THE DINNER
[Illustration]
Notwithstanding Jawleyford's recommendation to the contrary, Mr. Sponge
made himself an uncommon swell. He put on a desperately stiff starcher,
secured in front with a large gold fox-head pin with carbuncle eyes; a
fine, fancy-fronted shirt, with a slight tendency to pink, adorned with
mosaic-gold-tethered studs of sparkling diamonds (or French paste, as the
case might be); a white waistcoat with fancy buttons; a blue coat with
bright plain ones, and a velvet collar, black tights, with broad
black-and-white Cranbourne-alley-looking stockings (socks rather), and
patent leather pumps with gilt buckles--Sponge was proud of his leg. The
young ladies, too, turned out rather smart; for Amelia, finding that Emily
was going to put on her new yellow watered silk, instead of a dyed satin
she had talked of, made Juliana produce her broad-laced blue satin dress
out of the wardrobe in the green dressing-room, where it had been laid away
in an old tablecloth; and bound her dark hair with a green-beaded wreath,
which Emily met by crowning herself with a chaplet of white roses.
Thus attired, with smiles assumed at the door, the young ladies entered the
drawing-room in the full fervour of sisterly animosity. They were very much
alike in size, shape, and face. They were tallish and full-figured. Miss
Jawleyford's features being rather more strongly marked, and her eyes a
shade darker than her sister's; while there was a sort of subdued air about
her--the result, perhaps, of enlarged intercourse with the world--or maybe
of disappointments. Emily's eyes sparkled and glittered, without knowing
perhaps why.
Dinner was presently announced. It was of the imposing order that people
give their friends on a first visit, as though their appetites were larger
on that day than on any other. They dined off plate; the sideboards
glittered with the Jawleyford arms on cups, tankards, and salvers;
'Brecknel and Turner's' flamed and swealed in profusion on the table; while
every now and then an expiring lamp on the sideboards or brackets
proclaimed the unwonted splendour of the scene, and added a flavour to the
repast not contemplated by the cook. The room, which was large and lofty,
being but rarely used, had a cold, uncomfortable feel; and, if it hadn't
been for the looks of the thing, Jawleyford would, perhaps, as soon that
they had dined in the little breakfast parlour. Still there was everything
very smart; Spigot in full fig, with a shirt frill nearly tickling his
nose, an acre of white waistcoat, and glorious calves swelling within his
gauze-silk stockings. The improvised footman went creaking about, as such
gentlemen generally do.
The style was perhaps better than the repast: still they had turtle-soup
(Shell and Tortoise, to be sure, but still turtle-soup); while the wines
were supplied by the well-known firm of 'Wintle & Co.' Jawleyford sank
where he got it, and pretended that it had been 'ages' in his cellar: 'he
really had such a stock that he thought he should never get through it'--to
wit, two dozen old port at 36_s._ a dozen, and one dozen at 48_s._; two
dozen pale sherry at 36_s._, and one dozen brown ditto at 48_s._; three
bottles of Bucellas, of the 'finest quality imported,' at 38_s._ a dozen;
Lisbon 'rich and dry,' at 32_s._; and some marvellous creaming champagne at
48_s._, in which they were indulging when he made the declaration: 'don't
wait of me, my dear Mr. Sponge!' exclaimed Jawleyford, holding up a long
needle-case of a glass with the Jawleyford crests emblazoned about; 'don't
wait of me, pray,' repeated he, as Spigot finished dribbling the froth into
Sponge's glass; and Jawleyford, with a flourishing bow and waive of his
empty needle-case, drank Mr. Sponge's very good health, adding, 'I'm
_extremely_ happy to see you at Jawleyford Court.'
It was then Jawleyford's turn to have a little froth; and having sucked it
up with the air of a man drinking nectar, he set down his glass with a
shake of the head, saying:
'There's no such wine as that to be got now-a-days.'
'Capital wine!--Excellent!' exclaimed Sponge, who was a better judge of ale
than of champagne. 'Pray, where might you get it?'
'Impossible to say!--Impossible to say!' replied Jawleyford, throwing up
his hands with a shake, and shrugging his shoulders. 'I have such a stock
of wine as is really quite ridiculous.'
'_Quite_ ridiculous,' thought Spigot, who, by the aid of a false key, had
been through the cellar.
