CHAPTER VIII
That evening his father astonished Philip by telling him that heintended to give a dinner-party on that day week.
"You see, Philip," he said, with a grim smile, "I have only got a yearor so at the most before me, and I wish to see a little of myneighbours before I go. I have not had much society of late years. Imean to do the thing well while I am about it, and ask everybody inthe neighbourhood. How many can dine with comfort in the oldbanqueting-hall, do you suppose?"
"About five-and-forty, I should think."
"Five-and-forty! I remember that we sat down sixty to dinner when Icame of age, but then we were a little crowded; so we will limit thenumber to fifty."
"Are you going to have fifty people to dinner?" asked Philip aghast.
"Certainly; I shall ask you to come and help me to write theinvitations presently. I have prepared a list; and will you kindlysend over to Bell at Roxham. I wish to speak to him, he must bring hismen over to do up the old hall a bit; and, by the way, write toGunter's and order a man-cook to be here on Tuesday, and to bring withhim materials for the best dinner for fifty people that he can supply.I will see after the wine myself; we will finish off that wonderfulport my grandfather laid down. Now, bustle about, my lad, we have notime to lose; we must get all the notes out to-day."
Philip started to execute his orders, pretty well convinced in his ownmind that his father was taking leave of his senses. Who ever heard ofa dinner being given to fifty people before, especially in a housewhere such rare entertainments had always been of a traditionallyselect and solemn nature? The expense, too, reflected Philip, would belarge; a man of his father's age had, in his opinion, no right to makesuch ducks-and-drakes of money that was so near to belonging tosomebody else. But one thing was clear: his father had set his mindupon it, and when once that was the case to try to thwart him was morethan Philip dared.
When the notes of invitation arrived at their respective destinations,great was the excitement in the neighbourhood of Bratham Abbey.Curiosity was rampant on the point, and the refusals were few and farbetween.
At length the eventful evening arrived, and with it the expectedguests, among whom the old squire, in his dress of a past generation--resplendent in diamond buckles, frilled shirt-front, and silkstockings--was, with his snow-white hair and stately bearing, himselfby far the most striking figure.
Standing near the door of the large drawing-room, he received hisguests as they arrived with an air that would have done credit to anambassador; but when Miss Lee entered, Philip noticed with a propheticshudder that, in lieu of the accustomed bow, he gave her a kiss. Healso noticed, for he was an observant man, that the gathered companywas pervaded by a curious air of expectation. They were nearly all ofthem people who had been neighbours of the Caresfoot family for years--in many instances for generations--and as intimate with its membersas the high-stomached stiffness of English country-life will allow.They therefore were well acquainted with the family history andpeculiarities; but it was clear from their faces that their knowledgewas of no help to them now, and that they were totally in the dark asto why they were all gathered together in this unwonted fashion.
At length, to the relief of all, the last of the chosen fifty guestsput in an appearance, and dinner was announced. Everybody made his wayto his allotted partner, and awaited the signal to move forward, whena fresh piquancy was added to the proceedings by an unexpectedincident--in which Maria Lee played a principal part. Maria wassitting in a corner of the drawing-room, wondering if Philip was goingto take her in to dinner, and why he had not been to see her lately,when suddenly she became aware that all the room was looking at her,and on raising her eyes she perceived the cause. For there, close uponher, and advancing with majestic step and outstretched arm, was oldMr. Caresfoot, possessed by the evident intention of taking her downin the full face of all the married ladies and people of titlepresent. She prayed that the floor might open and swallow her; indeed,of the two, she would have preferred that way of going down to dinner.But it did not, so there was no alternative left to her but to acceptthe proffered arm, and to pass, with as much dignity as she couldmuster in such a trying moment, in front of the intensely interestedcompany--from which she could hear an involuntary murmur of surprise--through the wide-flung doors, down the great oak staircase loaded withexotics, thence along a passage carpeted with crimson cloth, andthrough double doors of oak that were flung open at their approach,into the banqueting-hall. On its threshold not only she, but almostevery member of the company who passed in behind them, uttered anexclamation of surprise; and indeed the sight before them amplyjustified it.
