Part 65 (1/2)
Mrs. Marsden-Thompson, presiding at a banquet to the county, perhaps was pleased to think that this, too, she had at last been able to give her Enid. Really tip-top society--social concert-pitch, if compared with the flat tinkling that Enid used to hear at Colonel Salter's.
Gold plate on the table; liveried home-retainers, with soberly-clad aids from Bence's refreshment departments; a white waistcoat or silver b.u.t.tons behind every chair; and, seated on the chairs, a most select and notable company of guests, gracious smiling ladies and grandiosely urbane lords; pink and white faces of candid young girls and sun-burnt faces of gallant young soldiers; s.h.i.+mmer of pearls, glitter of diamonds, flash of bright eyes, and a polite murmur of well-bred voices--surely this is all that Enid could possibly desire.
But it was not the society that the hostess really cared about. The dinner-parties that she enjoyed were far different from this. She gave this sort of feast to please Enid; but at certain seasons--at Christmas especially--she gave a feast to please herself.
Then the old friends came. The two motor-cars and the large landau went to fetch some of the guests. Few of them were carriage-folk. Mr. and Mrs. Archibald Bence had their own brougham of course; Mr. and Mrs.
Prentice used one of Young's flies; but most of the others were very glad to accept a lift out and home. By special request they all came early, and in morning-dress.
”We dine at seven,” wrote the hostess in her invitations; ”but please come early, so that we can have a chat before dinner. And as it is to be just a friendly unceremonious gathering, do you mind wearing morning dress?”
Did they mind? What a thoughtless question, when she might have known that some of them had nothing but morning dress! Mr. Mears, in spite of his rise in the world, rigidly adhered to the frock coat, as the garment most suitable to his years and his figure. Cousin Thompson--the ex-grocer of Haggart's Cross--considered swallow-tails and white chokers to be fanciful nonsense: he would not make a merry-andrew of himself to please anybody. Neither of the two Miss Prices had ever possessed a low-cut bodice--old Mrs. Price would probably have whipped her for her immodesty if she had ever been caught in one.
Then b.u.t.toned coats and no spreading s.h.i.+rt fronts, high-necked blouses and no bare shoulders; but in other respects full pomp for this humbler banquet: home-servants and Bence-servants; the electric light blazing on the splendid epergnes, the exquisite Bohemian gla.s.s, and the piled fruit in the Wedgewood china; the long table stretched to its last leaf; more than thirty people eating, drinking, talking, laughing, s.h.i.+ning with satisfaction--and Mrs. Marsden-Thompson at the head of the sumptuous board, shedding quick glances, kind smiles, friendly nods, making the wine taste better and the lamps glow brighter, gladdening and cheering every man and woman there.
”Cousin Jenny!” It is our farmer cousin shouting from the end of the table. ”You're so far off that I shall have to whistle to you. You haven't forgotten my whistle?”
”No, that I haven't, cousin Gordon.”
And radiant cousin Gordon turns to tell Miss Jane the story of the Welshman, the Irishman, and the Scotsman who met on London Bridge; and Miss Jane is good enough to be amused.
”Lord, how often I've told that story to your grandmother! I'll tell it her again when we get back into the music-room. 'Tis a favourite of hers.”
Jane and Enid are both very sweet on these occasions, loyally a.s.sisting the hostess, and winning the hearts of the humblest guests. There is perhaps a just perceptible effort in Enid's pretty manner; but with Jane it is all entirely natural.
”Mr. Prentice,” says Jane impudently, ”you mayn't know it, but you are going to sing us a comic song after dinner.”
Mr. Prentice is delighted yet coy.
”No, no--certainly not.”
”Oh yes, you will. Won't he, Mrs. Prentice?”
”I'm sure he will, if you wish it, Miss Jane.”
Mr. Archibald Bence, looking rather wizened and wan, is just off to the South of France for the remainder of the winter; and Mr. Fentiman, talking across the table, urges him to see the falls of the Rhine on his return journey.
”When I was touring in Switzerland last autumn,” says Fentiman sententiously, ”I gave one whole day to Schaffhausen, and it amply repaid me for the time and trouble.”
Wherever the hostess turns her kind eyes, she can see someone looking at her gratefully and affectionately. There is our grumbling cousin who once was a poor little grocer. She has done so much for him that he has almost entirely ceased to grumble. There is noisy, would-be-facetious cousin Gordon, once a little struggling tenant, now a landlord successfully farming his own land. There is corpulent Greig, on the retired list, but jovial and contented, with his pride unwounded, revelling in high-paid tranquillity. There are the cackling, stupid Miss Prices and their greedy old mother. They have looked at workhouse doors and s.h.i.+vered apprehensively; but now they chide the maid when she fails to make up the drawing-room fire, and bully the butcher if he sends them a scraggy joint for Sunday. There is faithful Mears in his newest frock-coat, close beside her, as of right, very close to her heart. And there, behind her chair, is faithful Yates--in rustling black silk, with kerchief of real point lace. She does not of course appear when the county dines with us; but to-night Yates stands an honorary major-domo at the Christmas dinner--because she exactly understands the spirit of the feast, and knows how her mistress wishes things to be done.
”And now,” says Mr. Prentice, ”I'm not going to break the rule. No speeches. But just one toast.... Our hostess!”
The faces of the guests all turn towards her; and the lamp-light, flas.h.i.+ng here and there, shows her gleams of gold. The golden shower that falls so freely has left some drops on each of them. Her small gifts are visible--the rings on their fingers, the brooches at their necks; but the lamp-light cannot reach her greater gifts--the soft beds, the warm fires, the money in their banks, the comfort in their b.r.e.a.s.t.s.
x.x.xII
Of course she had sent her husband money. Only Mears knew how much.
Mears acted as intermediary, conducted the correspondence; and in despatching the doles, whether much or little, he rarely failed to reiterate the proviso that the recipient was not to set foot in England.