of the world is a
very dangerous thing, especially in literature. But it is clever, and
the man writes a capital style; and style is everything, especially in
fiction.”
“And what is the name of the writer, Simon?”
“You never heard of it; I never did; but my secretary, who lives much in
Bohemia, and is a member of the Cosmopolitan and knows everything, tells
me he has written some things before, but they did not succeed. His name
is St. Barbe. I should like to ask him to dinner if I knew how to get at
him.”
“Well, adieu! Simon,” and, with an agitated heart, though apparent
calmness, she touched his forehead with her lips. “I expect an
unsatisfactory dinner.”
“Adieu! and if you meet poor Ferrars, which I dare say you will, tell
him to keep up his spirits. The world is a wheel, and it will all come
round right.”
The dinner ought not to have been unsatisfactory, for though there was
no novelty among the guests, they were all clever and distinguished
persons and united by entire sympathy. Several of the ministers were
there, and the Roehamptons, and Mr. Sidney Wilton, and Endymion was
also a guest. But the general tone was a little affected and unnatural;
forced gaiety, and a levity which displeased Lady Montfort, who fancied
she was unhappy because the country was going to be ruined, but whose
real cause of dissatisfaction at the bottom of her heart was the affair
of “the family seat.” Her hero, Lord Roehampton, particularly did not
please her to-day. She thought him flippant and in bad taste, merely
because he would not look dismal and talk gloomily.
“I think we shall do very well,” he said. “What cry can be better than
that of ‘Cheap bread?’ It gives one an appetite at once.”
“But the Corn-Law League says your bread will not be cheap,” said
Melchior Neuchatel.
“I wonder whether the League has really any power in the
constituencies,” said Lord Roehampton. “I doubt it. They may have in
time, but then in the interval trade will revive. I have just been
reading Mr. Thornberry’s speech. We shall hear more of that man. You
will not be troubled about any of your seats?” he said, in a lower tone
of sympathy, addressing Mrs. Neuchatel, who was his immediate neighbour.
“Our seats?” said Mrs. Neuchatel, as if waking from a dream. “Oh, I know
nothing about them, nor do I understand why there is a dissolution. I
trust that parliament will not be dissolved without voting the money for
the observation of the transit of Venus.”
“I think the Roman Catholic vote will carry us through,” said a
minister.
“Talking of Roman Catholics,” said Mr. Wilton, “is it true that
Penruddock has gone over to Rome?”
“No truth in it,” replied a colleague. “He has gone to Rome--there is
no doubt of that, and he has been there some time, but only for
distraction. He had overworked himself.”
“He might have been a Dean if he had been a practical man,” whispered
Lady Montfort to Mr. Neuchatel, “and on the high road to a bishopric.”
“That is what we want, Lady Montfort,” said Mr. Neuchatel; “we want
a few practical men. If we had a practical man as Chancellor of the
Exchequer, we should not be in the scrape in which we now are.”
“It is not likely that Penruddock will leave the Church with a change
of government possibly impending. We could do nothing for him with his
views, but he will wait for Peel.”
“Oh! Peel will never stand those high-fliers. He put the Church into a
Lay Commission during his last government.”
“Penruddock will never give up Anglicanism while there is a chance of
becoming a Laud. When that chance vanishes, trust my word, Penruddock
will make his bow to the Vatican.”
“Well, I must say,” said Lord Roehampton, “if I were a clergyman I
should be a Roman Catholic.”
“Then you could not marry. What a compliment to Lady Roehampton!”
“Nay; it is because I could not marry that I am not a clergyman.”
Endymion had taken Adriana down to dinner. She looked very well, and was
more talkative than usual.
“I fear it will be a very great confusion--this general election,” she
said. “Papa was telling us that you think of being a candidate.”
“I am a candidate, but without a seat to captivate at present,” said
Endymion; “but I am not without hopes of making some arrangement.”
“Well, you must tell me what your colours are.”
“And will you wear them?”
“Most certainly; and I will work you a banner if you be victorious.”
