CHAPTER XXI — THE WINE-PARTY
“This night I hold an old-accustomed feast,
Whereto I have invited many a guest,
Such as I love.”
“A fair assembly, whither should they come?
Servant.—Up——-!
Romeo.—Whither?
Servant.—To supper.”
—Shakspeare.
“All is not false that seems at first a lie.”
—Southey.
“Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
I do bite my thumb, sir!
Do you quarrel, sir?
Quarrel, sir! No, sir!
If you do, sir, I am for you.”
—Shakspeare.
LET the reader imagine a long table covered with the remains of an excellent dessert, interspersed with a multitude of bottles of all shapes and sizes, containing every variety of wine that money could procure, or palate desire; whilst in the centre stood a glorious old china bowl of punch, which the guests were discussing in tumblers—wine-glasses having been unanimously voted much too slow. Around this table let there be seated from fifteen to twenty men, whose ages might vary from nineteen to three- or four-and-twenty; some smoking cigars, some talking vociferously, some laughing, some though they were decidedly the minority, listening: but all showing signs of being more or less elated by the wine they had taken. Let the reader imagine all this, and he will have formed a pretty correct idea of the supper-party in Lawless's rooms, as it appeared about ten o'clock on the evening subsequent to the conversation I have just detailed.
“Didn't I see you riding a black horse with one white stocking yesterday, Oaklands?” inquired a young man with a round jovial countenance, which might have been reckoned handsome but for the extreme redness of the complexion, and the loss of a front tooth, occasioned by a fall received in the hunting field, whose name was Richard, or, as he was more commonly termed, Dick Curtis.
“Yes,” replied Oaklands, “I daresay you did; I was trying him.”
“Ah! I fancied he was not one of your own.” “No; he belongs to Tom Barret, who wants me to buy him; but I don't think he's strong enough to carry my weight; there's not substance enough about him; I ride nearly eleven stone.”
“Oh! he'll never do for you,” exclaimed Lawless. “I know the horse well; they call him Blacksmith, because the man who bred him was named Smith; he lives down in Lincolnshire, and breeds lots of horses; but they are none of them, at least none that I have seen, what I call the right sort; don't you buy him,—he's got too much daylight under him to suit you.”
“Too long in the pasterns to carry weight,” urged Curtis.
“Rather inclined to be cow-hocked,” chimed in Lawless.
“Not ribbed home,” remarked Curtis.
“Too narrow across the loins,” observed Lawless.
“He'll never carry flesh,” continued Curtis.
“It's useless to think of his jumping; he'll never make a hunter,” said Lawless.
“Only hear them,” interrupted a tall, fashionable-looking young man, with a high forehead and a profusion of light, curling hair; “now those two fellows are once off, it's all up with anything like rational conversation for the rest of the evening.”
“That's right, Archer, put the curb on 'em; we might as well be in Tattersall's yard at once,” observed another of the company, addressing the last speaker.
“I fear it's beyond my power,” replied Archer; “they've got such an incurable trick of talking equine scandal, and taking away the characters of their neighbours' horses, that nobody can stop them unless it is Stephen Wilford.”
The mention of this name seemed to have the effect of rendering every one grave, and a pause ensued, during which Oaklands and I exchanged glances. At length the silence was broken by Curtis, who said:—
“By the way, what's become of Wilford? I expected to meet him here to-night.”
“He was engaged to dine with Wentworth,” said Lawless; “but he promised to look in upon us in the course of the evening; I thought he would have been here before this.”
As he spoke a tap was heard at the room-door.
“Well, that's odd,” continued Lawless; “that's Wilford for a ducat; talk of the devil,—eh, don't you know? Come in.”
“You had better not repeat that in his hearing,” observed Archer, “though I believe he'd take it as a compliment on the whole; it's my opinion he rather affects the satanic.”
“Hush,” said Curtis, pressing his arm, “here he is.”
