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, wainscoated 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 octagon,
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,
at 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 any thing 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 habituè 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, stanch riders after stag
or fox from sunrise to mid-day; stanch 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 of either becoming
one of their number in reality, or of affecting
to do so for the sake of gaining their
votes; for, as 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 of fox 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 blameable 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 Captain 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 afterward by taking every
opportunity of holding up the old lord to
ridicule, as a fanatic and half a 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 punchbowl
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 Captain 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 toward 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 a 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 recognized 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 any thing 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 reveler after reveler 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 reckless 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 deniar—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, would 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 Beverly; so now I suppose he will be
duller, and more pompous, and more utterly
intolerable than ever.”

“Indeed, Marquis of Beverly? and your
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 any thing of Lord Arthur's
wherabout? I hoped 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,
fancy, the most anxious or affectionate of
mothers! By heaven! I repique you, St.
Maur. Yes, I repique you—three for my
point! 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.
never saw that stroke happen before.
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.”