University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

The moon rose bright and broad behind
the castle hill, and poured its full flood of
lustre over the tented meadow, whereon
the revels and the dances of the yeomanry
were still kept up with unabated spirit,
long after the young lord of the manor
and his guests had retired from the scene
of sylvan merriment.

Meanwhile, a ruddy light began to
shine out of the oriel windows of the old
hall, showing that mirth and gaiety maintained
their empire within, as steadily as
without the hospitable walls of the proprietor.

The supper room was a fine old fashioned
chamber, wainscoted and ceiled with
dark English oak, polished so brightly that
the walls reflected every object almost as
distinctly as a crystal mirror. The monotony
of the black woodwork was relieved
by a rich cornice, round the summit of
the walls, of flowers and fruits and arabesques,
highly gilt and burnished; the
surbase and the panels were surrounded
with workmanship of the same kind, as
were the posts and lintels of the doors, the
chimney-piece, and the frames of several
large Venetian looking-glasses that hung,
one in each angle of the room, which was
an oblong ocragon, reaching from the
floor to the roof. The floor, where it was
not covered by a fine Turkey carpet, was
polished till it was as bright and almost as
slippery as ice; the curtains and the furniture
were of ruby colored velvet, laid
down with broad gold lace; and, when it
is taken into consideration that there were
above fifty large wax lights in lamps and
chandeliers of cut glass with many pendants,
so disposed in every part of the
hall that it was nearly as light as day, nothing
could easily be imagined more grand
and striking in the shape of decoration.

The table was spread with its snow-white
drapery, and a profusion of cut
glass and silver glittered upon the board,
while the long necks of several flasks of
champagne and Bordeaux, protruding
from the massive coolers, showed that
due preparation had been made to gratify
the palate, as well as to delight the eye.

Supper was served, and so well was the
household of the young baronet organized,
that all the guests were loud and sincere
in their commendation of his wines, his
cookery, his whole menage; and Spencer,
the fastidious spoiled child of the world,
privileged to find fault with anything at
will, whispered aside to St. Maur that his
country friend was by no means to be despised
as an Amphitryon, and immediately
challenging Sir Edward to drink
champagne with him, told him aloud in
his significant, blunt-seeming manner,
“that it would not be his fault if he did
not become an habitué at his house—for
that his bill of fare was as undeniable as
Harbottle's betting book.”

It must not be supposed, however, that
on this, the first evening of the young heir's
majority, he sat down with his three
guests alone to supper. Far from it—the
board was laid with more than twenty
covers, and all the landed aristocracy of
the county were assembled to celebrate
the birth-day, and welcome the arrival of
their young neighbor.

Some few of these were men of the
world and gentlemen in the highest sense
of the word, the venerable Earl of Rochefort
and his three noble sons being among
the number.

The greater part of the company, however,
with the exception of one or two clergymen,
consisted of country gentlemen, as
country gentlemen of that day—for it is of
the time of the last of the unhappy Stuarts
that I am writing—were almost to a man
—that is to say, mere boorish and unlettered
sportsmen, staunch riders after stag
and fox from sunrise to mid-day; staunch
topers at the bottle or the bowl, from afternoon
to midnight!

It had not been deemed wise, or in any
sense advisable, to omit this class of neighbors,
for many reasons; not that Sir Edward
had the least idea either of becoming
one of their number in reality, or of affecting

to do so for the sake of gaining their
votes; for he entertained no thought of
standing for the county, even at a future
period; nor, had he done so, would he
have condescended, therefore, to any indirection.

