Читать книгу Gladys, the Reaper - Anne Beale - Страница 16

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The dinners at Glanyravon were always unexceptionable. Mr. Gwynne was a bit of an epicure, and kept a capital cook, and his daughter liked to see everything done in good style. Even Mrs. Jonathan Prothero declared that the dinner-parties at her cousin's, Sir Philip Payne Perry's, were scarcely more agreeable or better managed.

Still, at the dinner in question, all the elements were not quite well amalgamated. Although the dishes were so discreetly seasoned, and the entremets so exquisitely prepared, that the most fastidious critic of the gastronomic art would not have found a grain too much of any one ingredient, there was a less judicious mixture amongst the guests. Nothing could be more perfect than the bearing of the host and hostess. Mr. Gywnne was a gentleman, even in his peculiarities—fastidiously a gentleman—and comported himself as such to every one. But he was too nervous, and had too low a voice to put his guests at ease: one half did not hear him at all, and the rest were slightly afraid of him on account of this extreme fastidiousness, his nervous complaints and his being very easily tired, or bored. Miss Gwynne was more successful at her end of the table, but she rather annoyed some of her guests by being too much bent on bringing out her friend Netta, and playing her off against Miss Nugent.

She was, however, very polite to all, and, for so young a woman, made a very agreeable and fascinating hostess. So, apparently, thought all the gentlemen, as they principally addressed their conversation to her, and had manoeuvred, particularly the young ones, to sit as near her as possible. The Rev Jonathan Prothero had the place of honour at her right, and did not take up much of her time. He appeared to be deep in the speculation concerning the ancient castle of which we have already heard, and was learnedly descanting upon it to Mrs. Rice Rice, a lady on his other side. The said Mrs. Rice Rice, having un oeil aux champs, et l'autre à la ville, was ostensibly listening to him, whilst she was really attending to her son, who was making visible efforts on the heart of the heiress, Miss Gwynne.

The Rice Rices were people of family and fortune, living in the neighbouring town. Mr. Rice Rice was in the law, and was at that moment engaged in discussing the affairs of the deceased Mr. Griffith Jenkins and his quondam articled pupil, Howel, with Rowland Prothero across Miss Nugent. He was a portly well-to-do-looking man, with a bald head and good-humoured countenance. His wife was even more portly than himself, and sat, in black velvet and marabout feathers, as stately as a princess at a drawing-room. The task of keeping up the family reputation of the ancient house of Rice Rice devolved in a great measure on this lady, assisted by her daughter; and, it must be said, that if any one could have doubted the antiquity of this honourable race after an hour's conversation with this enthusiastic pair he must have been a sceptic indeed! Family pride is a common weakness, but one could almost call it the stronghold of Mrs. Rice Rice, just as the various archæological and historical glories of Wales and the Welsh was the fortress of Mr. Jonathan Prothero.

It was into these towers of strength that these worthies retreated on all occasions. One saw the bulwark in Mrs. Rice Rice's ample, immoveable figure, and in the glance of the eyes that looked over the somewhat mountainous cheek; one saw it in a certain extension of the chin, turn of the mouth, and slightly retroussé nose. One saw it, above all, in her manner to the Protheros.

But Mrs. Jonathan Prothero was quite as capable of sustaining the dignity of the Philip Payne Perrys as the Welsh lady that of the Rice Rices, and a satirist might have made a clever caricature of these patriotic dames—the one thin and stiff, the other stout and stiff— as they compared their family honours.

But the lady of undoubted rank and pretension of the party is Lady Mary Nugent, who can afford to patronise or throw over-board whomsoever she will. She is seated next to Mr. Gwynne, and is lavishing a considerable share of good looks and eloquence on that gentleman. Still in the prime of life, elegant, refined, pretty, and a skilful tactician, she is a dangerous rival of the young ladies, and is not wholly innocent of a desire to eclipse them. She and her daughter are dressed very nearly alike, in some white and light material, and at a little distance she might pass for the fair Wilhelmina's elder sister. A profusion of ornaments, too well arranged to appear too numerous, alone distinguish mother and daughter. She has a handsome profile and a captivating manner, two dangerous things in woman; but therewith she has an occasionally malicious expression of eye and mouth, that somewhat impairs the effect of the captivation.

