Vivian Grey Part 10

"Now that is what I call a sensible arrangement; what could go off better?" said Vivian.

"You may think so, sir," said Mr. Boreall, a sharp-nosed and conceited-looking man, who, having got among a set whom he did not the least understand, was determined to take up Dr. Sly's quarrel, merely for the sake of conversation. "You, I say, sir, may think it so, but I rather imagine that the ladies and gentlemen lower down can hardly think it a sensible arrangement;" and here Boreall looked as if he had done his duty, in giving a young man a proper reproof.

Vivian glanced a look of annihilation. "I had reckoned upon two deaths, sir, when I entered the Hall, and finding, as I do, that the whole business has apparently gone off without any fatal accident, why, I think the circ.u.mstances bear me out in my expression."

Mr. Boreall was one of those unfortunate men who always take things to the letter: he consequently looked amazed, and exclaimed, "Two deaths, sir?"

"Yes, sir, two deaths; I reckoned, of course, on some corpulent parent being crushed to death in the scuffle, and then I should have had to shoot his son through the head for his filial satisfaction. Dormer Stanhope, I never thanked you for exerting yourself: send me that fricandeau you have just helped yourself to."

Dormer, who was, as Vivian well knew, something of an epicure, looked rather annoyed, but by this time he was accustomed to Vivian Grey, and sent him the portion he had intended for himself. Could epicure do more?

"Whom are we among, bright Cynthia?" asked Vivian.

"Oh! an odd set," said the lady, looking dignified; "but you know we can be exclusive."

"Exclusive! pooh! tras.h.!.+ Talk to everybody; it looks as if you were going to stand for the county. Have we any of the millionaires near us?"

"The Doctor and Toady are lower down."

"Where is Mrs. Felix Lorraine?"

"At the opposite table, with Ernest Clay."

"Oh! there is Alhambra, next to Dormer Stanhope. Lord Alhambra, I am quite rejoiced to see you."

"Ah! Mr. Grey, I am quite rejoiced to see you. How is your father?"

"Extremely well; he is at Paris; I heard from him yesterday. Do you ever see the Weimar Literary Gazette, my Lord?"

"No; why?"

"There is an admirable review of your poem in the last number I have received."

The young n.o.bleman looked agitated. "I think, by the style," continued Vivian, "that it is by Goethe. It is really delightful to see the oldest poet in Europe dilating on the brilliancy of a new star on the poetical horizon."

This was uttered with a perfectly grave voice, and now the young n.o.bleman blushed. "Who is _Gewter_?" asked Mr. Boreall, who possessed such a thirst for knowledge that he never allowed an opportunity to escape him of displaying his ignorance.

"A celebrated German writer," lisped the modest Miss Macdonald.

"I never heard his name," persevered the indefatigable Boreall; "how do you spell it?"

"GOETHE," re-lisped modesty.

"Oh! _Goty_!" exclaimed the querist. "I know him well: he wrote the Sorrows of Werter."

"Did he indeed, sir?" asked Vivian, with the most innocent and inquiring face.

"Oh! don't you know that?" said Boreall, "and poor stuff it is!"

"Lord Alhambra! I will take a gla.s.s of Johannisberg with you, if the Marquess' wines are in the state they should be:

The Crescent warriors sipped their sherbet spiced, For Christian men the various wines were _iced_.

I always think that those are two of the best lines in your Lords.h.i.+p's poem," said Vivian.

His Lords.h.i.+p did not exactly remember them: it would have been a wonder if he had: but he thought Vivian Grey the most delightful fellow he ever met, and determined to ask him to Helicon Castle for the Christmas holidays.

"Flat! flat!" said Vivian, as he dwelt upon the flavour of the Rhine's glory. "Not exactly from the favourite bin of Prince Metternich, I think. By-the-bye, Dormer Stanhope, you have a taste that way; I will tell you two secrets, which never forget: decant your Johannisberg, and ice your Maraschino. Ay, do not stare, my dear Gastronome, but do it."

"O, Vivian! why did not you come and speak to me?" exclaimed a lady who was sitting at the side opposite Vivian, but higher in the table.

"Ah! adorable Lady Julia! and so you were done on the grey filly."

"Done!" said the sporting beauty with pouting lips; "but it is a long story, and I will tell it you another time."

"Ah! do. How is Sir Peter?"

"Oh! he has had a fit or two, since you saw him last."

"Poor old gentleman! let us drink his health. Do you know Lady Julia Knighton?" asked Vivian of his neighbour. "This Hall is bearable to dine in; but I once breakfasted here, and I never shall forget the ludicrous effect produced by the sun through the oriel window. Such complexions!

Every one looked like a prize-fighter ten days after a battle. After all, painted gla.s.s is a bore; I wish the Marquess would have it knocked out, and have it plated."

"Knock out the painted gla.s.s!" said Mr. Boreall; "well, I must confess, I cannot agree with you."

"I should have been extremely surprised if you could. If you do not insult that man, Miss Courtown, in ten minutes I shall be no more. I have already a nervous fever."

"May I have the honour of taking a gla.s.s of champagne with you, Mr.

Grey?" said Boreall.

"Mr. Grey, indeed!" muttered Vivian: "Sir, I never drink anything but brandy."

"Allow me to give _you_ some champagne, Miss," resumed Boreall, as he attacked the modest Miss Macdonald: "champagne, you know," continued he, with a smile of agonising courtesy, "is quite the lady's wine."

"Cynthia Courtown," whispered Vivian with a sepulchral voice, "'tis all over with me: I have been thinking what would come next. This is too much: I am already dead. Have Boreall arrested; the chain of circ.u.mstantial evidence is very strong."

"Baker!" said Vivian, turning to a servant, "go and inquire if Mr.

Stapylton Toad dines at the Castle to-day."

A flourish of trumpets announced the rise of the Marchioness of Carabas, and in a few minutes the most ornamental portion of the guests had disappeared. The gentlemen made a general "move up," and Vivian found himself opposite his friend, Mr. Hargrave.

"Ah! Mr. Hargrave, how d'ye do? What do you think of the Secretary's state paper?"

"A magnificent composition, and quite unanswerable. I was just speaking of it to my friend here, Mr. Metternich Scribe. Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Metternich Scribe."

"Mr. Metternich Scribe, Mr. Vivian Grey!" and here Mr. Hargrave introduced Vivian to an effeminate-looking, perfumed young man, with a handsome, unmeaning face and very white hands; in short, as dapper a little diplomatist as ever tattled about the Congress of Verona, smirked at Lady Almack's supper after the Opera, or vowed "that Richmond Terrace was a most convenient situation for official men."

"We have had it with us some time before the public received it," said the future under-secretary, with a look at once condescending and conceited.

"Have you?" said Vivian: "well, it does your office credit. It is a singular thing that Canning and Croker are the only official men who can write grammar."