Something of this sort he slightly hinted
to the old peer who sat on his right, while
apologizing for the rather uproarious mirth
which soon began to prevail at the lower
end of the table; but the good old man
smiled slightly as he answered—

“You do not owe me the least apology,
my dear Sir Edward; since all these gentlemen
are occasionally guests of mine,
likewise, at the castle; and several of them,
though somewhat rough and unpolished,
are very estimable men in their way; good
landlords and good neighbors—upright and
charitable, and true English hearts—proud
to the proud and kindly to the poor. It
may be they are a little addicted to elevating
trifles, which are well enough in their way,
into the serious occupation of a life-time.
But, after all, I do not know which of us
all is free from this weakness! and it is at
least more venial to pass a life-time in
hunting foxes, than in misgoverning nations,
merely for pastime.”

“I agree with you perfectly, my lord,”
said Hale, “and am glad to find that you
do not altogether disapprove offox-hunting,
as I must confess myself rather fond of it
and believe I shall sometimes join my
neighbors when the season comes.”

“Disapprove of it—oh no!” said the
earl, laughing, “so far from that, I was
very near determining to set up a pack
myself some years since, when your respected
father died, Sir Edward—a loss
which you were too young to feel at that
time—and I should probably have done so,
had not our friend, Sir Willoughby de Willoughby,
whom I see you have made your
vice-president for the day, undertaken
them. Oh, no! I think hunting an admirable,
bold, and manly exercise, tending to
hinder our young men from degenerating
into mere city coxcombs, or singing, dancing
dilettanti, like the noblesse of Italy—
I mean of course, if it be not abused. No,
no! indeed; I think there are many pursuits
more blameble than hunting, and
many associates, too, more dangerous than
fox-hunters!”

And, as he spoke the words, his eye
dwelt for a moment on the handsome face
of Capt. Spencer, whose character he
knew thoroughly well by reputation; and
whom he was extremely sorry to see on
terms of intimacy with a young man, to
whom, on many accounts, he wished well;
and of whom he was disposed, on a very
short acquaintance, to think highly.

Sir Edward's eye followed the transient
glance; and, as he thought he had detected
a hidden allusion to himself and his
guests, the ingenuous blood rushed crimson
to his frank face, and he remained for
a moment or two absent and embarrassed.
This was not, however, noticed by the old
nobleman, for he had not made the observation
with reference to Spencer, although
the fitness of it struck him the moment he
had spoken; and, not wishing to assume
the monitor, or to interfere in the affairs of
others, he had cast his eyes upon his plate,
and appeared to be busy only in apportioning
the condiments to his wild fowl.

The direction of the earl's eye had not,
however, been unnoticed by St. Maur, who,
though he did not catch the words uttered,
had no doubt, as he saw the glance followed
by his host's embarrassment, that
something had been said in disparagement
of his friend. Nothing occurred,
however, at the moment, although a sentiment
of dislike was implanted in St. Maur's
breast, which he evinced afterwards by taking
every opportunity of holding up the
old lord to ridicule, as a fanatic and half
fool; and of quizzing his sons behind their
backs unmercifully, as milksops and twaddlers,
scarce one shade better than the
country bumpkins round about them.

Conversation, except among the few persons
at the head of the table, was soon at
an end; bumper toasts circulated fast;
song followed song; and glees and catches
without number were trolled, with far
more energy than melody; and cork after
cork was drawn; and punch-bowl
after punch-bowl was replenished; yet the
interminable thirst of the country squires
seemed all the thirstier for each attempt to
allay it. Before the bounds of decency
had yet been transgressed by any person
present, the butler entered in a pause between
the quick following bursts of song,
bearing two letters on a large silver waiter
—one of which he handed to Capt. Spencer,
and the other to Lord Henry St. Maur,
saying aloud, that they had just been
brought by a servant, who had ridden post
from London, and waited an immediate
answer.

Just at this moment, the Earl of Rochefort,
excused by his age and character
from prolonging the festivities of the board
to morning light, arose to go; begging,
however, that he might not break up the
party, and apologizing for carrying off his
sons—two of whom were about to set out
for London in the morning.

There was, of course, a general movement
of the company, but at Edward
Hale's request they all resumed their seats
—he alone following the earl into the hall
to take leave of him; while, on the same
pretence, but in reality wishing to gain an
opportunity of reading their letters, Spencer
and St. Maur glided out of the room
immediately behind him.

