CHAPTER XII.—HARRY PUTS HIS FOOT IN IT.
The moment Harry reseated himself at the dining-table, two of his old college friends placed themselves beside him, and plunging at once into recollections of “auld-lang-syne,” completely monopolised him. The sound of his own name eagerly pronounced, roused him at length from an interesting reminiscence of how gloriously drunk Jones of Magdalen had been at Tippleton’s wine-party (when he would sing a pathetic ballad, beginning, “There’s a wail on the mountain!” and was stopped by a roar of laughter, chorusing the inquiry, “how the deuce it—the whale—got there?”). The speaker was Mr. Hazlehurst. “Excuse my interrupting your conversation for a few minutes, Mr. Coverdale,” he began, “but we want your opinion. You’ve travelled and seen the working of different tariff regulations, and had opportunities of comparing the prosperity of other nations with that of our own, while at the same time you are a sufficiently large landed-proprietor to give you a stake in the country, and to induce you to feel a strong interest in the general prospects of the agricultural population. I am sure you must agree with me in considering protection a most essential and salutary measure.”
“If I might be allowed to make just one observation before Mr. Coverdale favours us with his views on this important question,” insinuated Mr. Crane, in the mildest and most affectionate tone of voice imaginable—wine always reducing this excellent man to a state of weak and inappropriate philanthropy—“if I might observe that, with the highest respect for, and admiration of, the agricultural population of this great country, I feel it incompatible with my feelings as a Protestant, and therefore, so to speak, in a general way as a brother, not to say as a man also, and more particularly as a mill-owner, to forget the thousands of operatives who crowd our large cities, and who, when satisfied with cheap bread, add to the dignity and prosperity of the nation; but, on the contrary, when deprived of this means of support, object to resign themselves to the dispensations of a beneficent Providence, and fly in the face of society as chartists, levellers, red-republicans, and all that is dangerous and subversive of morality and security of property. If I may so far presume as to call Mr. Coverdale’s attention to the desirableness of providing food at a rate which will enable the manufacturing classes to exist without constantly working themselves up into a state of illegal desperation, I shall feel that I have, if I may be allowed the expression, unburthened my conscience.” Thus saying, Mr. Crane cast a timid and appealing look from Harry to his host, and sipped a glass of Burgundy with the air of a man apologising for some misdeed.
“It is not a subject upon which I have ever expended any vast amount of consideration,” began Coverdale, wishing in his secret soul that he might have the feeding of Mr. Crane for the ensuing six months entrusted to him, in which case he would have afforded that gentleman an opportunity of practically testing the merits of very cheap bread indeed, and of nothing else—except, perhaps, cold spring water; “but the common sense of the matter appears to lie in a nutshell: the two great divisions of the poorer classes are the manufacturing poor and the agricultural poor, the manufacturers being the most numerous—to sacrifice one to the other is unfair, but to offer up the greater to the less is ridiculous. Free-trade has had a fair trial, and has been proved to benefit the masses, though it lies heavily on the land-owners. Well, then, relieve land of its burthens, and make the income-tax permanent to reimburse the Exchequer. That’s the line I should take if I were Premier, which, thank heaven, I’m not.”
As Harry concluded, two or three men began to speak at once, but Mr. Hazlehurst, by a solemn wave of the hand, immediately silenced them. That excellent magistrate had drunk more wine than was by any means good for him; his constitution was gouty, and he had not had a fit for some time; before such attacks he was usually as irritable as though his brain were a hedgehog, and society at large a pack of wire-haired terriers attempting to unroll it. Claret was the most unwholesome wine he could take, and on the evening in question he had imbibed nearly a bottle thereof; but of all this dessous des cartes, Harry was innocently unconscious.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” began Mr. Hazlehurst, solemnly, “but the right of reply at present rests with myself. Moreover, if my ears did not deceive me, Mr. Coverdale has made an observation which I must call upon him either to explain or retract; but in the first place, let me express my surprise and regret, sir,” here he addressed himself pointedly to Harry, “that a young man in your position, a large landed-proprietor, a lover of field-sports, possessing a practical knowledge of land, and a personal acquaintance with the habits and customs of the agricultural poor—the bone and sinews of our country, should thus turn against and betray the interests of the class to which he belongs, and league himself with those who would, in their shortsightedness, sap the vitals of that free and independent character which has made us the great nation that we are. With regard to the observation to which I alluded, I believe, that having stigmatised the opinions I hold as a sacrifice of the greater to the less, you deliberately pronounced those opinions ridiculous. Have I not repeated your words correctly?”
