University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
A DINNER-PARTY.

Mr. Chappelleford was not in a goodhumor—in
fact, he was in a very bad one,
and developed it in so many and such decided
forms, that even his patient friend, Israel
Barstow, was nearly out of patience with him,
and Miss Wansted entirely so. As for Mr.
Monckton, who made the fifth at Mr. Barstow's
little dinner-party, he received the attacks,
covert or open, of his fellow-guest much as he

would have done those of an ill-conditioned
family dog—as something to be courteously
tolerated on account of its proprietors, so
long as it remained in their presence; but with
a reserved right upon the part of the sufferer
in favor of vengeance at the earliest possible
opportunity.

Mrs. Charlton, the remaining guest, looked
on with an air of impartial and cynical amusement
at her uncle's ill-humor, her host's uneasiness,
Beatrice's indignation, and Mr.
Monckton's patient endurance.

“So, Livingstone has turned up all right,”
said Mr. Barstow, casting about for a remark
adapted to the tone of his company, and not
likely to provoke discussion.

“Who's Livingstone?” inquired Mr. Chappelleford,
in a tone of contemptuous indifference.

“Livingstone! why — ah — why, of course
you know whom I mean,” stammered the host,
already doubtful of his own authenticity.

“There was a person of that name who
went peddling beads and calico-aprons among
the negroes—do you refer to him?”

“Why, he's the great African traveller of
course—every one acknowledges that, don't
they?” insisted Mr. Barstow, growing a little
warm.

“Great! Well, I don't know. Little men
might find him so,” replied the cynic.

“The title of the great African traveller
should, I think, be given rather to Speke, for
he has solved the question of centuries as to
the source of the Nile, and penetrated farther
than any man before him into the interior of
Africa,” said Monckton quietly.

“Solved the question of the source of the
Nile? So have a dozen adventurers before
him, and so will a dozen after, Mr. Monckton.
Who is to say that this Lake Victoria N'yanza
is more stationary or reliable than other African
water-holes and rain-puddles? The Nile
may rise there to-day and somewhere else to-morrow,
and probably does, even granting—
which is a great deal to grant—that this man—
Paddleford, Livingstone, Speke—whatever his
name is—has been there at all, or knows any
thing about the matter. As for penetrating
into the interior of Africa, what does that
amount to? The negroes away from the
coast wear bones in their noses, and those on
the coast wear oyster-shells; the first breech
themselves with cocoa-cloth, and the last with
kelp-leaves: what difference does it make to
us which is which? Of course one sees why
this insatiate trader risked his life, and those
of the fools who accompanied him, by his explorations.
The remoter the savage from civilization,
the more value he attaches to beads,
and the more gold-dust he is willing to pay
for them.”

“But then it makes us, who are so civilized,
and none of us at all like savages, appreciate
our own advantages so much the more highly,
to hear of these poor, ignorant, rude creatures,
who know no better than to talk and behave
as they do,” said Beatrice, whose burning
cheeks and sparkling eyes strongly belied the
unconscious and naïve tone she attempted.

Mr Chappelleford shot a keen glance in her
direction from beneath the gray pent-house
of his brows.

“I read a pretty story that would please a
young lady, I should think, in one of these
African books,” said he. “The story of a male
humming - bird attacked and nearly demolished
by a bigger bird, when, just as the humming-bird
was about to succumb, his mate,
who had watched the contest from her nest,
dashed down into the face and eyes of the intruder
and beat him off—by sheer audacity, as
you may say.”

“Audacious courage may be admired, but
audacious insolence —” began Beatrice; but
her trembling voice was covered by Mrs.
Charlton's full, round tones:

“That reminds me, Mr. Barstow, of the
loveliest thing I ever saw. It was a humming-bird
worn as an ornament to the hair
by a lady at Mrs. Lee's, last night, and composed
entirely of gems. You never saw any
thing so magnificent, and I resolved to tell
you of it, because you admire jewels so much.”

“Yes, I do, and I should like, of all things,
to see this one. Do you suppose another is to
be found for sale?”

“Oh! dear, no. This was Parisian, and, I
presume, made to order. It must have cost a
fortune,” said Mrs. Charlton, glancing at the
faces of her companions, and wondering
whether the diversion had been effectual.

“I wish you would write as good a description
of it as possible for me,” said Mr. Barstow
thoughtfully.

Mrs. Charlton laughed.

“Oh! I could not let Beatrice wear it if you
had it made,” said she; “it would be entirely
inharmonious with her style; and, you know,
she is in my hands this year.”

“Æsop has a fable of a fox, who took charge
of a farmer's poultry-yard, and, strange to say,

found his own advantage in the position,” remarked
Mr. Chappelleford.

Juanita softly laughed and turned to
Monckton.

“You must have seen some splendid jewels
in the East, Mr. Monckton,” said she, inquiringly.

“Yes; I was just thinking of a set of turquoise
shown me at Delhi. They would have
suited Miss Wansted admirably.”

