A good many bottles of port had been consumed that night, for in those days it was an English gentleman’s duty to pay attention to his port, and after turning exceedingly poorly, and having to quit the table, the Major began by trying to make up for the past in a manner that would now be classed as loud.
“Gentlemen, pray—pray, pass the decanters,” he cried. “Colonel Mellersh, that port is not to your liking. Smith, some more claret? Mr Linnell, ’pon honour, you know you must not pass the decanter without filling your glass. Really, gentlemen, I am afraid our guests are disappointed at the absence of Colonel Lascelles, and because a certain gentleman has not honoured us to-night. A toast, gentlemen: HRH.”
“HRH” was chorused as every officer and guest rose at the dark, highly-polished mahogany table, liberally garnished with decanters, bottles, and fruit; and, with a good deal of demonstration, glasses were waved in the air, a quantity of rich port was spilled, and the fact was made very evident that several of the company had had more than would leave them bright and clear in the morning.
The mess-room of the Light Dragoon Regiment was handsome and spacious; several trophies of arms and colours decorated the walls; that unusual military addition, a conservatory, opened out of one side; and in it, amongst the flowers, the music-stands of the excellent band that had been playing during dinner were still visible, though the bandsmen had departed when the cloth was drawn.
The party consisted of five-and-twenty, many being in uniform, with their open blue jackets displaying their scarlet dress vests with the ridge of pill-sized buttons closely packed from chin to waist; and several of the wearers of these scarlet vests were from time to time pouring confidences into their neighbours’ ears, the themes being two: “The cards” and “She.”
“Colonel Mellersh, I am going to ask you to sing,” said Major Rockley, after taking a glass of port at a draught, and looking a little less pale.
He turned to a striking-looking personage at his right—a keen, aquiline-featured man, with closely-cut, iron-grey hair, decisive, largish mouth with very white teeth, and piercing dark-grey eyes which had rather a sinister look from the peculiarity of his fierce eyebrows, which seemed to go upwards from where they nearly joined.
“I’m afraid my voice is in no singing trim,” said the Colonel, in a quick, loud manner.
“Come, no excuses,” cried a big heavy-faced, youngish man from the bottom of the long table—a gentleman already introduced to the reader in Lady Teigne’s drawing-room.
“No excuse, Sir Matt,” cried the Colonel; “only an apology for the quality of what I am about to sing.”