Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/506

26, 1860.] how disagreeable it is to me.’ The old Squire laughed, and was glad to have him at Croftlands as often as he chose to come. Old Mel and I used to spar sometimes; but he’s gone, and I should like to shake his fists again.”

Then Mr. George told the “Bath” story, and episodes in Mel’s career as Marquis; and while he held the ear of the table, Rose, who had not spoken a word, and had scarcely eaten a morsel during dinner, studied the sisters with serious eyes. Only when she turned them from the Countess to Mrs. Strike, they were softened by a shadowy drooping of the eyelids, as if for some reason she deeply pitied that lady.

Next to Rose sat Drummond, with a face expressive of cynical enjoyment. He devoted uncommon attention to the Countess, whom he usually shunned and overlooked. He invited her to exchange bows over wine, in the fashion of that day, and the Countess went through the performance with finished grace and ease. Poor Andrew had all the time been brushing back his hair, and making strange deprecatory sounds in his throat, like a man who felt bound to assure everybody at table he was perfectly happy and comfortable.

“Material enough for a Sartoriad,” said Drummond to Lady Jocelyn.

“Excellent. Pray write it forthwith, Drummond,” replied her ladyship; and as they exchanged talk unintelligible to the Countess, this lady observed to the Duke:

“It is a relief to have buried that subject.”

The Duke smiled, raising an eyebrow; but the persecuted Countess perceived she had been much too hasty when Drummond added,

“I’ll make a journey to Lymport in a day or two, and master his history.”

“Do,” said her ladyship; and flourishing her hand, ‘I sing the Prince of Snobs! ”

“Oh, if it’s about old Mel, I’ll sing you material enough,” said Mr. George. “There! you talk of it’s being unnatural, his dining out at respectable tables. Why, I believe—upon my honour, I believe it’s a fact—he’s supped and thrown dice with the Regent.”

Lady Jocelyn clapped her hands. “A noble culmination, Drummond! The man’s an Epic!”

“Well, I think old Mel was equal to it,” Mr. George pursued. “He gave me pretty broad hints; and this is how it was, if it really happened, you know. Old Mel had a friend; some say he was more. Well, that was a fellow, a great gambler. I dare say you’ve heard of him—Burley Bennet—him that won Ryelands Park of one of the royal dukes—died worth upwards of £100,000; and old Mel swore he ought to have had it, and would if he hadn’t somehow offended him. He left the money to Admiral Harrington, and he was a relation of Mel’s.”

“But are we then utterly mixed up with tailors?” exclaimed Mrs. Barrington.

“Well, those are the facts,” said Mr. George.

The wine made the young squire talkative. It is my belief that his suspicions were not awake at that moment, and that, like any other young country squire, having got a subject he could talk on, he did not care to discontinue it. The Countess was past the effort to attempt to stop him. She had work enough to keep her smile in the right place.

Every dinner may be said to have its special topic, just as every age has its marked reputation. They are put up twice or thrice, and have to contend with minor lights, and to swallow them, and then they command the tongues of men and flow uninterruptedly. So it was with the Great Mel upon this occasion. Curiosity was aroused about him. Aunt Bel agreed with Lady Jocelyn, that she would have liked to have known the mighty tailor. Mrs. Shorne but very imperceptibly protested against the notion, and from one to another it ran. His Grace of Belfield expressed positive approval of Mel as one of the old school.

“Si ce n'est pas le gentilhomme, au moins, c'est le gentilhomme manqué,” said Lady Jocelyn. “He is to be regretted, Duke. You are right. The stuff was in him, but the Fates were unkind. I stretch out my hand to the pauvre diable.”

“I think one learns more from the mock magnifico than from anything else,” observed his Grace.

“When the lion saw the donkey in his own royal skin,” said Aunt Bel, “add the rhyme at your discretion—he was a wiser lion, that’s all.”

“And the ape that strives to copy one—he’s an animal of judgment,” said Lady Jocelyn. “We will be tolerant to the tailor, and the Countess must not set us down as a nation of shopkeepers—philosophically tolerant.”

The Countess started, and ran a little broken “Oh!” affably out of her throat, dipped her lips to her table-napkin, and resumed her smile.

“Yes,” pursued her ladyship; “old Mel stamps the age gone by. The gallant adventurer tied to his shop! Alternate footman and marquis, out of the intermediate tailor! Isn’t there something fine in his buffoon imitation of the real thing? I feel already that old Mel belongs to me. Where is the great man buried? Where have they set the funeral brass that holds his mighty ashes?”

Lady Jocelyn’s humour was fully entered into by the men. The women smiled vacantly, and had a common thought that it was ill-bred of her to hold forth in that way at table, and unfeminine of any woman to speak continuously anywhere—except, perhaps, in bed.

“Oh, come!” cried Mr. George, who saw his own subject snapped away from him by sheer cleverness; “old Mel wasn’t only a buffoon, my lady, you know. Old Mel had his qualities. He was as much a ‘no-nonsense’ fellow, in his way, as a magistrate, or a minister.”

“Or a king, or a constable,” Aunt Bel helped his illustration.

“Or a prince, a poll-parrot, a Perigord-pie,” added Drummond, whose gravity did not prevent Mr. George from seeing that he was laughed at.

“Well, then, now, listen to this,” said Mr. George, leaning his two hands on the table resolutely. Dessert was laid, and, with a full glass beside him, and a pear to peel, he determined to be heard.

The Countess’s eyes went mentally up to the vindictive heavens. She stole a glance at Caroline, and was alarmed at her excessive pallor.