CHAPTER XVIII.
THE TABLE OF PRECEDENCE.
Time wore on; Honor was becoming familiarized with her new surroundings, had picked up some useful Hindustani words, made a round of calls, and shown that she had no mean skill at tennis. And Mrs. Brande had demonstrated that she was not a woman of words only. She had given young Jervis a general and urgent invitation to her house—moreover, he found favour in her husband’s eyes. He was a fine, well-set-up, gentlemanly young fellow, a keen tennis player, with no haw-haw humbug about him, therefore the Honourable Pelham heartily endorsed his wife’s hospitality.
As for Captain Waring, alas! the three days’ travelling intimacy—like steamer friendships—had flickered, and flickered, and sunk down, and died. Mrs. Brande’s state-dinners were unimpeachable, but desperately dull; and she was not in the “smart” set; her niece was far too downright and raw; her sincere grey eyes had a way of looking at him that made him feel uncomfortable—a blasé, world-battered, selfish mortal. She had a sharp tongue, too, and no fortune; therefore he went over to the enemy’s camp, and followed the standard of Mrs. Langrishe.
The first grand entertainment at which Honor had appeared was a large, solemn dinner-party, given by the chief medical officer in Shirani. There were to be thirty guests. This much Mrs. Brande’s cook had gleaned from Mrs. Loyd’s khansamah when he came to borrow jelly-tins and ice-spoons. Mrs. Brande delighted in these formal dinners, where she could enjoy herself most thoroughly as chief guest and experienced critic; and she looked forward to this feast with what seemed to her niece an almost infantile degree of glee and happy anticipation.
Mr. Brande was absent, but even had he been at home he was never enthusiastic respecting these functions. His wife had complained to Mrs. Sladen, “that he got into his evening clothes and bad humour at one and the same time,” save when he dined at home.
“You will wear your white silk, Honor,” observed her aunt, “and I my new pink brocade, with the white lace. I’m really curious to see what sort of a turn-out Mrs. Loyd will have. She has the Blacks’ old cook, and they never gave a decent dinner; but then Mrs. Black was stingy—she grudged a glass of wine for sauce, and never allowed more than half an anna a head for soup-meat. Now Mrs. Loyd is getting up fish from Bombay, so I fancy she means to do the thing properly. Have you ever been to a dinner-party, child?”
“No; not what you would call a party—six at the most; but I have come in after dinner.”
“Fie! fie! that is poor fun,” cried Mrs. Brande, with great scorn. “I should just like to see any one asking my niece to come after dinner! I wonder who will take you in? I know most of the people who are going, for I always read their names in the peon’s book when I get invitations. There will be Captain Waring, and young Jervis, and Sir Gloster Sandilands. I hope Captain Waring will take you in.”
“Oh, I hope not, aunt; he and I do not suit one another at all.”
“Why not?” rather sharply.
“I’ve not sufficient ‘go’ in me. I can’t talk about the people he knows. I’m not smart, or up to date. I can’t say amusing things like Miss Paske; I am merely a stupid little country mouse!”
“And she is a little cat!” with a quick nod. “Well, I must say I’d fifty times rather have Jervis myself. He has such nice manners—different to other young men, who come to my house, and eat and drink of the best, and scarcely look at me afterwards. There was that Thorpe; he never even got off his chair when I spoke to him at the club. I know I’m not a lady born—my father was a wheelwright—but he and his had been in the same place three hundred years. Still, I have my feelings, and that Thorpe, though he may be a lord’s son, is no gentleman. He thought I was deaf, and I heard him say to a man, when I was on his arm—
“‘I’m going to supper the old girl.’
“‘Not this old girl, thank you, sir,’ said I, and I drew back and went and sat down again. ’Ow he does ’ate me, to be sure. Well, Honor, I wish you a pleasant partner, for these dinners are long affairs.”
“Are they indeed, aunt? I am sorry to hear it.”