Except the 'Shell and Tortoise' and 'Wintle,' the estate supplied the
repast. The carp was out of the home-pond; the tench, or whatever it was,
was out of the mill-pond; the mutton was from the farm; the
carrot-and-turnip-and-beet-bedaubed stewed beef was from ditto; while the
garden supplied the vegetables that luxuriated in the massive silver
side-dishes. Watson's gun furnished the old hare and partridges that opened
the ball of the second course; and tarts, jellies, preserves, and custards
made their usual appearances. Some first-growth Chateaux Margaux 'Wintle,'
again at 66_s._, in very richly cut decanters accompanied the old 36_s._
port; and apples, pears, nuts, figs, preserved fruits, occupied the
splendid green-and-gold dessert set. Everything, of course, was handed
about--an ingenious way of tormenting a person that has 'dined.' The
ladies sat long, Mrs. Jawleyford taking three glasses of port (when she
could get it); and it was a quarter to eight when they rose from the table.
Jawleyford then moved an adjournment to the fire; which Sponge gladly
seconded, for he had never been warm since he came into the house, the heat
from the fires seeming to go up the chimneys. Spigot set them a little
round table, placing the port and claret upon it, and bringing them a plate
of biscuits in lieu of the dessert. He then reduced the illumination on the
table, and extinguished such of the lamps as had not gone out of
themselves. Having cast an approving glance around, and seen that they had
what he considered right, he left them to their own devices.
'Do you drink port or claret, Mr. Sponge?' asked Jawleyford, preparing to
push whichever he preferred over to him.
'I'll take a little port, _first_, if you please,' replied our friend--as
much as to say, 'I'll finish off with claret.'
'You'll find that very good, I expect,' said Mr. Jawleyford, passing the
bottle to him; 'it's '20 wine--very rare wine to get now--was a very rich
fruity wine, and was a long time before it came into drinking. Connoisseurs
would give any money for it.'
'It has still a good deal of body,' observed Sponge, turning off a glass
and smacking his lips, at the same time holding the glass up to the candle
to see the oily mark it made on the side.
'Good sound wine--good sound wine,' said Mr. Jawleyford. 'Have plenty
lighter, if you like.' The light wine was made by watering the strong.
'Oh no, thank you,' replied Mr. Sponge, 'oh no, thank you. I like good
strong military port.'
'So do I,' said Mr. Jawleyford, 'so do I; only unfortunately it doesn't
like me--am obliged to drink claret. When I was in the Bumperkin yeomanry
we drank nothing but port.' And then Jawleyford diverged into a long
rambling dissertation on messes and cavalry tactics, which nearly sent Mr.
Sponge asleep.
'Where did you say the hounds are to-morrow?' at length asked he, after Mr.
Jawleyford had talked himself out.
'To-morrow,' repeated Mr. Jawleyford, thoughtfully, 'to-morrow--they don't
hunt to-morrow--not one of their days--next day. Scrambleford
Green--Scrambleford Green--no, no, I'm wrong--Dundleton Tower--Dundleton
Tower.'
'How far is that from here?' asked Mr. Sponge.
'Oh, ten miles--say ten miles,' replied Mr. Jawleyford. It was sometimes
ten, and sometimes fifteen, depending upon whether Mr. Jawleyford wanted
the party to go or not. These elastic places, however, are common in all
countries--to sight-seers as well as to hunters. 'Close by--close by,' one
day. 'Oh! a lo-o-ng way from here,' another.
It is difficult, for parties who have nothing in common, to drive a
conversation, especially when each keeps jibbing to get upon a private
subject of his own. Jawleyford was all for sounding Sponge as to where he
came from, and the situation of his property; for as yet, it must be
remembered, he knew nothing of our friend, save what he had gleaned at
Laverick Wells, where certainly all parties concurred in placing him high
on the list of 'desirables,' while Sponge wanted to talk about hunting, the
meets of the hounds, and hear what sort of a man Lord Scamperdale was. So
they kept playing at cross-purposes, without either getting much out of the
other. Jawleyford's intimacy with Lord Scamperdale seemed to have
diminished with propinquity, for he now no longer talked of
him--'Scamperdale this, and Scamperdale that--Scamperdale, with whom he
could do anything he liked'; but he called him 'My Lord Scamperdale,' and
spoke of him in a reverent and becoming way. Distance often lends boldness
to the tongue, as the poet Campbell says it:
Lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue.
There are few great men who haven't a dozen people, at least, who 'keep
them right,' as they call it. To hear some of the creatures talk, one
would fancy a lord was a lunatic as a matter of course.
Spigot at last put an end to their efforts by announcing that 'tea and
coffee were ready!' just as Mr. Sponge buzzed his bottle of port. They then
adjourned from the gloom of the large oak-wainscoted dining-room, to the
effulgent radiance of the well-lit, highly gilt, drawing-room, where our
fair friends had commenced talking Mr. Sponge over as soon as they retired
from the dining-room.