“I certainly said that to sacrifice the greater number to the less would be ridiculous,” returned Harry, completely taken aback at this sudden and unexpected accusation; “but I only meant—”
“You meant what you said, I presume?” interposed Mr. Hazlehurst, in the magisterial tone of voice in which he was accustomed to cross-examine and be down upon equivocating poachers.
“Of course I did,” returned Harry, his eyes flashing as he observed a sarcastic smile upon the face of Horace D’Almayne. “I always mean what I say; but my remark related solely to general principles, and had not the smallest reference to you personally, sir.”
“Which is equivalent to saying, that I do not understand the common meaning of words,” returned Mr. Hazlehurst, in the same irritating tone of voice. “Really, Mr. Coverdale, your explanations do not tend to do away with the unfavourable impression your observation forced upon me.”
“It is equivalent to nothing of the kind, sir,” rejoined Harry, losing his self-command as a second glance at D’Almayne revealed the fact that he was hiding a laugh behind an elaborately-worked cambric handkerchief; “but if you chose to put a wrong construction upon every word I utter, it is useless for me to discuss the matter further with a man so—a—so——”
At this critical moment, Tom Hazlehurst, who had been listening with a countenance of blank dismay to the altercation between his father and his friend, contrived, either by accident or design, to throw down and break a valuable china plate. This incident created a diversion by calling forth an outburst of parental wrath, under cover whereof Harry regained sufficient self-control to enable him to suppress the word “wrong-headed,” with which he had been on the point of concluding his sentence. At the same time, Mr. Crane, having a mortal antipathy to anything like quarrelling, which, as he said, produced “an insalubrious agitation of his nervous system,” or, in plain English, frightened him out of his wits, suggested that they should join the ladies—a proposal which led to a general move. Five minutes’ reflection, in an atmosphere less oppressive than that of the heated dining-room, caused Harry to perceive that, by having allowed himself to be provoked by the obstinacy of a pig-headed and slightly tipsy old gentleman into even a momentary forgetfulness of the respect due to Mr. Hazlehurst’s years and position, he had acted wrongly and foolishly. It moreover occurred to him, now that it was too late to be of the slightest use, that owing to this unfortunate disagreement he must have completely neutralised any influence he might have possessed with his host, and thus, in fact, frustrated the whole purpose of his visit: by which means Arthur would be vexed, and the possibility of Alice’s marriage with Mr. Crane rather increased than otherwise. Just as he was about to exchange the cool air of the garden (whither on leaving the dining-room he had betaken himself) for the less agreeable temperature of a crowded drawing-room, he was patted on the shoulder by one of his college acquaintance.
“Ah, Knighton! what is it man?” Observed Harry, wishing his dear friend at Jericho. “I took you for the stem of a tree, you stood so motionless.”
“Why the fact is, my dear fellow,” returned Knighton, a well-disposed goose, who, when Harry first commenced his college career, had formed an enthusiastic attachment for him, in return for which he expected his friend to advise him how to act and what to say upon every occasion, trifling as well as important—a tax which even Harry’s good-nature found somewhat oppressive, “the fact is, I consider it quite providential, if I may say so, finding you here to-night: you know I always like to have your opinion before I make up my mind; there is nobody with such good sense as you, at least, nobody that I’ve ever met with. My dear Coverdale, I’m going to take the most important step—that is, if you see no reason against it, which I can scarcely feel a doubt of; but I’ll tell you the whole affair, beginning properly at the beginning. When I was down in Hampshire three years ago——” but we will not inflict Mr. Knighton’s amiable prolixity on the reader, suffice it to say that, having linked his arm within that of Coverdale, he paraded his victim up and down a gravel walk for the space of at least three quarters of an hour, while he poured into his ears as dull a tale of true love as ever ran smooth: true love of the very mildest quality, which, from the beginning, was certain to end simply and naturally in a stupid marriage, about the whole of which affair there could not by possibility be two opinions. At length, when Harry had agreed, with everything and to everything at least twice over, and strongly advised his tormentor to act as he felt certain he would have done if his advice had been just the other way (for this young man, although he eagerly sought counsel, by no means considered himself bound to walk thereby), it suddenly occurred to Mr. Knighton that he was doing an unkind thing by his friend, and a rude one by his host, in not sooner joining the ladies; accordingly, at (literally) the eleventh hour, he exercised thus much self-denial, viz. having nothing more to say, he said it.