“If they bring the entrées in after the joint, which is new-fashioned and leading to mistakes, we are stuck for two mortal hours. These native servants are the ten plagues of Egypt. Once—oh lor! I shall never forget the lady’s face—I saw a man handing round mashed potatoes as an entrée—all alone! Once I saw a wretch offering mustard in a breakfast-cup, and the mistress having splendid silver cruet-stands. Of course he had some spite against her. It’s on these occasions they pay you out, when they know you are tied hand and foot. As for myself, I am all right, being senior lady—the doctor takes me. Mrs. Langrishe for once will be nowhere, for the Loyds (she being a commissioner’s daughter) know what’s what. They have the rules of precedence at their fingers’ ends, but anyway I can always lend them this,” and she took up a book bound in blue paper, and began to read aloud—
“‘All wives take place according to the rank assigned to their respective husbands.’ Do they indeed!” she snorted. “I’d like to know how many times Mrs. Langrishe has walked through that rule? Now my husband, being a member of council, comes next to a bishop. Do you see, Honor?”
“Yes, Aunt Sara.”
“Whilst Mrs. Langrishe ranks below political agents of twelve years’ standing. And I’m not at all sure that she ought to go in before the educational department, second class.”
“No, aunt,” replied Honor, endeavouring to look wise, and marvelling much at Mrs. Brande’s enthusiasm. Her colour had risen, her eyes shone, as she energetically brandished the pamphlet in her hand.
The great day arrived at last. People in Shirani did not give long invitations, and Mrs. Brande, in her new pink brocade, wearing all her diamonds, and a cap with three lofty pink plumes, departed in good time along with her niece, who wore her new white silk, and brought her violin—by special request.
Mrs. Loyd received them with effusion, the room was half full of the élite of Shirani wearing their best clothes, and their blandest official manners. Honor noticed Major and Mrs. Langrishe, Sir Gloster Sandilands, Captain Waring, Mr. Jervis, Captain Noble, the Padre and his wife, the Cantonment Magistrate and his wife, the Colonel commanding the Scorpions, and many others. It was a most solemn official party. Presently the dining-room door was flung wide, and a magnificent servant salaamed and said—
“Khana, mez pur;” i.e. “dinner is served.”
Mrs. Brande half rose from her seat, and smiled encouragingly at her host.
But—what was this? He was offering his arm to an insignificant little person in black, who was barely thirty years of age, and a complete stranger! Mrs. Brande, as she subsequently expressed it, “turned goose-flesh all over.”
What an affront, before the whole station, or at least the best part of it; and there was Mrs. Langrishe looking at her with, oh! such an odious smile. Well, at any rate she would not give her the satisfaction of seeing her break down or fly out. That smile was a stimulant, and rising, after some moments’ distinctly perceptible hesitation—during which the spectators almost held their breath—she accepted the escort of the gentleman who had humbly bowed himself before her, and with a dangerous-looking toss of her plumes, surged slowly into the dining-room.
She was conducted to a conspicuous place; but what of that? Nothing—no, not even a gilded chair, with a coronet on the back, would now appease or please her. Declining soup with a haughty gesture, she leant back and gazed about her scornfully. Yes, there was a distinct smell of Kerosine oil—one of the Khitmatghars wore a dirty coat; that was Mrs. Sladen’s claret jug, and most of the forks were borrowed. As for the dinner, she sent away dish after dish with ill-concealed contempt, slightly varying the monotony of this proceeding by leaving conspicuous helpings untasted on her plate—knowing well, that such behaviour is pain and grief to a hostess. Even the host noticed her scanty appetite, and remarked in his loud cheery voice—
“Why, Mrs. Brande, you are eating nothing.”
“Indeed,” she leant forward and called out, “I’m so far from you, I wonder you can notice it;” adding to this extremely ungracious reply, “I’ve no appetite this evening,” and she flung herself once more back in her chair, and waved her fan to and fro, passionately—not to say furiously.
There, to aggravate her still further, was that Lalla Paske opposite, sitting between Sir Gloster and Captain Waring, and ogling and carrying on. Little reptile! she would like to throw a plate at her. Honor was on Sir Gloster’s other hand, looking, as her aunt mentally noted, very “distangay” and animated. The baronet seemed to be greatly struck, and talked away incessantly; and this was the one miserable crumb of comfort on which the poor lady dined!
Honor was not too engrossed with her own affairs not to notice that her aunt appeared most dreadfully put out about something, and was looking exceedingly flushed and angry.
In fact, Miss Paske—good-natured, kind little soul—leant over, and said to her, “Have you noticed Mrs. Brande? Does she not look extraordinary? Her face is so red, and swelled up, I really believe she is going to have a fit of some sort! She is neither eating nor speaking.”