As he spoke the door opened, and the subject of their remarks entered. He was rather above the middle height, of a slight but unusually elegant figure, with remarkably small hands and feet, the former of which were white and smooth as those of a woman. His features were delicately formed and regular, and the shape of his face a perfect oval; strongly marked eyebrows overshadowed a pair of piercing black eyes; his lips were thin and compressed, and his mouth finely cut; his hair, which was unusually glossy and luxuriant, was jet black, as were his whiskers, affording a marked contrast to the death-like pallor of his countenance. The only fault that could be found in the drawing of his face was that the eyes were placed too near together; but this imparted a character of intensity to his glance which added to, rather than detracted from, the general effect of his appearance. His features, when in repose, were usually marked by an expression of contemptuous indifference; he seldom laughed, but his smile conveyed an indication of such bitter sarcasm that I have seen men, whom he chose to make a butt for his ridicule, writhe under it as under the infliction of bodily torture. He was dressed, as was his wont, entirely in black; but his clothes, which were fashionably cut, fitted him without a wrinkle. He bowed slightly to the assembled company, and then seated himself in a chair which had been reserved for him at the upper end of the table, nearly opposite Oaklands and myself, saying as he did so: “I'm afraid I'm rather late, Lawless, but Wentworth and I had a little business to transact, and I could not get away sooner”.
“What devil's deed have they been at now, I wonder?” whispered Oaklands to me.
“Manslaughter, most likely,” replied Archer (who was seated next me, and had overheard the remark), “Wilford appears so thoroughly satisfied with himself; that was just the way in which he looked the morning he winged Sherringham, for I saw him myself.”
“Send me down the claret, will you, Curtis?” asked Wilford. “Punch is a beverage I don't patronise; it makes a man's hand shaky.”
“If that is the case,” returned Archer, “you ought to make a point of drinking it for the good of society, my dear Wilford; let me help you to a glass.”
“Nonsense, Archer, be quiet, man; here, taste this cool bottle, Wilford; claret's good for nothing if it's at all flat,” exclaimed Lawless, drawing the cork of a fresh magnum as he spoke.
“I differ from you in that opinion, Archer,” returned Wilford, fixing his keen black eyes upon the person he addressed with a piercing glance; “society is like the wine in this glass,” and he filled a bumper to the brim with claret as he spoke; “it requires a steady hand to keep it within its proper bounds, and to compel it to preserve an unruffled surface”; and so saying he raised the glass to his lips without spilling a drop, still keeping his eyes fixed upon Archer's face with the same withering glance.
“Well, I have often heard of looking daggers at a person,” continued Archer, who had been drinking somewhat deeply during the evening, and now appeared possessed by a spirit of mischief leading him to tease and annoy Wilford in every way he could think of; “but Wilford does worse, he positively looks pistols—cocked and loaded pistols—at one. Fairlegh, I shall screen myself behind your broad shoulders; I never could stand fire.” So saying he seized me by the elbows, and, urging me forward, crouched down behind me, affecting the extremity of terror.
The scowl on Wilford's brow deepened as he spoke, but, after a moment's hesitation, apparently considering the affair too absurd to take notice of, he turned away with a contemptuous smile, saying, “You make your punch too strong, Lawless”.
Archer instantly recovered his erect attitude, and with a flushed face seemed about to make some angry reply, when Lawless, who appeared nervously anxious that the evening should pass over harmoniously, interposed.
“Archer, you're absolutely incorrigible; keep him in order, Fairlegh, eh? give him some more punch, and fill your own glass—it has been empty I don't know how long. I'll find a toast that will make you drink—bumpers round, gentlemen, 'to the health of the prettiest girl in Hertfordshire'. Are you all charged? I beg to propose
“Excuse my interrupting you, Lawless,” exclaimed I—for I felt certain who it was he was thinking of; and the idea of Miss Saville's name being mentioned and discussed with the tone of licence common on such occasions, appeared to me such complete profanation, that I determined, be the consequences what they might, to prevent it—“Excuse my interrupting you, but I should feel greatly obliged by your substituting some other toast for the one you are about to propose”.
“Eh, what! not drink the young woman's health? why I thought you admired her more than I do: not drink her health? how's that, eh?”
