At length arrived the important day of the dinner-party. Were we called upon to define the meaning of the term dinner-party, we should denominate it an awful immolation of mind to matter, a wanton sacrifice of the head to the stomach. Why, on a hot summer’s day, eighteen individuals, supposed to be in their proper senses, who might dine at home if they chose, should agree of their own free-will to victimise themselves and each other by congregating together in one room, for the space of two mortal hours, to eat—and, in the case of the lords of the creation, probably to drink also—a great deal more than is good for them, is one of those social problems of which we expect to arrive at the solution about the time when mankind is thoroughly regenerated by Miss Martineau’s atheological views (to coin a word), but not before.
If there were no other argument against this insane system of monster dinner-parties, the frightful state of discomfort into which the family of the giver of the feast is thrown by the coming event, would alone be sufficient to prove our case. Unless the establishment be on a scale proportionable to that of the individual who, on finding the number of his guests exceeded the means of conveyance provided for them, coolly ordered round “more phaetons!” anarchy and confusion reign predominant throughout the devoted mansion for at least four-and-twenty hours before the affair comes off. In the first place the servants, male and female, all go mad; if you give an order, the recipient stares you vacantly in the face, and does something else immediately; if you lay down a book, or any similar article, in its proper place, somebody instantly removes it and hides it in an improper one, where you are fortunate if you stumble upon it by accident in the course of the following six months. The lunacy of the servants reacts upon their betters—everybody is a little out of temper, everybody is over-officious, and has a way of his or her own for doing everything diametrically opposed to the variously diverging ways of everybody else. From the earliest dawn the very garrets are redolent of “making soup,” which odour remains in possession of the house till about the time at which luncheon should be, but of course is not, forthcoming, when it is superseded, and retires vice the venison put down to roast, which we would rather decree should be “put down” as a nuisance—at least, as far as regards our olfactory nerves. But it were an endless task to attempt to sum up all the miseries incidental to the preparations for celebrating one of those “feasts of un-reason,” nor do we expect very many of the gentle public to sympathise in our views; for in every society which we have as yet frequented, “L’Amphitryon où l’on dine,” though he be heavy as his own dinners, is certain to be a popular man.
However this may be, one thing is certain, that Harry Coverdale, on the morning preceding the dinner-party at the Grange, experiencing in his proper person many of the inconveniences alluded to, and having made several attempts to improve his position, by seeking to induce somebody to do something sensible or agreeable, all of which proved abortive, by reason of the impossibility of extracting even Alice from the vortex of preparation—Harry Coverdale, thus victimised, faute de mieux, mounted his good steed, and set off to ride away from the blue devils; but the remedy did not succeed—the devils followed him, and grew bluer and bluer with every mile he passed over, and, at last, the bluest of them all assumed the likeness of Mr. Crane!
“Confound Mr. Crane!”—thus ran Harry’s thoughts—“confound the old fellow! he’s coming to marry Alice—my nice, warm-hearted little friend, Alice! I don’t by any means approve of it. He’s old enough to be her father, or anybody else’s, for that matter: the thing is ridiculous—quite absurd!—Besides, the dear little girl dislikes him—naturally she does: there’s nothing to like in him. Why, she cares more about me than she does about him!” He paused in thought, removed his hat, pushed back his thick, clustering hair, put his hat on again, and continued: “I declare, if I’d not entirely made up my mind against marrying, I’d enter for the stakes myself, and see if one could not jockey the old fellow and governor Hazlehurst too. Alice is a prize well worth winning; but it’s too late to change one’s mind! I ought to have behaved differently to her at first, if I’d wanted her to fall in love with me—though I think I’ve got over all that pretty thoroughly, too. Ah! well, I’ve chosen my line, and must stick to it; and as the shooting season isn’t so very far off now, thank goodness, I shall contrive to make it out somehow, I dare say. And, by Jove, there’s a whole pack of birds sunning themselves in that great field—five or six coveys all got together—and stunning good coveys they must be, too. There’s a gap in the hedge; I’ll leap over and see if I can get near enough to count them. Now, Lancelot—steady, sir!—you must do it—over we go! Famously cleared! I wouldn’t take five hundred guineas for you, you beauty! that I wouldn’t. We’ll show some of ’em the way across country when the hunting begins; won’t we astonish their weak minds for them, rather!” and so, patting and caressing his horse, Harry made a wide circuit, and availing himself of the shelter of a belt of trees, contrived to get near enough to the partridges to count them; by which process he arrived at the interesting discovery that there were exactly thirty brace, with one bird over; which ornithological irregularity rather distressed and provoked him, though why it should have done so neither he nor, as we imagine, any one else, could possibly conceive.
