He stared at me for a second or two, and then said,—
“By Jove! I was certain of it. Well, seven o'clock is the hour. Kensington,—every one knows the Bird Cage.”
I touched my cap and bowed. He gravely returned my salute, and walked on between his friends, whose loud laughter continued to ring out for a long way down the street.
My first impressions were, I own, the reverse of agreeable, and I felt heart-sick with shame for having accepted the invitation. The very burst of laughter told me in what point of view they regarded the whole incident. I was, doubtless, to be the ignoble instrument of some practical joke. At first I tortured my ingenuity to think how I could revenge myself for the indignity; but I suddenly remembered that I had made myself a willing party to the scheme, whatever it might be. I had agreed to avail myself of the invitation, and should, therefore, accept its consequences.
With what harassing doubts did I rack my suffering brain! At one time, frenzied with the idea of an insult passed upon my wretchedness and poverty; at another, casuistically arguing myself into the belief that, whatever the offence to others, to me there could be none intended. But why revive the memory of a conflict which impressed me with all the ignominy of my station, and made me feel myself, as it were, selected for an affront that could not with impunity have been practised towards another?
I decided not to go, and then just as firmly determined I would present myself. My last resolve was to keep my promise, to attend the dinner-party; to accept, as it were in the fullest sense, the equality tendered to me; and, if I could detect the smallest insult, or even a liberty taken with me, to claim my right to resent it, by virtue of the act which admitted me to their society, and made me for the time then-companion. I am not quite sure that such conduct was very justifiable. I half suspect that the easier and the better course would have been to avoid a situation in which there was nothing to be anticipated but annoyance or difficulty.
My mind once made up, I hastened to prepare for the event, by immediately ordering a handsome dress-suit. Carefully avoiding what might be deemed the impertinence of assuming the colors of party, I selected a claret-colored coat, with steel buttons; a richly-embroidered waistcoat; and for my cravat one of French cambric, with a deep fall of Mechlin lace. If I mention matters so trivial, it is because at the time to which I refer, the modes of dress were made not only to represent the sections of politics, but to distinguish between those who adhered to an antiquated school of breeding and manners, and those who now avowed themselves the disciples of a new teaching. I wished, if possible, to avoid either extreme, and assumed the colors and the style usually worn by foreigners in English society. Like them, too, I wore a sword and buckles; for the latter I went to the extravagance of paying two guineas for the mere hire.
If you have ever felt in life, good reader, what it was to have awaited in anxious expectancy for the day of some great examination whose issue was to have given the tone to all your future destiny, you may form some notion of the state of mental excitement in which I passed the ensuing twenty-four hours. It was to no purpose that I said to myself all that my reason could suggest or my ingenuity fancy; a certain instinct, stronger than reason, more convincing than ingenuity, told me that this was about to be an eventful moment of' my life.
The hour at length arrived; the carriage that was to convey me stood at the door; and as I took a look at myself, full dressed and powdered, in the glass, I remember that my sensations vibrated between the exulting vanity and pride of a gallant about to set out for a fête, and the terrors of a criminal on his way to the block. My head grew more and more confused as I drove along. At moments I thought that all was a dream, and I tried to arouse and wake myself; then I fancied that it was the past was fictitious,—that my poverty, my want, and my hardship were all imaginary; that my real condition was one of rank and affluence. I examined the rich lace of my ruffles, the sparkling splendor of my sword-knot, and said, “Surely these are not the signs of squalid misery and want.” I called to mind my impressions of the world, my memories of life and society, and asked, “Can these be the sentiments of a miserable outcast?” Assuredly, my poor brain was sorely tried to reconcile these strong contradictions; nor do I yet understand how I obtained sufficient mastery over my emotions to present myself at the house of my entertainer.
“What name, sir?” said the obsequious servant, who, with noiseless footsteps, had preceded me to the drawing-room door.