A short time was occupied in hunting up
cloaks, hats, and swords, but it was not long
before the earl's party were all in readiness,
and moving towards the hall door. Just as
they reached it, after taking leave of Sir Edward,
Colonel Hardinge, the peer's eldest
son, saw a tall man, in plain riding dress,
with heavy boots and spurs, and a courier's
leather belt about his waist, standing in
the vestibule; and Spencer, who had been
questioning him about the letters he had
brought, gliding away, as if desirous of escaping
observation.

There was something so singular in the
movement, that the Colonel's attention was
called somewhat particularly to the servant,
and he at once recognised him for a fellow
who had left him, a few months
before, in order to take service with Lord
Asterly. The man had, as it happened,
been rather a favorite servant, and the
colonel, without much consideration, said
as he passed him,

“Ha! Benedict, what has brought you
hither? Are you not living still with my
Lord Asterly?”

“Yes, colonel,” answered the man,
quickly, and quite off his guard; and then
stammering, and appearing a good deal
embarrassed—“that is to say, colonel,”
he added, “I have left—I brought letters!”
Hardinge, who had merely spoken for
lack of anything else to do, and without
any great interest in the matter, nodded
only and passed on; but Edward Hale
had caught the words of the servant, and
perceived his obvious confusion; and, as
he returned from escorting the earl to his
carriage, he stopped and asked—

“Did you bring letters for me, my good
fellow?”

“No, sir,” replied the man at once, “I
brought letters for the honorable Captain
Spencer, and my Lord Henry St. Maur!
and I want their answers, if you please,
Sir Edward.”

“From Lord Asterly?” asked Hale, in
astonishment. “Are you Lord Asterly's
man?”

“I was, Sir Edward—but—but” and the
man began again to stutter, and turned
fiery red.

“That will do,” answered the baronet,
passing on—“it does not signify at all;”
and he thought within himself, “that fellow
has been drinking—or, if not, he is a
knave;” and, with his mind a little disturbed,
he re-entered the supper room,
where all was revelry and noise, and loud
uproarious glee. Spencer and St. Maur
had not yet returned into the room; but
Percy Harbottle, who had contrived already
to render himself very popular with
the good-hearted country gentlemen,
called to him as he came in—

“Come, Ned Hale, come—now that
your steady friends have left us, let us set
to work instantly; we are bound, I must
say to you, in honor, to drink all of these
gentlemen under the table, without any
more delay—for they have had the audacity
to challenge us to the test, and to talk
of us Christ-church men as if we were
mere milksops. Come, order some mulled
Burgundy, and let us fall on gallantly.”

“Certainly! certainly!” replied Hale—
and muttering to himself, “for this time,
at least, there is no help for it, I suppose,”
he resumed his chair, and the supper
party soon degenerated into a wild and
frantic orgie—through which Hale and
Harbottle sustained their parts with more
success than either had anticipated; for,
whether it was that their young and unbroken
constitutions offered better resistance
to the wine they swallowed than
the enfeebled systems of the inveterate
topers, or that their quietness of manner,
and comparative abstinence during the
early part of the evening, gave them an
advantage, certain it is, that while reveller
after reveller fell from his chair, and was
carried, or staggered out of the room to
be thrust into his carriage, or conveyed to
bed in a state nearly approaching to insensibility,
the young men were by no
means even seriously affected by the liquor
they had drunk; and, when they had seen
the last guest safely carried to his chamber,
they walked, with feverish brows
indeed, and quivering nerves, and blood
unduly heated, into the drawing-room,
where they found St. Maur and the Captain
playing, with perfect coolness, at
picquet, and sipping some strong coffee,
which Spencer urged them to take as a
sovereign remedy against the effect of
over-drinking.

Edward Hale poured himself out a cup
of coffee, and then fixing his eyes quietly
on St. Maur's face, asked him in a tranquil
voice.