When Coverdale entered the drawing-room, he cast round his eyes to discover what might have become of Alice and Mr. Crane, and failing to perceive them, was about to find some excuse for making his way into the boudoir beyond, when Emily pounced upon him to entreat him to sing for the edification of some dear Mary Jane or other, who was dying to hear him; and the very identical Mary Jane herself seconding the request in a mild, insinuating, blatant tone of voice, as of some bashful but persuasive sheep, there remained nothing for him but to consent, which he did with a very ill grace indeed. Having dashed through a tender and sentimental Italian love-ditty in a ferocious, not to say sanguinary, style, he declared he was so hoarse that he could not sing another note, and again made an attempt to enter the boudoir, which he succeeded in reaching just in time to see Alice quit the room with a heightened colour, and in a manner which betokened hurry and agitation, while Mr. Crane remained gazing after her with a countenance indicative of the deepest and most helpless bewilderment. From these symptoms Harry rightly conjectured that while he had been off duty the cotton-spinner had popped; but whether his offer had been accepted or rejected he was utterly unable to divine. Mr. Crane looked stupid and puzzle-pated—but that he was sure to do in any case. For the rest of the evening Coverdale was in a fearful state of mind; people stayed late, and it seemed to him as if everybody had entered into a league to worry and torment him. First, the young lady who had sat next him at dinner got at him again, and flirted at him so violently, that (his thoughts running entirely on marrying and giving in marriage) he became possessed of a nervous dread lest she should be going to make him an offer—this idea gaining confirmation from its suddenly occurring to him that it was Leap-year, he grew desperate, and pretending that Emily had made him promise to sing again, astonished that damsel by crossing over to inform her that his hoarseness had entirely departed, and that he should have the greatest pleasure in favouring her friend with the song she had wished to hear; for which piece of inconsistency Emily bestowed upon him a glance so penetrating and satirical, that he longed to box her pretty pert little ears for it. When the song was over, Knighton emerged from behind a broad old lady, somebody’s mother-in-law, very far gone in Curaçoa, which she concealed behind a pious zeal for clothing the female natives of Barelyaragon (an unknown island, discovered by Juan de Chuzacruz in the sixteenth century, and forgotten ever since) in the cast-off garments of the Bluecoat-School boys. The moment Knighton got clear of this philanthropic elder he pounced upon Coverdale, and carrying him off to a recess, then and there related to him an additional episode in his amatory career, which was not of the slightest importance either to himself or to anybody else, but which took nearly as long to communicate as the original history. During this infliction, Harry’s attention was occupied by observing the behaviour of Mr. Crane. Almost as soon as Alice quitted the boudoir, Kate Marsden had entered it, and begun a long and apparently interesting conversation with Mr. Crane, during which that gentleman, who at the commencement appeared rather low and desponding, gradually brightened up, and, under the influence of his fair companion’s society, grew quite lively and animated; in fact (if by any stretch of imagination the reader can connect two such antagonistic and incongruous ideas as Mr. Crane and flirtation), an uninitiated spectator, beholding the pair, might legitimately have come to the conclusion that Kate Marsden and the cotton-spinner were very decidedly and unmistakably flirting.
The longest evenings come to an end at last, and Coverdale having seen Knighton safely deposited in a dog-cart, with nobody to bore but a sleepy groom, was making his way to the spot where the bedroom candlesticks were usually to be discovered, when he suddenly encountered Mr. Hazlehurst. Standing aside to let him pass, Harry, in his most polite and conciliatory manner, wished him good-night. The only reply vouchsafed was the slightest and stiffest possible nod of the head, and with a countenance as dark and lowering as the most viciously disposed thunder-cloud, the offended autocrat passed on.