The baron’s style of living was of that character especially affected both by the most acknowledged exquisites of that day, and, it must be owned, also, by the most egregious parvenus. For it is noticeable that it is your parvenu who always comes nearest in fashion (so far as externals are concerned) to your genuine exquisite. It is your parvenu who is most particular as to the cut of his coat, and the precision of his equipage, and the minutia, of his menage. Those between the parvenu and the exquisite, who know their own consequence, and have something solid to rest upon, are slow in following all the caprices of fashion, and obtuse in observation as to those niceties which neither give them another ancestor, nor add another thousand to the account at their banker’s,—as to the last, rather indeed the contrary! There was a decided elegance about the baron’s house and his dinner. If he had been one of the lawful kings of the dandies, you would have cried, “What perfect taste!”—but such is human nature, that the dandies who dined with him said to each other, “He pretend to imitate D——! vulgar dog!” There was little affectation of your more showy opulence. The furniture in the rooms was apparently simple, but, in truth, costly, from its luxurious comfort; the ornaments and china scattered about the commodes were of curious rarity and great value, and the pictures on the walls were gems. At dinner, no plate was admitted on the table. The Russian fashion, then uncommon, now more prevalent, was adopted, fruit and flowers in old Sevres dishes of priceless vertu, and in sparkling glass of Bohemian fabric. No livery servant was permitted to wait; behind each guest stood a gentleman dressed so like the guest himself, in fine linen and simple black, that guest and lacquey seemed stereotypes from one plate.
The viands were exquisite; the wine came from the cellars of deceased archbishops and ambassadors. The company was select; the party did not exceed eight. Four were the eldest sons of peers (from a baron to a duke); one was a professed wit, never to be got without a month’s notice, and, where a parvenu was host, a certainty of green peas and peaches—out of season; the sixth, to Randal’s astonishment, was Mr. Richard Avenel; himself and the baron made up the complement.
The eldest sons recognized each other with a meaning smile; the most juvenile of them, indeed (it was his first year in London), had the grace to blush and look sheepish. The others were more hardened; but they all united in regarding with surprise both Randal and Dick Avenel. The former was known to most of them personally, and to all, by repute, as a grave, clever, promising young man, rather prudent than lavish, and never suspected to have got into a scrape. What the deuce did he do there? Mr. Avenel puzzled them yet more. A middle-aged man, said to be in business, whom they had observed “about town” (for he had a noticeable face and figure),—that is, seen riding in the Park, or lounging in the pit at the opera, but never set eyes on at a recognized club, or in the coteries of their “set;” a man whose wife gave horrid third-rate parties, that took up half a column in the “Morning Post” with a list of “The Company Present,” in which a sprinkling of dowagers fading out of fashion, and a foreign title or two, made the darkness of the obscurer names doubly dark. Why this man should be asked to meet them, by Baron Levy, too—a decided tuft-hunter and would-be exclusive—called all their faculties into exercise. The wit, who, being the son of a small tradesman, but in the very best society, gave himself far greater airs than the young lords, impertinently solved the mystery. “Depend on it,” whispered he to Spendquick,—“depend on it the man is the X. Y. of the ‘Times’ who offers to lend any sum of money from L10 to half-a-million. He’s the man who has all your bills; Levy is only his jackal.”
“‘Pon my soul,” said Spendquick, rather alarmed, “if that’s the case, one may as well be civil to him.”
“You, certainly,” said the wit. “But I never have found an X. Y. who would advance me the L. s.; and therefore I shall not be more respectful to X. Y. than to any other unknown quantity.”
By degrees, as the wine circulated, the party grew gay and sociable. Levy was really an entertaining fellow; had all the gossip of the town at his fingers’ ends; and possessed, moreover, that pleasant art of saying ill-natured things of the absent, which those present always enjoy. By degrees, too, Mr. Richard Avenel came out; and, as the whisper had circulated round the table that he was X. Y., he was listened to with a profound respect, which greatly elevated his spirits. Nay, when the wit tried once to show him up or mystify him, Dick answered with a bluff spirit, that, though very coarse, was found so humorous by Lord Spendquick and other gentlemen similarly situated in the money-market that they turned the laugh against the wit, and silenced him for the rest of the night,—a circumstance which made the party go off much more pleasantly. After dinner, the conversation, quite that of single men, easy and debonnaire, glanced from the turf and the ballet and the last scandal towards politics; for the times were such that politics were discussed everywhere, and three of the young lords were county members.