“I think I must win with such a prospect.”
“I hope you will win in everything.”
When the ladies retired, Berengaria came and sate by the side of Lady
Roehampton.
“What a dreary dinner!” she said.
“Do you think so?”
“Well, perhaps it was my own fault. Perhaps I am not in good cue, but
everything seems to me to go wrong.”
“Things sometimes do go wrong, but then they get right.”
“Well, I do not think anything will ever get right with me.”
“Dear Lady Montfort, how can you say such things? You who have, and have
always had, the world at your feet--and always will have.”
“I do not know what you mean by having the world at my feet. It seems
to me that I have no power whatever--I can do nothing. I am vexed about
this business of your brother. Our people are so stupid. They have no
resource. When I go to them and ask for a seat, I expect a seat, as I
would a shawl at Howell and James’ if I asked for one. Instead of that
they only make difficulties. What our party wants is a Mr. Tadpole; he
out-manoeuvres them in every corner.”
“Well, I shall be deeply disappointed--deeply pained,” said Lady
Roehampton, “if Endymion is not in this parliament, but if we fail I
will not utterly despair. I will continue to do what I have done all my
life, exert my utmost will and power to advance him.”
“I thought I had will and power,” said Lady Montfort, “but the conceit
is taken out of me. Your brother was to me a source of great interest,
from the first moment that I knew him. His future was an object in life,
and I thought I could mould it. What a mistake! Instead of making his
fortune I have only dissipated his life.”
“You have been to him the kindest and the most valuable of friends, and
he feels it.”
“It is no use being kind, and I am valuable to no one. I often think if
I disappeared to-morrow no one would miss me.”
“You are in a morbid mood, dear lady. To-morrow perhaps everything will
be right, and then you will feel that you are surrounded by devoted
friends, and by a husband who adores you.”
Lady Montfort gave a scrutinising glance at Lady Roehampton as she said
this, then shook her head. “Ah! there it is, dear Myra. You judge from
your own happiness; you do not know Lord Montfort. You know how I love
him, but I am perfectly convinced he prefers my letters to my society.”
“You see what it is to be a Madame de Sevigne,” said Lady Roehampton,
trying to give a playful tone to the conversation.
“You jest,” said Lady Montfort; “I am quite serious. No one can deceive
me; would that they could! I have the fatal gift of reading persons, and
penetrating motives, however deep or complicated their character, and
what I tell you about Lord Montfort is unhappily too true.”
In the meantime, while this interesting conversation was taking place,
the gentleman who had been the object of Lady Montfort’s eulogium, the
gentleman who always out-manoeuvred her friends at every corner, was,
though it was approaching midnight, walking up and down Carlton Terrace
with an agitated and indignant countenance, and not alone.
“I tell you, Mr. Waldershare, I know it; I have it almost from Lord
Beaumaris himself; he has declined to support our man, and no doubt will
give his influence to the enemy.”
“I do not believe that Lord Beaumaris has made any engagement whatever.”
“A pretty state of affairs!” exclaimed Mr. Tadpole. “I do not know what
the world has come to. Here are gentlemen expecting high places in the
Household, and under-secretaryships of state, and actually giving away
our seats to our opponents.”
“There is some family engagement about this seat between the Houses of
Beaumaris and Montfort, and Lord Beaumaris, who is a young man, and
who does not know as much about these things as you and I do, naturally
wants not to make a mistake. But he has promised nothing and nobody.
I know, I might almost say I saw the letter, that he wrote to Lord
Montfort this day, asking for an interview to-morrow morning on the
matter, and Lord Montfort has given him an appointment for to-morrow.
This I know.”
“Well, I must leave it to you,” said Mr. Tadpole. “You must remember
what we are fighting for. The constitution is at stake.”
“And the Church,” said Waldershare.
“And the landed interest, you may rely upon it,” said Mr. Tadpole.
“And your Lordship of the Treasury _in posse_, Tadpole. Truly it is a
great stake.”