The hall was a chamber of noble proportions, sixty feet in length bythirty wide. It was very lofty, and the dark chestnut beams of thebeautiful arched roof were thrown into strong relief by the light ofmany candles. The walls were panelled to the roof with oak that hadbecome almost black in the course of centuries, here and thererelieved by portraits and shining suits of armour.
Down the centre of the room ran a long wide table, whereon, and on ahuge sideboard, was spread the whole of the Caresfoot plate, which,catching the light of the suspended candles, threw it back in dazzlinggleams till the beholder was positively bewildered with the brilliancyof the sight.
"Oh, how beautiful!" said Maria, in astonishment.
"Yes," answered the old gentleman as he took his seat at the head ofthe table, placing Maria on his right, "the plate is very fine, it hastaken two hundred years to get together; but my father did more inthat way than all of us put together, he spent ten thousand pounds onplate during his lifetime; that gold service on the sideboard belongedto him. I have only spent two. Mind, my love," he added in a lowvoice, "when it comes into your keeping that it is preserved intact;but I don't recommend you to add to it, there is too much already fora simple country gentleman's family."
Maria blushed and was silent.
The dinner, which was served on a most magnificent scale, wore itselfaway, as all big county-dinners do, in bursts of sedate but notprofoundly interesting conversation. Indeed, had it not been for thenovelty of the sight, Maria would have been rather bored, the squire'sstately compliments notwithstanding. As it was, she felt inclined toenvy the party at the other end, amongst whom, looking down the longvista of sparkling glass and silver, she could now and again catchsight of Philip's face beaming with animation, and even in the pausesof conversation hear the echo of his distant laughter.
"What good spirits he is in!" she thought to herself.
And, indeed, Philip was, or appeared to be, in excellent spirits. Hishandsome face, that of late had been so gloomy, was lit up withlaughter, and he contrived by his witty talk to keep those round himin continual merriment.
"Philip seems very happy, doesn't he," said George, _sotto voce_ toMrs. Bellamy, who was sitting next to him.
"You must be a very bad judge of the face as an index to the mind ifyou think that he is happy. I have been watching him all dinner, and Idraw a very different conclusion."
"Why, look how he is laughing."
"Have you never seen a man laugh to hide his misery; never mind hislips, watch his eyes: they are dilated with fear, see how he keepsglancing towards his father and Miss Lee. There, did you see himstart? Believe me he is not happy, and unless I am mistaken he will beeven less so before the night is over. We are not all asked here fornothing."
"I hope not, I hope not; if so we shall have to act upon ourinformation, eh! But, to change the subject, you look lovelyto-night."
"Of course I do, I _am_ lovely; I wish I could return the compliment,but conscientiously I can't. Did you ever see such plate? look at thatcentre-piece."
"It is wonderful," said George. "I never saw it at all out before. Iwonder," he added, with a sigh, "if I shall ever have the fingering ofit."
"Yes," she said, with a strange look of her large eyes, "if youcontinue to be guided by me, you shall. I tell you so, and I _never_make mistakes. Hush, something is
going to happen. What is it?"
The dinner had come to an end, and in accordance with the old-fashioned custom the cloth had been removed, leaving bare an ancienttable of polished oak nearly forty feet in length, and composed ofslabs of timber a good two inches thick.
When the wine had been handed round, the old squire motioned to theservants to leave the room, and then, having first whispered somethingin the ear of Miss Lee that caused her to turn very red, he slowlyrose to his feet in the midst of a dead silence.
"Look at your cousin's face," whispered Mrs. Bellamy. George looked;it was ghastly pale, and the black eyes were gleaming like polishedjet against white paper.