“I have seen turquoise from Delhi of remarkable
beauty. How were these set?”
asked Mrs. Charlton.

“Very elegantly with pearls. There was a
crescent for the hair, a chain of stars for the
throat, and bracelets with pendent ornaments
of gold in various Oriental devices. They
were very handsome.”

“I should think so. Now, Mr. Barstow,
where is your express for Delhi?” asked
Juanita, with a little laugh.

“I wish I knew how to send there, and I
would do it in a minute,” said the merchant,
smiling meaningly upon his niece, whose
cheeks were slowly regaining their natural
color.

Mr. Monckton unclosed his lips as if to
speak, shut them again, and smiled a little.
Mrs. Charlton, whose neighbor he was, also
smiled and whispered:

“You have them, and will offer them to—”

“My fiancée,” murmured the traveller in
reply; and Juanita looked thoughtfully at
Beatrice.

“The jewels of India are no more than traditions
now,” said Chappelleford dreamily.
“When one reads of Shah Jehan's peacock
throne, six feet long and four broad, one solid
block of gold, surmounted by a canopy supported
upon twelve pillars, all of the same
metal, and all inlaid with the most marvellous
of Oriental gems, while at the back stood the
golden peacocks, their fans blazing with
jewels worth a monarch's ransom, and remembers
that this was but an item—an adjunct
of the Mogul's imperial state—then we
look with somewhat of impatience upon the
trinkets of the modern Chandee Chok.”

“Is that story about the throne literally
true, Chappelleford?” asked Mr. Barstow
breathlessly.

“It is as literal as Israel Barstow himself,”
replied the philosopher.

“And what might such a thing be worth in
money? Do any of your books tell that?”

“Oh! yes. It was seen by one Tavernier,
a jeweller, who visited Delhi, in the way of
trade, and who estimated it professionally at a
sum about equivalent to thirty millions of dollars.
It was made by a Frenchman, too, one
Austin, of Bordeaux—a fellow who, obliged to
leave his country to save his neck, took refuge
in the domain of the Grand Mogul, and turned
his talents to account by decorating the imperial
palace. The ceiling of the throne-chamber,
also his handiwork, was of gold and silver
filagree, and round the cornice ran an inscription,
in golden letters, to this effect:

That was what Shah Jehan had to say for
himself, and he had hardly seen the golden lie
put in its place, when his four rebellious sons
clapped him into prison in the fortress of Agra,
and kept him there until he died. It took
ten years to kill him, however, and he kept
some of his best jewels until the last. Aurungzebe,
the third son and successful usurper,
used to send polite messages to his
papa, inquiring the state of his health, and
asking if he had not better give up the care
and responsibility of those jewels to his affectionate
son and successor. Old Shah Jehan
answered in the same strain until he got
tired of it, and then he sent word that he
should never give up the jewels while he
lived, and that if any attempt was made to
take them by force, he would pound them to
atoms with a big hammer, which he kept in
readiness. After that they let him alone.”

“But what became of the peacock throne,
and where is it now?” asked Mr. Barstow.

“About a century after Shah Jehan's deposition,”
said the scholar, leaning his elbow
upon the table, and shading his eyes with his
hand, “Nadur Shah, a Persian soldier-king,
invaded India, conquered Delhi, and murdered
Mohummud Shah, the emperor of the day, in
spite of the most abject submission and the
most piteous entreaties on the part of that unhappy
prince. Then he gave up the city of
Delhi to his soldiers for rapine and pillage, without
restraint, and the historians say that the
aqueduct through the middle of the Chandee
Chok, or principal street of Delhi, ran red
with the blood of her slaughtered inhabitants.
Six weeks later, Nadur Shah returned home,
carrying with him the peacock throne, all the
imperial jewels, and a countless treasure beside.
That was the death-blow of the Mogul

empire; and next came the English, ready,
ghoul-like, to devour the poor remains of the
dead sovereignty.”

“Was it not Shah Jehan who built the Taj
at Agra, of which you were telling me the
other night?” asked Beatrice, over whose
mood a story exercised as mollifying an influence
as over that of Schariar himself; nor was
this circumstance unknown to Mr. Chappelleford,
who now answered courteously:

“Yes, in honor of his wife, Moomtaz-ee-Mahal,
the ornament of the Harem, and niece
of the more celebrated Noor-Mahal, wife of
Jehan-geer.”

“I saw the Taj while I was in India, and it
is really a marvellous structure. Shah Jehan
himself is buried there, they tell me,” said
Monckton.

“Yes; after he was dead, his son did not
know what else to do with him, and so tucked
him in beside poor Moomtaz, who thought, I
suppose, that she might at least have her
tomb to herself; but Aurungzebe was of an
economical turn of mind, in all but his own
pleasures, and by making room for papa in
the Taj, he gave him a magnificent mausoleum,
without its costing the reigning sovereign
a single rupee. Shrewd fellow, Aurungzebe,”
said the philosopher, obeying the signal
to rise from the table.