Randal said little, but, as was his wont, listened attentively; and he was aghast to find how general was the belief that the Government was doomed. Out of regard to him, and with that delicacy of breeding which belongs to a certain society, nothing personal to Egerton was said, except by Avenel, who, however, on blurting out some rude expressions respecting that minister, was instantly checked by the baron. “Spare my friend and Mr. Leslie’s near connection,” said he, with a polite but grave smile.
“Oh,” said Avenel, “public men, whom we pay, are public property,—aren’t they, my Lord?” appealing to Spendquick.
“Certainly,” said Spendquick, with great spirit,—“public property, or why should we pay them? There must be a very strong motive to induce us to do that! I hate paying people. In fact,” he subjoined in an aside, “I never do.”
“However,” resumed Mr. Avenel, graciously, “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Mr. Leslie. As to the feelings of our host, the baron, I calculate that they have got tolerably tough by the exercise they have gone through.”
“Nevertheless,” said the baron, joining in the laugh which any lively saying by the supposed X. Y. was sure to excite, “nevertheless, ‘love me, love my dog,’—love me, love my Egerton.”
Randal started, for his quick ear and subtle intelligence caught something sinister and hostile in the tone with which Levy uttered this equivocal comparison, and his eye darted towards the baron. But the baron had bent down his face, and was regaling himself upon an olive.
By-and-by the party rose from table. The four young noblemen had their engagements elsewhere, and proposed to separate without re-entering the drawing-room. As, in Goethe’s theory, monads which have affinities with each other are irresistibly drawn together, so these gay children of pleasure had, by a common impulse, on rising from table, moved each to each, and formed a group round the fireplace. Randal stood a little apart, musing; the wit examined the pictures through his eye-glass; and Mr. Avenel drew the baron towards the side-board, and there held him in whispered conference. This colloquy did not escape the young gentlemen round the fireplace; they glanced towards each other.
“Settling the percentage on renewal,” said one, sotto voce. “X. Y. does not seem such a very bad fellow,” said another.
“He looks rich, and talks rich,” said a third.
“A decided, independent way of expressing his sentiments; those moneyed men generally have.”
“Good heavens!” ejaculated Spendquick, who had been keeping his eye anxiously fixed on the pair, “do look; X. Y. is actually taking out his pocket-book; he is coming this way. Depend on it he has got our bills—mine is due to-morrow!”
“And mine too,” said another, edging off. “Why, it is a perfect guet-apens.”
Meanwhile, breaking away from the baron, who appeared anxious to detain him, and failing in that attempt, turned aside, as if not to see Dick’s movements,—a circumstance which did not escape the notice of the group, and confirmed all their suspicions,—Mr. Avenel, with a serious, thoughtful face, and a slow step, approached the group. Nor did the great Roman general more nervously “flutter the dove-cots in Corioli,” than did the advance of the supposed X. Y. agitate the bosoms of Lord Spendquick and his sympathizing friends. Pocket-book in hand, and apparently feeling for something formidable within its mystic recesses, step by step came Dick Avenel towards the fireplace. The group stood still, fascinated by horror.
“Hum,” said Mr. Avenel, clearing his throat.
“I don’t like that hum at all,” muttered Spendquick. “Proud to have made your acquaintance, gentlemen,” said Dick, bowing.
The gentlemen thus addressed bowed low in return.
“My friend the baron thought this not exactly the time to—” Dick stopped a moment; you might have knocked down those four young gentlemen, though four finer specimens of humanity no aristocracy in Europe could produce,—you might have knocked them down with a feather! “But,” renewed Avenel, not finishing his sentence, “I have made it a rule in life never to lose securing a good opportunity; in short, to make the most of the present moment. And,” added he, with a smile which froze the blood in Lord Spendquick’s veins, “the rule has made me a very warm man! Therefore, gentlemen, allow me to present you each with one of these”—every hand retreated behind the back of its well-born owner, when, to the inexpressible relief of all, Dick concluded with,—“a little soiree dansante,” and extended four cards of invitation.
“Most happy!” exclaimed Spendquick. “I don’t dance in general; but to oblige X—I mean, to have a better acquaintance, sir, with you—I would dance on the tight-rope.”
There was a good-humoured, pleasant laugh at Spendquick’s enthusiasm, and a general shaking of hands and pocketing of the invitation cards.
“You don’t look like a dancing man,” said Avenel, turning to the wit, who was plump and somewhat gouty,—as wits who dine out five days in the week generally are; “but we shall have supper at one o’clock.”
Infinitely offended and disgusted, the wit replied dryly, “that every hour of his time was engaged for the rest of the season,” and, with a stiff salutation to the baron, took his departure. The rest, in good spirits, hurried away to their respective cabriolets; and Leslie was following them into the hall, when the baron, catching hold of him, said, “Stay, I want to talk to you.”
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