“Was your letter from the Asterlys, St.
Maur?”

“No!” answered St. Maur, steadily,
“three tierce majors, captain, and the
quatorze of aces, count fourteen.”

Spencer looked up quickly, in utter astonishment
at the absurd and reekless
falsehood of his friend; but not the smallest
sign of wonder was visible in his composed
manners, or on his inscrutable and
impassive features. But he replied at
once, eager if possible to repair the evil
which he foresaw from St. Maur's injudicious
denial—a denial which he knew
must sooner or later be discovered, if it
was not so already.

“Nor I, Sir Edward, nor I, either—from
the Asterlys—inasmuch as they are Asterlys
no longer—for that I suppose is what
Henry means; since I saw him get a letter
from the people you mean, at the very
moment I got mine—which certainly is
from her spiteful ladyship; and a very
pretty piece of spite it is too! considering
that one would have expected her to be in
a better humor.”

The wonder which the self-possessed
and cold-blooded man of the world had
kept down so perfectly, positively beamed
from every feature of St. Maur's face, as
he heard this avowal, which appeared
quite as incomprehensible to him as did
his falsehood to the other; who, by one of
those marvellous contradictions which we
sometimes discover in the characters of
men, though he would have done almost
any other evil thing in the whole world,
wonld not have told a lie to save his life.

Astonished as he was, however, he saw
the utter inutility of trying to carry the
deception out as he had intended. So
with a loud and boisterous laugh, he cried
out, “Oh! fie, you blab! You mar-sport!
You have spoiled all my fun. Why did
you not stick to it, Spencer?”

“I never say the thing that is not, even
in fun!” replied the other gravely; and as
he spoke he met a glance of approbation
beaming from Hale's clear eye, and noted
it; and determined to turn the feeling
which it indicated to his purpose. This of
course passed as quick as lightning; and
at the same moment St. Maur said, for
Spencer's shaft had pierced deeply.

“Nor I, nor I, Captain Spencer, but
your words do not apply; for I said the
thing that is—the true thing!—I did not
get a letter from the Asterlys.”

“True, true!” replied the Captain with
a smile, “my remark was uncivil and inappropriate.
Excuse it.”

“But gentlemen, gentlemen,” interposed
Hale, laughing and yet puzzled, “why am
I to be left in the basket? how is this, you
speak truth to the ear and riddles to the
sense? The Earl of Asterly—”

“Is Earl of Asterly no longer,” answered
Spencer. “It has pleased his most
gracious majesty James by the Grace of
God, for reasons which I suppose he and
his ministers know—for I am sure nobody
else does—to create his dull earlship Marquis
of Beverley; so now I suppose he will
be duller, and more pompous, and more
utterly intolerable than ever.”

“Indeed, Marquis of Beverley? and
news, captain?—”

“Is from the new made marchioness. I
cannot show it to you, Sir Edward. Ladies'
letters you know—but I wish I could,
for it is capital—capital!”

“Strange, strange!” thought Edward
Hale within himself, although he gave his
thoughts no utterance; “strange that I
should have heard nothing of the matter.”

But aloud he only said—“Does her ladyship
mention anything of Lord Arthur's
whereabouts? I hope and in fact
expected that he would have been here
to-day? Does she mention him at all?”

“Not a word, not a word about him,”
replied Spencer. “Her ladyship is not, I
fancy, the most anxious or affectionate of
mothers! By heaven! I repique you, St.
Maur, Yes, I repique you—three of my
points! twelve for my four tierce majors?
fourteen for my four aces! fourteen for
my four kings! fourteen for my four
queens! sixty for the repique! thirteen I
gain on the cards in playing, and forty for
the capot! a hundred and seventy in all.
I never saw that stroke happen before. I
doubt if it ever did! but it is just, I will
bet ten to one. Will you bet, Harbottle?
No? Well, good night!—it is late; good
night.”