Her daughter is like her in profile, but has not her fascination of manner. She is, however, beautiful as a statue, with chiselled features and marble complexion. But she does not at present appear to have character enough to possess the clever malice of her mother. This may possibly come with suitors and rivals, who generally draw out all the evil, and sometimes much of the good, of woman's nature.

She is now simpering and blushing and saying pretty nothings between Rowland Prothero and a certain Sir Hugh Pryse, who, on their respective parts, think her a goose, being attracted elsewhere. Sir Hugh is exerting his lungs to their utmost, and much beyond the boundaries that etiquette would vainly try to impose upon them, in endeavouring to attract the attention of Miss Gwynne; whilst Rowland is, as we before said, discussing the death of Mr. Jenkins and the prospects of his son.

Perhaps the most uncomfortable person at the table is Netta, who really does not quite understand how to behave herself in the new atmosphere in which she finds herself. She never was at a dinner-party before, never waited upon by grand servants, never surrounded by such gay people; and, in spite of her ambition to eclipse by her beauty the Misses Nugent and Rice Rice, she feels and looks rather awkward. Miss Gwynne does all in her power to reassure her, but she sits, looking very pretty—by far the prettiest person in the room—and very ill at ease, until the ladies adjourn to the drawing-room, and she takes refuge in the pictures of the drawing-room scrap-book and her aunt.

The gentlemen arrive in course of time, which they must do, linger as long as they will over the delights of port and politics, and then the various schemes and thoughts engendered at the dinner-table are brought to light over the coffee-cup.

Miss Gwynne patronisingly singles out Rowland Prothero, who, reserved by nature, feels doubly so amongst the ill-assorted elements around him.

'Have you seen that poor girl since I was last at your house, Mr. Prothero, and how is she to-day?' inquires the heiress.

'She asked to see me yesterday, and I went to her. She seemed more composed, and liked being read to; but she is in a very precarious state.'

'Is your father more reconciled to her being with you?'

'Not at all. And it certainly is very unfortunate. But he would not allow her to be neglected now she is thrown on his kindness.'

'I wish she had never come,' interposed Netta, who had ventured to cross the room to Miss Gwynne.

'Have you heard of the great catch you are all likely to have, Miss Gwynne?' here broke in Sir Hugh Pryse, of stentorian reputation.

'I do not know what you mean,' said Miss Gwynne.

'Why, Mr. Rice Rice tells me there is more than a hundred thousand pounds to be raffled for by all the young ladies in the country. They have simply to put themselves into the lottery, and only one can have the prize.'

'I never knew you so figurative before. Sir Hugh.' 'Don't pay any attention to him, Miss Gwynne,' said a fresh addition to the circle that stood round that young lady's chair. 'He means that old Griffey Jenkins, the miser, is dead, and that Howel comes into all his immense wealth.'

Miss Gwynne gave her head such a magnificent toss that her neck looked quite strained.

'I do not imagine many young ladies will purchase tickets in that lottery,' she said, with a stress upon the 'young ladies.'

'I have no doubt there are dozens who would, and will, do it at once,' responded Sir Hugh. 'And quite right too. Such a fortune is not to be had every day.'

'But it is gentlemen, and not ladies, who are fortune-hunters,' said Miss Gwynne, changing her tone, when she suddenly perceived that Netta's face and neck were crimson.

But the subject was become quite an interesting piece of local gossip, and, one after another, all the party joined in it.

'Howel Jenkins might make anything of himself if he would but be steady,' said Mr. Rice Rice.

'Except a gentleman by birth,' said his lady.

'Or the least bit of an archæologist,' said Mr. Jonathan Prothero. 'I tried one day—you will scarcely believe it, Mr. Gwynne—to make him understand that Garn Goch was an old British encampment, but he would not take it in.'

'Ah, really; I do not very much wonder myself, for I cannot quite "take in" those heaps of stones and all that sort of thing,' responded the host.

'What can they find to interest them in that sort of person?' asked Lady Mary in an aside to Mr. Gwynne.

Miss Gwynne overheard it, and answered for her father.

