This was the boldest step Sir William Temple had yet taken; and he stood in proportionate anxiety, breathless and red, awaiting a reply which was to confirm or crush his hopes. May be, like a second Cæsar, he felt that he had crossed the limits of the empire, and saw that victory only could retrieve what he had hazarded, and that he must rise or fall by that. If victory did attend him, then, like another Alexander, he might weep for fresh worlds to conquer; but if he fell,—"oh! what a fall was there, my friends!" Such feelings, no doubt, did agitate his swelling breast when he saw the interchange of looks pass between Lady Tilney and her friend, as if they questioned each other.
"Shall we gratify this man?" (this fool he would have read, could he have interpreted the Countess Leinsengen's expression): "shall we countenance him?" and in the tremendous moment of suspense Sir William blest his stars that there were none by to mark him. But when the joyful sound of Lady Tilney's voice pronounced an acceptance of his petition, he would have given every thing, short of the promised honour itself, that the whole Opera house had been present to witness his triumph. "You will receive us en garçon, Sir William, dat will be very good," said the Comtesse Leinsengen: "all I bargain for is dat there should be no misses—dose unmarried women are always in de way."
Sir William was too much intoxicated with joy—too much absorbed with the prospect of his increasing consequence in the eyes of the fashionable world, when it should be announced that he had entertained the Comtesse Leinsengen, Lady Tilney, and a party of distinguished personages to dinner, at his house in May Fair, to pay attention to any thing not immediately connected with the results which that dinner would produce. He had heard not one word distinctly beyond the promised acceptance of his invitation; although he continued mechanically to reply, whenever he imagined himself addressed. "I am so glad to hear you say so!—I am delighted to hear that!" At last, on recovering a little, he perceived that Lady Tilney and her friend had entered into an argument on the subject of the unmarried ladies, to whom the Comtesse had alluded, and in which his dinner seemed entirely forgotten, or likely to be so.
"Dey are always tinking of settlements, and jewels, and have nothing to do but take notice of what oders are doing," rejoined the Comtesse Leinsengen, in her most thrilling tone: "Our way is much de better dan yours; we marry our children at once, or put them in de convents: dat settles de matter, and make dem much happier too."
"I am not quite so sure of that point, my dear Comtesse," said Lady Tilney, "although I own ladies are bores; but we manage the thing in our way, and as well at least: we let them seem to please themselves, which is half the battle towards making them satisfied with the lot they draw, and we ourselves direct the entire marche du jeu. You know I am for liberty in all things; liberty of choice as well as conscience; but very young people do not know what they wish and it is only when a little acquainted with the world that any body can be said to have a choice." Sir William Temple remained in torture during this discussion, and more than once wished all the unmarried ladies in London, who thus seemed to step in between himself and fortune, at the bottom of the sea. At length, tired, but not convinced, Lady Tilney left her opponent in the middle of a sentence, and turning to the unhappy Sir William, asked, "for what day shall I make our party at your house?"
"I am delighted to hear you say that!" was the prompt and very sincere answer of the person addressed. "Oh, any day you do me the honour to appoint."
"Dat dinner of yours, Sir William, oh vraiment je me fais fête d'y penser," cried the Comtesse Leinsengen, turning abruptly round to him, and determined that her rival in argument should not have even that subject entirely her own.
"I hate vaiting and puts off; we vill fix de day at once—vat say you to Sunday? to-morrow—de Sunday is always frightful dull in your country; 'tis the only day, besides, in which I am disengaged."
"I'm so glad to hear you say so," replied Sir William, "let it be to-morrow," turning at the same time with a look of inquiry to Lady Tilney.
"Oh, after church there is no objection to diverting one's-se1f innocently; it is impossible to read and pray all day: besides I like to make the Sunday, on principle, a gay, chearful day."