"Friends and neighbours, amongst whom or amongst whose fathers I havelived for so many years," began the speaker, whose voice, soft as itwas, filled the great hall with ease, "it was, if tradition does notlie, in this very room and at this very table that the only Caresfootwho ever made an after-dinner speech of his own accord, deliveredhimself of his burden. That man was my ancestor in the eighth degree,old yeoman Caresfoot, and the occasion of his speech was to him a veryimportant one, being the day on which he planted Caresfoot's Staff,the great oak by the water yonder, to mark the founding of a house ofcountry gentry. Some centuries have elapsed since my forefather stoodwhere I stand, most like with his hand upon this board as mine is now,and addressed a company not so fine or so well dressed, but perhaps--Imean no disrespect--on the whole, as good at heart as that before menow. Yes, the sapling oak has grown into the biggest tree in thecountry-side 'twixt then and now. It seems, therefore, to be fit thaton what is to me as great a day as the planting of that oak was to myyeoman forefather, that I, like him, should gather my ancient friendsand neighbours round me under the same ancient roof that I may, likehim, make them the partakers of my joy.
"None of you sitting at this board to-day can look upon the old manwho now asks your attention, without realizing what he himself hasalready learned: namely, that his day is over. Now, life is hard toquit. When a man grows old, the terrors of the unknown land loom justas large and terrible as they did to his youthful imagination, largerperhaps. But it is a fact that must be faced, a hard, inevitable fact.And age, realizing this, looks round it for consolations, and findsonly two: first, that as its interests and affections _here_ fade andfall away, in just that same proportion do they grow and gather_there_ upon the further shore; and secondly that, after Nature'seternal fashion, the youth and vigour of a new generation is waitingto replace the worn-out decrepitude of that which sinks into oblivion.My life is done, it cannot be long before the churchyard claims itsown, but I live again in my son; and take such cold comfort as I mayfrom that idea of family, and of long-continued and assuredsuccession, that has so largely helped to make this country what sheis.
"But you will wonder what can be the particular purpose for which Ihave bidden you here to-night. Be assured that it was not to ask youto listen to gloomy sermons on the, to others, not very interestingfact of my approaching end, but rather for a joyful and a definitereason. One wish I have long had, it is--that before I go, I may seemy son's child, the little Caresfoot that is to fill my place infuture years, prattling about my knees. But this I shall never see.What I have to announce to you, however, is the first step towards it,my son's engagement to Miss Lee, the young lady on my right."
"Look at his face," whispered Mrs. Bellamy to her neighbour, duringthe murmur of applause that followed this announcement. "Look quick."
Philip had put his hands down upon his chair as though to raisehimself up, and an expression of such mingled rage and terror sweptacross his features as, once seen, could not easily be forgotten. Butso quickly did it pass that perhaps Mrs. Bellamy, who was watching,was the only one in all that company to observe it. In another momenthe was smiling and bowing his acknowledgements to whispered andtelegraphed congratulations.
"You all know Miss Lee," went on the old squire, "as you knew herfather and mother before her; she is a sound shoot from an honeststock, a girl after my own heart, a girl that I love, and that all whocome under her influence will love, and this engagement is to me themost joyful news that I have heard for many a year. May God, ay, andman too, so deal with my son as he deals with Maria Lee!
"And now I have done; I have already kept you too long. With yourconsent, we will have no more speeches, no returning of thanks; wewill spare Philip his blushes. But before I sit down I will bid youall farewell, for I am in my eighty-third year, and I feel that Ishall never see very many of your faces again. I wish that I had beena better neighbour to you all, as there are many other things I wish,now that it is too late to fulfil them; but I still hope that some ofyou will now and again find a kind thought for the old man whom amongyourselves you talk of as 'Devil Caresfoot.' Believe me, my friends,there is truth in the old proverb: the devil is not always as black ashe is painted. I give you my toast, my son Philip and his affiancedwife, Maria Lee."
