While this sacrament of friendship was proceeding was heard a sound as of many men simultaneously stifling much laughter. The door opened, and the other guests arrived in a body. They were preceded by Jack Dunquerque, and on entering the room dropped, as if by word of command, into line, like soldiers on parade. Eight of them were strangers, but Captain Ladds brought up the rear.
They were, as might be expected of such great men, a remarkable assemblage. At the extreme right stood a tall well-set-up old man, with tangled grey locks, long grey eye-brows, and an immense grey beard. His vigorous bearing belied the look of age, and what part of his face could be seen had a remarkably youthful appearance.
Next to him were other two aged men, one of whom was bent and bowed by the weight of years. They also had large eyebrows and long grey beards; and Mr. Beck remarked at once that so far as could be judged from the brightness of their eyes they had wonderfully preserved their mental strength. The others were younger men, one of them being apparently a boy of eighteen or so.
Then followed a ceremony like a levée. Gilead Beck stood in the centre of the room, the table having been pushed back into the corner. He was supported, right and left, by the Twins, who formed a kind of Court, and above whom he towered grandly with his height of six-feet-two. He held himself as erect, and looked as solemn as if he were the President of the United States. The Twins, for their part, looked a little as if they were his sons.
Jack Dunquerque acted as Lord Chamberlain or Master of the Ceremonies. He wore an anxious face, and looked round among the great men whom he preceded, as soon as they had all filed in, with a glance which might have meant admonition, had that been possible. And, indeed, a broad smile, which was hovering like the sunlight upon their venerable faces, disappeared at the frown of this young gentleman. It was very curious.
It was in the Grand Manner—that peculiar to Courts—in which Jack Dunquerque presented the first of the distinguished guests to Mr. Beck.
"Sir," he said, with low and awe-struck voice, "before you stands Thomas Carlyle."
A thrill ran through the American's veins as he grasped the hand which had written so many splendid things, and looked into the eyes which harboured such splendid thought. Then he said, in softened tones, because his soul was moved; "This is a proud moment, sir, for Gilead P. Beck. I never thought to have shaken by the hand the author of the French Revolution and the Stones of Venice."
(It really was unfortunate that his reading had been so miscellaneous during the four days preceding the dinner.)
The venerable Philosopher opened his mouth and spake. His tones were deep and his utterance slow.