CHAPTER XIII.—THE CARES OF STATE.
The ladies of the Manor were in the element which delighted them most when preparing for the dinner and the ‘little dance’ which were to express the agony they experienced at the departure of their brother for a distant land. But the truth was that they did not think of the parting at all: their whole minds were occupied with the festival itself and with the ambition to make it the most brilliant that had ever been known at Ringsford.
There are people who, whilst desirous of cultivating a reputation for hospitality, regard the preparations for the entertainment of their friends as an affliction; and whilst distributing smiles of welcome to their guests, are, without malice, secretly wishing them far enough and the whole thing well over. There are others who send out invitations which they calculate will not be accepted, and who feel chagrined if they are. But these young ladies thoroughly enjoyed the bustle of the necessary arrangements for a banquet—and the larger its scale, the greater their pleasure; and although they did send some invitations out of deference to social obligations, whilst hoping they would be declined, such drawbacks affected neither their appetites nor their enjoyment when the evening came.
On the present occasion, Miss Hadleigh was of course most anxious that everything should be done in honour of Philip; but it was impossible for her to escape a certain degree of gratification in anticipating the impression which was to be made on her betrothed of the importance of the Family. She had subscribed for a gorgeously bound copy of a county history in which a page was devoted to Ringsford Manor and its present proprietor. It was remarkable how frequently that book lay open on the drawing-room table at that particular page.
Caroline and Bertha had their private thoughts, too, about the possibilities of the forthcoming festival. They did not deliberately speculate upon obtaining devoted lovers; but they did count upon securing numerous admirers. And, then, they were all to have new dresses for the occasion. This was no special novelty for them: but, however many dresses she may possess, there is no woman who does not find interest and excitement in getting a new one.
With light hearts they attacked the business of issuing invitations; and although ‘the little dance’ was second in order, they began with it first. They progressed rapidly and merrily: there were a few discussions as to whether or not they should include Mrs Brown and the Misses Brown, or only have Miss Brown; whether they should have Miss Jones alone, or Miss Jones and Miss Sarah Jones; and so on. There were no discussions about the gentlemen, even when it was discovered that supposing two-thirds of those invited came, it would be necessary to erect a marquee on the lawn to allow room for dancing. Indeed the discovery enhanced the glory of the event and caused a marked increase in the number of cards sent out.
This was all smooth enough sailing; but they had to haul in their colours at the first attempt to make up the list of guests for the dinner. They were limited to twelve or fourteen; and there were so many of those asked to the second part of the programme, who would feel slighted and offended on hearing that they had been passed over in the first part, that the girls were appalled by the difficulty of arranging matters so as to cause the least possible amount of heart-burning. It was not as if this were an ordinary gathering: the degree of friendship would be distinctly marked by the line drawn between those who were invited to the dinner and those who were not.
Their father had only mentioned Mr Wrentham and the Crawshays: he left his daughters to select the other guests.
Miss Hadleigh had a vague sensation that she wished she had not been so ready to call everybody her ‘Dearest friend.’ That rendered her position decidedly more awkward than it would have been otherwise.
‘Of course we must have Alfred,’ she said decisively, as if relieved to have settled one part of the difficulty.
‘Of course we must have him,’ chimed her sisters.
‘And ... we ought to have his people,’ she added meditatively; ‘they are—in a sort of way—connections of the Family.’
‘Alfred’ was Mr Crowell, the young merchant to whom she was engaged.
‘Yes, we ought to ask them,’ observed Caroline, with a suggestion in voice and look that she would not be sorry if something should prevent them from accepting.
‘Then we must ask old Dr Guy—he is such a friend of Philip’s; and if we ask him, I don’t see how we can avoid sending cards to Fanny and her stupid husband.’
Dr Guy was the oldest medical man of the Kingshope district: Fanny was his daughter, married to his partner, Dr Edwin Joy.
‘I have it!’ cried Bertha, clapping her hands with glee at the notion that she had solved the problem: ‘we’ll go and find out the evenings that the people we don’t want are engaged, and invite them for those very evenings.’
‘Foolish child,’ said the eldest sister majestically; ‘they would not be all engaged for the same evening, and our date is fixed.’
‘Oh!—I did not think of that,’ rejoined Bertha, crestfallen.
‘How many have we got, Caroline?’
Caroline was believed to have a head for figures; and being glad to be credited with a head for anything, she endeavoured to sustain the character by making prompt guesses at totals which were generally found to be wrong. Nevertheless, the promptitude of her replies and an occasional lucky hit sufficed to keep up the delusion as to her special faculty. She was lucky this time, for she had been reckoning them all the time.
‘Ten; and the vicar will make eleven.’
‘Ah, yes—I had almost forgotten the dear old vicar. Thank you, Caroline. That leaves us with only three places; and I suppose Philip and Coutts will want to have some of their friends at dinner.’
The list of particular guests occupied four days of anxious thought and much re-arrangement, with the result that room for two additional places had to be made at the table. Even when all this was done, they had not quite made up their minds who were really the most intimate friends of the Family.
(To be continued.)