Part 30 (2/2)

”I hear Mr. Addison is equally famous as a wit and a poet,” says Mr.

St. John. ”Is it true that his hand is to be found in your 'Tatler,' Mr.

Steele?”

”Whether 'tis the sublime or the humorous, no man can come near him,”

cries Steele.

”A fig, d.i.c.k, for your Mr. Addison!” cries out his lady: ”a gentleman who gives himself such airs and holds his head so high now. I hope your ladys.h.i.+p thinks as I do: I can't bear those very fair men with white eyelashes--a black man for me.” (All the black men at table applauded, and made Mrs. Steele a bow for this compliment.) ”As for this Mr.

Addison,” she went on, ”he comes to dine with the Captain sometimes, never says a word to me, and then they walk up stairs both tipsy, to a dish of tea. I remember your Mr. Addison when he had but one coat to his back, and that with a patch at the elbow.”

”Indeed--a patch at the elbow! You interest me,” says Mr. St. John.

”'Tis charming to hear of one man of letters from the charming wife of another.”

”La, I could tell you ever so much about 'em,” continues the voluble lady. ”What do you think the Captain has got now?--a little hunchback fellow--a little hop-o'-my-thumb creature that he calls a poet--a little Popish brat!”

”Hush, there are two in the room,” whispers her companion.

”Well, I call him Popish because his name is Pope,” says the lady.

”'Tis only my joking way. And this little dwarf of a fellow has wrote a pastoral poem--all about shepherds and shepherdesses, you know.”

”A shepherd should have a little crook,” says my mistress, laughing from her end of the table: on which Mrs. Steele said, ”She did not know, but the Captain brought home this queer little creature when she was in bed with her first boy, and it was a mercy he had come no sooner; and d.i.c.k raved about his genus, and was always raving about some nonsense or other.”

”Which of the 'Tatlers' do you prefer, Mrs. Steele?” asked Mr. St. John.

”I never read but one, and think it all a pack of rubbish, sir,” says the lady. ”Such stuff about Bickerstaffe, and Distaff, and Quarterstaff, as it all is! There's the Captain going on still with the Burgundy--I know he'll be tipsy before he stops--Captain Steele!”

”I drink to your eyes, my dear,” says the Captain, who seemed to think his wife charming, and to receive as genuine all the satiric compliments which Mr. St. John paid her.

All this while the Maid of Honor had been trying to get Mr. Esmond to talk, and no doubt voted him a dull fellow. For, by some mistake, just as he was going to pop into the vacant place, he was placed far away from Beatrix's chair, who sat between his Grace and my Lord Ashburnham, and shrugged her lovely white shoulders, and cast a look as if to say, ”Pity me,” to her cousin. My Lord Duke and his young neighbor were presently in a very animated and close conversation. Mrs. Beatrix could no more help using her eyes than the sun can help s.h.i.+ning, and setting those it s.h.i.+nes on a-burning. By the time the first course was done the dinner seemed long to Esmond; by the time the soup came he fancied they must have been hours at table: and as for the sweets and jellies he thought they never would be done.

At length the ladies rose, Beatrix throwing a Parthian glance at her duke as she retreated; a fresh bottle and gla.s.ses were fetched, and toasts were called. Mr. St. John asked his Grace the Duke of Hamilton and the company to drink to the health of his Grace the Duke of Brandon.

Another lord gave General Webb's health, ”and may he get the command the bravest officer in the world deserves.” Mr. Webb thanked the company, complimented his aide-de-camp, and fought his famous battle over again.

”Il est fatiguant,” whispers Mr. St. John, ”avec sa trompette de Wynendael.”

Captain Steele, who was not of our side, loyally gave the health of the Duke of Marlborough, the greatest general of the age.

”I drink to the greatest general with all my heart,” says Mr. Webb; ”there can be no gainsaying that character of him. My gla.s.s goes to the General, and not to the Duke, Mr. Steele.” And the stout old gentleman emptied his b.u.mper; to which d.i.c.k replied by filling and emptying a pair of brimmers, one for the General and one for the Duke.

And now his Grace of Hamilton, rising up with flas.h.i.+ng eyes (we had all been drinking pretty freely), proposed a toast to the lovely, to the incomparable Mrs. Beatrix Esmond; we all drank it with cheers, and my Lord Ashburnham especially, with a shout of enthusiasm.

”What a pity there is a d.u.c.h.ess of Hamilton,” whispers St. John, who drank more wine and yet was more steady than most of the others, and we entered the drawing-room where the ladies were at their tea. As for poor d.i.c.k, we were obliged to leave him alone at the dining-table, where he was hiccupping out the lines from the ”Campaign,” in which the greatest poet had celebrated the greatest general in the world; and Harry Esmond found him, half an hour afterwards, in a more advanced stage of liquor, and weeping about the treachery of Tom Boxer.

The drawing-room was all dark to poor Harry, in spite of the grand illumination. Beatrix scarce spoke to him. When my Lord Duke went away, she practised upon the next in rank, and plied my young Lord Ashburnham with all the fire of her eyes and the fascinations of her wit. Most of the party were set to cards, and Mr. St. John, after yawning in the face of Mrs. Steele, whom he did not care to pursue any more; and talking in his most brilliant animated way to Lady Castlewood, whom he p.r.o.nounced to be beautiful, of a far higher order of beauty than her daughter, presently took his leave, and went his way. The rest of the company speedily followed, my Lord Ashburnham the last, throwing fiery glances at the smiling young temptress, who had bewitched more hearts than his in her thrall.

No doubt, as a kinsman of the house, Mr. Esmond thought fit to be the last of all in it; he remained after the coaches had rolled away--after his dowager aunt's chair and flambeaux had marched off in the darkness towards Chelsey, and the town's people had gone to bed, who had been drawn into the square to gape at the unusual a.s.semblage of chairs and chariots, lackeys, and torchmen. The poor mean wretch lingered yet for a few minutes, to see whether the girl would vouchsafe him a smile, or a parting word of consolation. But her enthusiasm of the morning was quite died out, or she chose to be in a different mood. She fell to joking about the dowdy appearance of Lady Betty, and mimicked the vulgarity of Mrs. Steele; and then she put up her little hand to her mouth and yawned, lighted a taper, and shrugged her shoulders, and dropping Mr.

Esmond a saucy curtsy, sailed off to bed.

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