“I shall be most happy to explain to you the reasons for my request at some other time,” replied I; “at present I can only add that I shall consider it as a personal favour if you will accede to it.”
“It does not appear to me to require an OEdipus to discover Mr. Fairlegh's reasons for this request,” observed Stephen Wilford; “he evidently does not consider the present company deserving of the high honour of drinking the health of a young lady whom he distinguishes by his admiration.”
“Not over-flattering, I must say,” muttered Lawless, looking annoyed.
“I suppose he's afraid of our hearing her name, lest some of us should go and cut him out,” suggested Curtis in an undertone, which was, however, perfectly audible.
“In the meanwhile, Lawless, I hope you're not going to indulge your friend's caprice at the expense of the rest of the company,” resumed Wilford; “having raised our expectations you are bound to gratify them.”
Lawless, who evidently hesitated between his desire to assert his independence and his wish to oblige me, was beginning with his usual, “Eh? why, don't you see,”—when I interrupted him by saying, “Allow me to set this matter at rest in a very few words. Lawless, I hope, knows me well enough to feel sure that I could not intend any disrespect either to himself or to his guests—I believe it is not such an unheard-of thing for a gentle-man to object to the name of any lady whom he respects being commented upon with the freedom incidental to a convivial meeting like the present—however that may be, I have asked Lawless as a favour not to drink a certain toast in my presence; should he be unwilling to comply with my request, as I would not wish to be the slightest restraint upon him at his own table, I shall request his permission to withdraw; on this point I await his decision. I have only one more observation to make,” continued I, looking at Wilford, who was evidently preparing to speak, “which is, that if, after what I have just said, any gentleman should continue to urge Lawless to give the toast to which I object, I must perforce consider that he wishes to insult me.”
As I concluded, there was a murmur of applause, and Archer and one or two others turned to Lawless, declaring it was quite impossible to press the matter further after what I had said; when Wilford, in a cold, sarcastic tone of voice, observed: “I am sorry Mr. Fairlegh's last argument should have failed in convincing me, as easily as it seems to have done some others of the party; such, however, unfortunately being the case, I must repeat, even at the risk of incurring a thing so terrible as that gentleman's displeasure, my decided opinion that Lawless, having informed us he was going to drink a particular toast, should not allow himself to be bullied out of it, in compliance with any man's humour”.
This speech, as it might be expected, produced great excitement; I sprang to my feet (an example followed by several of the party), and was about to make an angry reply, when Oaklands, who up to this moment had taken no part in the discussion, but sat sipping his wine with his usual air of listless contentment, apparently indifferent to, if not wholly unconscious of, all that was going on, now rose from his seat, and having obtained silence said: “Really, gentlemen, all this confusion appears to me very unnecessary, when a word from our host will end it. Fairlegh has asked you not to propose a certain toast; it only remains for you, Lawless, to say, whether you intend to do so or not.”
Thus urged, Lawless replied, “Eh? no, certainly not; Frank Fairlegh's a trump, and I would not do anything to annoy him for more than I can tell: besides, when I come to think of it, I believe he was right, and I was wrong—but you see, women are a kind of cattle I don't clearly understand—if it was a horse now——”
A burst of laughter at this characteristic remark drowned the conclusion of the speech, but the announcement that the toast was given up appeared to produce general satisfaction; for, since I had spoken, the popular opinion had been decidedly in my favour.
“The cause of this little interruption to the harmony of the evening being removed,” resumed Oaklands, “suppose we see whether its effects may not as easily be got rid of. Every man, I take it, has a right to express his own opinion, and I think Fairlegh must allow that he was a little hasty in presupposing, that by so doing an insult was intended. This being the case, he will, I am sure, agree with me that he ought not to take any notice of Mr. Wilford's remark.”
“Yes, to be sure, that's it—all right, eh?” exclaimed Lawless; “come, Fairlegh, as a favour to me, let the matter end here.”
Thus urged, I could only reply, that “I was quite willing to defer to their judgment, and do whatever they considered right “—and as Wilford (though I could see that he was annoyed beyond measure at having failed in persuading Lawless to give the toast) remained silent, merely curling his lip contemptuously when I spoke, here the affair ended.