'He is a young man of great talent, very rich, very handsome, and has had a miser for a father. Is not that the case Mr. Rowland?'

'I—I—really, it is scarcely fair to appeal to me, as he is a relation.'

'And do you never say a good word in favour of your relations?'

'I hope so, when they deserve it,' said Rowland resolutely, glancing at his sister, who was biting her glove.

'If I may be allowed an opinion,' said Mrs. Jonathan decidedly, also glancing at poor Netta, 'I should say that Howel Jenkins was a complete scapegrace. What he may yet turn out remains to be proved.'

'Well, that is putting an end to him at once,' said Miss Gwynne, 'and I think we had better play his funeral dirge. Lady Mary, will you give us 'The Dead March in Saul,' or something appropriate? Never mind, Netta; I daresay cousin Howel will turn out a great man by-and-by;' this last clause was whispered to Netta, whilst the young hostess went towards a grand piano that stood invitingly open, and begged Lady Mary Nugent to give them some music.

That lady played some brilliant waltzes, after which, her daughter accompanied her in the small bass of a duet.

'Pon my soul, that's a pretty girl, that little Prothero!' said Sir Hugh Pryse to young Rice Rice. 'I never saw such a complexion in my life. Roses and carnations are nothing to it.'

'Rather a vulgar style of beauty, I think,' said Mr. Rice Rice, junior, taking up an eyeglass, and finding some difficulty in fixing it in his eye. He had lately discovered that he was nearsighted, to the great grief of his mother, who, however, sometimes spoke of the sad fact in the same tone that she used to speak of the Rice Rice, and Morgan of Glanwilliam families. She herself belonged to the latter.

'I vow she's lovely!' cried the baronet, so emphatically that every one in the room might have heard him. Most of the ladies, doubtless, did, and appropriated the sentiment, but, by-and-by, Netta was triumphant, as he went and sat by her, and complimented her in very audible terms.

She blushed and coquetted very respectably for a country damsel, and wondered whether a poor baronet, or a wealthy miser's son would best help her to humble the pride and condescension of the Nugents and the Rice Rices.

Whilst Lady Mary Nugent was playing, Mr. Gwynne very nearly went to sleep, and Rowland Prothero, who liked nothing but chants, and a solemn kind of music that he chose to think befitting a clergyman, was, in his turn, looking over the drawing-room scrap book. Miss Gwynne gave her papa a sly push, and whispered, that she believed Mr. Rowland Prothero played chess.

Mr. Gwynne aroused himself, and challenged his young neighbour. Miss Gwyne, assisted by all the gentlemen, brought the chess-table, and the game soon began.

There is no doubt that there is nothing in the world more selfish, more absorbing, more disagreeable to every one excepting the players, than chess. Mr. Gwynne began his game half asleep; Rowland began his in a very bad temper. The former was glad of anything that could keep him awake, the latter was disgusted at having been made the victim of Miss Gwynne's anxiety to preserve her father from falling fast asleep in the midst of his guests. But, by degrees, the one was thoroughly aroused, and the other forgot his annoyance. Both soon ignored the presence of any human being save himself and his opponent.

Music and talking sounded on all sides, but they made no impression on the chess-players. Lady Mary performed all her most brilliant airs and variations in vain, as far as Mr. Gwynne was concerned; and Rowland was even unconscious that Netta had resolutely played through all the small pieces she had learnt at school at the particular request of Sir Hugh Pryse.

'That game will never finish,' at last exclaimed Lady Mary, approaching Mr. Gwynne. 'How can any one like chess?'

Mr. Gwynne kept his finger on a piece he was about to move, glanced up, but did not speak.

'They tell me you ought to have at least five or six moves in your eye whilst you are making one,' said Sir Hugh. 'For my part, I always find one move at a time more than I can manage. It certainly is the dullest game ever invented.'

'Chess is a game of great antiquity,' said the Rev. Jonathan sententiously. 'It is supposed to have been invented in China or Hindustan, and was known in the latter place by the name Chaturanga, that is, four angas, or members of an army.'

'The army must be proud to send such members to parliament,' said young Rice Rice, with a consciousness of superior wit, in which the remainder of the party did not appear to participate.