The whole company rose, actuated by a common impulse, and drank thehealth standing; and such was the pathos of the old squire's speech,that there were eyes among those present that were not free fromtears. Then the ladies retired, amongst them poor Maria, who wasnaturally upset at the unexpected, and, in some ways, unwelcomenotoriety thus given to herself.
In the drawing-room, she was so overwhelmed with congratulations, thatat last, feeling that she could not face a fresh edition from the maleportion of the gathering, she ordered her carriage, and quietlyslipped away home, to think over matters at her leisure.
Philip, too, came in for his share of honours down below, andacknowledged them as best he might, for he had not the moral courageto repudiate the position. He felt that his father had forced his handcompletely, and that there was nothing to be done, and sank into theoutward calmness of despair. But if his companions could have seen thewhirlpool of hatred, terror, and fury that raged within his breast ashe sat and chatted, and sipped his great-grandfather's port, theywould have been justifiably astonished.
At length the banquet, for it was nothing less, came to an end, and,having bowed their farewell to the last departing guest, the old manand his son were left alone together in the deserted drawing-room.Philip was seated by a table, his face buried in his hand, whilst hisfather was standing by the dying fire, tapping his eye-glass nervouslyon the mantelpiece. It was he who broke the somewhat ominous silence.
"Well, Philip, how did you like my speech?"
Thus addressed, the son lifted his face from his hand; it was white asa sheet.
"By what authority," he asked in a harsh whisper, "did you announce meas engaged to Miss Lee?"
"By my own, Philip. I had it from both your lips that you wereengaged. I did not choose that it should remain a secret any longer."
"You had no right to make that speech. I will not marry Miss Lee;understand once and for all, I will _not_ marry her."
In speaking thus, Philip had nerved himself to bear one of thosedreadful outbursts of fury that had earned his father his title; but,to his astonishment, none such came. The steely eyes glinted a littleas he answered in his most polite manner, and that was all.
"Your position, Philip, then is that you are engaged, very publiclyengaged, to a girl whom you have no intention of marrying--a verydisgraceful position; mine is that I have, with every possiblesolemnity, announced a marriage that will not come off--a veryridiculous position. Very good, my dear Philip; please yourself. Icannot force you into a disgraceful marriage. But you must not supposethat you can thus thwart me with impunity. Allow me to show you thealternative. I see you are tired, but I shall not detain you long.Take that easy-chair. This house and the land round it, also theplate, which is very valuable, but cannot be sold--by the way, seethat it is safely locked up before you go to bed--are strictlyentailed, and must, of course belong to you. The value of the entailedland is about 1000 pounds a year, or a little less in bad times; ofthe unentailed, a clear 4000 pounds; of my personal property about 900pounds. Should you persist in your refusal to marry Miss Lee,
orshould the marriage in any way fall through, except from circumstancesentirely beyond your control, I must, to use your own admirablyemphatic language, ask you to 'understand, once and for all,' that,where your name appears in my will with reference to the unentailedand personal property, it will be erased, and that of your cousinGeorge substituted. Please yourself, Philip, please yourself; it is amatter of entire indifference to me. I am very fond of George, andshall be glad to do him a good turn if you force me to it, though itis a pity to split up the property. But probably you will like to takea week to consider whether you prefer to stick to the girl you havegot hold of up in town there--oh, yes! I know there is some one--andabandon the property, or marry Miss Lee and retain the property--avery pretty problem for an amorous young man to consider. There, Iwon't keep you up any longer. Good night, Philip, good night. Just seeto the plate, will you? Remember, you have a personal interest inthat; I can't leave it away."
Philip rose without a word and left the room, but when he was gone itwas his father's turn to hide his face in his hands.
"Oh, God!" he groaned aloud, "to think that all my plans should cometo such an end as this; to think that I am as powerless to preventtheir collapse as a child is to support a falling tree; that the onlypower left me is the power of vengeance--vengeance on my own son. Ihave lived too long, and the dregs of life are bitter."
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