As soon as the conversation became general Oaklands turned to me with a mischievous smile, and asked, in an undertone, “Pray, Master Frank, what's become of all the wisdom and prudence recommended to me this morning? I am afraid you quite exhausted your stock, and have not reserved any for your own use. Who's the fire-eater now, I wonder?”
“Laugh away, Harry; I may have acted foolishly, as is usually the case where one acts entirely from impulse; but I could not have sat tamely by and heard Clara Saville's name polluted by the-remarks of such men as Curtis and Wilford—I should have got into a row with them sooner or later, and it was better to check the thing at once.”
“My dear boy,” returned Oaklands, “do not imagine for a moment that I am inclined to blame you; the only thing that I could not help feeling rather amused at, was your throwing down the gauntlet to the gentleman opposite, when I recollected a certain lecture on prudence, with which I was victimised this morning.”
“As you are strong, be merciful,” replied I; “and, whenever I do a foolish thing, may I always have such a friend at hand to save me from the consequences.”
"That's a toast I will drink most willingly,” said Oaklands smiling; “the more so, as it reverses the position in which we generally stand with regard to each other, the alteration being decidedly in my favour; but—” he continued, interrupting himself, “what on earth are they laughing at, and making such a row about?”
“Oh, it's merely Curtis romancing with the most unmitigated effrontery, about something that neither he, nor any one else, ever did out hunting,” replied Archer; “a tremendous leap, I fancy it was.”
“Do not be too sure that it is impossible,” replied I; “a horse once cleared the mouth of a chalk pit with me on its back, when I was a boy; Lawless remembers it.” “Eh! what? Mad Bess!” returned Lawless; “I should think I did too; I rode there afterwards and examined the place—a regular break-neck-looking hole as ever I saw in my life. Tell 'em about it, Frank.”
Thus called upon, no choice was left me but to commence the recital, which, although there are few things to which I have a greater objection than being the hero of my own story, I accordingly did. Several remarks were made as I concluded, but, owing either to my well-known dislike of exaggeration, or to the air of truthfulness with which I had told the tale, nobody seemed inclined to doubt that the adventure had occurred in the manner I related, although it was of a more incredible nature than the feat Curtis had recounted. This fact had just excited my attention, when Wilford, turning to the man on his right hand, observed: “It's a great pity that some one hasn't taken notes of this evening's conversation; they would have afforded materials for a new volume of the adventures of Baron Munchausen”.
My only answer to this remark, which was evidently intended for my hearing, was a slight smile, for I had determined I would not again be betrayed into any altercation with him, and, being now on my guard, I felt pretty sure of being able to maintain my resolution. To my annoyance Oaklands replied: “If your remark is intended to throw any discredit upon the truth of the anecdote my friend has related, I must be excused for observing that Lawless and I, though not actually eyewitnesses of the leap, are yet perfectly aware that it took place”.
“Was that observation addressed to me, Mr. Oaklands?” inquired Wilford, regarding Oaklands with an insolent stare.
"To you, sir, or to any other man who ventures to throw a doubt on what Fairlegh has just stated,” replied Oaklands, his brow flushing with anger.
“Really,” observed Wilford, with a contemptuous sneer, “Mr. Fairlegh is most fortunate in possessing such a steady and useful friend: first, when he dictates to Lawless what toasts he is to propose at his own table, and threatens the company generally with the weight of his displeasure should they venture to question the propriety of his so doing, Mr. Oaklands kindly saves him from the consequences of this warlike declaration, by advancing the somewhat novel doctrine, that his friend, having spoken unadvisedly, ought not to act up to the tenor of his words. Again, Mr. Fairlegh relates a marvellous tale of his earlier days, and Mr. Oaklands is prepared to visit the most trifling indication of disbelief with the fire and faggots of his indignation. Gentlemen, I hope you are all good and true Fairleghites, or you will assuredly be burned at the stake, to satisfy the bigotry of Pope Oaklands the First.”