But the partridges being counted, back came the blue devils in greater force than ever: and his thoughts grew so troublesome, not to say unbearable, that Harry began to imagine he must be bewitched—a supposition in which, perhaps, he was not so very far wrong after all. As a last refuge against his persecutors, he resolved on a good gallop; and so made his way across country, a distance of some eight miles, as straight as the crow flies, leaping gates and crashing through hedges in a very reckless and steeple-chasing kind of manner, which obtained for him a more than sufficient amount of hard British swearing from sundry irate members of the Agricultural Association, who, for once in their lives, had a real grievance to complain of. As he cleared the last fence leading into the park in which the Grange was situated, the village clock struck six, and he could perceive a carriage, with the Crane liveries (green turned up with yellow), winding slowly through the trees. Three minutes more found him in the stable-yard, and flinging the bridle of his reeking steed to his groom, while he uttered the hasty caution, “You see the state he’s in; take proper care of him,” he made his way to his bedroom by a back staircase, overturning a water-can, and running into the arms of a pretty housemaid (to whom he apologised by mentioning that he was sorry he was in too great a hurry to give her a kiss), in the course of his rapid career. And so, very hot, very dusty, considerably tired, and with a most unromantic appetite, he set vigorously to work to (as servants inelegantly, but graphically term it) clean himself.
When, some twenty minutes afterwards, Coverdale reached the drawing-room, he found all the guests assembled. Many of them, to whom he was personally known, immediately claimed acquaintance, recognising him in spite of the improvements which his residence abroad had wrought in his manners and appearance. Some two or three of the younger men were old college chums, who were really overjoyed to see him again, and who immediately gathered round him and besieged him with questions. Glancing round the circle, he perceived D’Almayne bending tenderly over Alice; but the sight no longer annoyed him—he had got over that. Alice saw the exquisite in his true colours; Alice had laughed at him—poor D’Almayne! But on her other hand sat the cotton-spinner, and he was more formidable; for he did not (fortunately for himself) depend on his personal attractions alone—there were twenty thousand solid good reasons per annum why he should not be refused; reasons which rendered his alliance with Mr. Hazlehurst’s family so desirable, that all that gentleman’s paternal authority was certain to be stretched to its uttermost limit to enable Mr. Crane to carry his point. Moreover, as Harry entered the drawing-room, Tom had given him the following note:—
“Dear Hal,—I have written to tell the governor that I shall be detained in court so late that it will be impossible for me to get away to-night (the truth, you heretic!). I shall start by the first train to-morrow, and be with you to breakfast. Keep a sharp look-out upon the cotton-spinner; and if at any moment he appears as if he were preparing to pop, throw a book at his head without hesitation! So will you continue to deserve the good opinion of,
“Arthur H.”
At dinner, Coverdale was seated next a fast young lady, who rather made love to him than otherwise; but she did not take much by her motion, for Harry had a good deal of business on his hands. First, there was his appetite to satisfy, and the monster was very insatiate after his gallop across country; next, he felt it incumbent upon him to keep a strict watch over Mr. Crane and Alice, who were seated nearly opposite to him; and he seriously debated in his own mind whether a finger-glass might not be considered a legitimate substitute for a book, on one or two occasions, when the cotton-spinner appeared to be attempting the excessively tender. Good eating requires good drinking; thirst demands Pale Ale, etiquette obliges Champagne, and the mixed duties of society necessitate Port and Sherry; Hock is very refreshing in hot weather; it is no use to hand round Curaçoa, if people won’t drink it; Hermitage and Lunel are so nice, that everybody takes them; Claret is a necessity in all properly ordered establishments; and if your host produces a bottle of good old Burgundy, he must be a fool who refuses to taste it. But for a man to do all this, and at the same time to think, feel, and express himself as coolly and prudently as he would after a mutton-chop and a glass of table-beer, would require him to possess a brain made of cast-iron, and no heart at all, and such was by no means the physical conformation of our hero. Harry, however, possessed a good strong head of his own; and although, as dessert proceeded, his eyes grew brighter, and he involuntarily emulated D’Almayne by smiling frequently, and unconsciously displaying an even row of white teeth, these peculiarities only served to make him look especially handsome. But the wine did something else; for, as the ladies rose to leave the room, it inspired him with a determination to jockey D’Almayne, who usually usurped the privilege of opening the door on such occasions—a “cutting out” expedition which Harry conducted with equal skill and success. As Alice, who came last, passed him, some spirit (whether of wine, or another equally favourite theme for minstrel’s lay, we cannot tell) urged him to bend his head, and whisper the inquiry, “Have you been happy with your delightful companion?”
A contemptuous smile, and a slight negative motion of the lips answered the question; and, for a moment, their eyes met. Alice’s must have been a singularly expressive glance, for Harry read therein that she was anxious and dispirited, but felt a vague and general reliance on his willingness and ability to afford her comfort and protection.