During this speech I could perceive by the veins on his forehead, swollen almost to bursting, his firmly set teeth, and his Viands clenched till the blood was forced back from the nails, that Oaklands was striving to master his passion; apparently he succeeded in a great measure, for, as Wilford concluded, he spoke calmly and deliberately: “The only reply, sir,” he began, “that I shall deign to make to your elaborate insult is, that I consider it as such, and shall expect you to render me the satisfaction due to a gentleman”.
“No, Harry,” exclaimed I, “I cannot permit this: the quarrel, if it be a quarrel, is mine; on this point I cannot allow even you to interfere. Mr. Wilford shall hear from me.”
“No, no!” exclaimed Lawless; “I'm sure you must see, Wilford, that this is not at all the sort of thing, eh? recollect Oaklands and Fairlegh are two of my oldest friends, and something is due to me at all events, eh?—Archer—Curtis—this cannot be allowed to go on.”
By this time the party had with one accord risen from their seats, and divided into groups, some collecting round Wilford and Lawless, others about Oaklands and myself, and the confusion of tongues was perfectly deafening. At length I heard Wilford's voice exclaim: “I consider it unfair in the extreme to lay all this quarrelling and disturbance to me, and, as it is not at all to my taste, I beg to wish you a very good evening, Lawless”.
"You will do no such thing,” cried Oaklands, and, bursting through the cluster of men who surrounded him and endeavoured to detain him, he sprang to the door, double-locked it, and, placing his back against it, added, “no one loaves the room till this affair is settled one way or other.” The action, the tone of voice, and the manner which accompanied them, reminded me so forcibly of a deed of a somewhat similar nature at Dr. Mildman's, when Oaklands first heard of the loss of his letter containing the cheque, and began to suspect foul play—that for a moment the lapse of years was forgotten, and it seemed as though we were boys together again.
Whenever Oaklands was excited by strong emotion of any kind, there was a proud consciousness of power in his every look and motion, which possessed for me an irresistible attraction: and now, as he stood, his noble figure drawn up to its fullest height, his arms folded across his ample chest in an attitude of defiance a sculptor would have rejoiced to imitate; his head thrown slightly back, and his handsome features marked by an expression of haughty indignation; when I reflected that it was a generous regard for my honour which excited that indignation, I felt that my affection for him was indeed “passing the love of women,” and that he was a friend for whom a man might resolve to lay down his life willingly.
While these thoughts passed through my brain Lawless and several of the more influential members of the party had been endeavouring to persuade Wilford to own that he was in the wrong, and ought to apologise, but in vain; the utmost concession they could get him to make was, that “he was not aware that he had offered any particular insult to Mr. Oaklands, but if that gentleman chose to put such a construction upon his words, he could not help it, and should be ready to answer for them when and where he pleased”.
They were then, as a last resource, about to appeal to Oaklands, when I interfered by saying “that the insult, if insult it was, had originated from the part I had taken in the proceedings of the evening, and was directed far more against me than Oaklands; that under these circumstances it was impossible for me to allow him to involve himself further in the affair. If my veracity were impugned, I was the proper person to defend it; there could be but one opinion on that subject.”
To this they all agreed, and at length Oaklands himself was forced reluctantly to confess he supposed I was right.
“In this case, gentlemen,” I continued, “my course is clear; I leave my honour in your hands, certain that in so doing I am taking the wisest course; honourable men and men of spirit like yourselves will, I feel certain, never recommend anything incompatible with the strictest regard for my reputation as a gentleman; neither will you needlessly hurry me into an act, the consequences of which might possibly embitter the whole of my alter life. In order that personal feeling may not interfere any more with the matter, my friend and I will withdraw; Lawless will kindly convey to me your decision, on which, be it what it may, I pledge myself to act;—-I wish you a very good-night.”
Then telling Lawless I should sit up for him, and taking leave of two or three members of the party with whom I was most intimate, I drew Oaklands' arm within my own, and, unlocking the door, left the room, Wilford's fierce black eyes glaring at us with a look of disappointed fury, such as I have witnessed in a caged tiger, being the last object I beheld.