However, during dessert Mrs. Brande found her tongue. There was a general discussion on the subject of Christian names, and some one said that “Honor was a nice old-fashioned one.”
“Oh,” cried Lalla, “I think it hideous! You don’t mind, do you, Miss Gordon? How angry I should have been if my godfathers and godmothers had given it to me! It has such an abrupt sound, and is so very goody-goody.”
Mrs. Brande, who had hitherto refused to talk to her neighbour, even in the most ordinary way, to discuss the weather, the great diamond case, or the state of the rupee, now suddenly burst out—
“Anyway, it has a decent meaning; and if it is goody-goody, yours is not. I believe there was once a Miss Rooke, who had the same name, and was fond of play-acting and singing, and by all accounts no great shakes.”
In just alarm, Mrs. Loyd made a hasty signal, and the ladies arose as if worked by one spring, and departed into the drawing-room in a body. Mrs. Brande immediately seated herself in a large armchair, where she sat aloof and alone, looking stern and unapproachable, as she slowly turned over an album of photographs. The book was upside down, but this was evidently immaterial.
Vainly did Mrs. Loyd come and stand before her, and abase herself; vainly did she endeavour to propitiate her. Poor deluded little woman!—it was mere waste of time and breath to praise Mrs. Brande’s dress, Mrs. Brande’s niece, or even to beg for a recipe for chutney.
“I can give you a recipe for manners,” observed the outraged matron, in an awful tone; “I will send you the table of precedence, and I will write to you to-morrow.”
On hearing this terrible threat, Mrs. Loyd’s blood ran cold,—for she was a woman of peace,—and at this juncture the men appeared slouching in by twos and threes—as is their wont. They discovered the ladies scattered in couples about the room, all save one, who sat in solitary majesty.
Captain Waring sauntered over to Lalla, and remarked, as he glanced significantly at Mrs. Brande, who was motionless as a cloud on a hot summer’s day—a cloud charged with electricity, “When I look round I am inclined to say with the kind-hearted child, when he was shown Doré’s picture, ‘There is one poor lion who has got no Christian!’”
“She is by no means so badly off as you imagine,” rejoined Lalla with a demure face. “She has nearly eaten the hostess—does she not look ferocious? Whom shall we throw to her for a fresh victim? She is frightfully angry because she was not taken in to dinner first. Poor creature, she has so very little dignity, that she is always taking the greatest care of it. Hurrah! Hurrah! She is actually going. Oh, I am enormously amused.”
Yes, Mrs. Brande had already risen to depart. If not taken in first, she was firmly resolved to take this matter into her own hands, and to be the first to leave.
It was in vain that meek Mrs. Loyd pleaded that it was only half-past nine, that every one was looking forward to hearing Miss Gordon play, that she had promised to bring her violin.
“Surely, Mrs. Brande, you will not be so cruel as to take her away and disappoint the whole company!” urged Mrs. Loyd pathetically. “I am told that her violin-playing is marvellous.”
“The company have seen Miss Gordon’s aunt playing second fiddle all the evening, and that must content them for the present,” retorted Mrs. Brande, who was already in the verandah, robed in a superb long cloak, the very fur of which seemed to catch something of its owner’s spirit, and to bristle up about her ears, as with a sweeping inclination, and beckoning to Honor to follow her, she swept down the steps.
All the way home, and as they rolled along side by side, Mrs. Brande gave vent to her wrath, and allowed her injured feelings fair play. “Precedence” was her hobby, her one strong point. A woman might rob her, slander her, even strike her, sooner than walk out of a room before her. She assured her awestruck niece that she would write to “P.” before she slept that night, and unless she received an ample apology, the matter should go up to the Viceroy! What was the use of people getting on in the service, and earning rewards by years of hard work in bad climates and deadly jungles, if any one who liked might kick them down the ladder, as she had been kicked that evening!
“What,” she angrily continued, with voice pitched half an octave higher, “was the value of these appointments, or was it child’s play, and a new game? It would be a dear game to some people!”
She arrived at this conclusion and her own door simultaneously, and flinging off her wrap, and snatching a lamp from a terrified khitmatghar (who saw that the Mem Sahib was “Bahout Kuffa”), she hurried into her husband’s sanctum, and returned with a book.
“What was that person’s name, Honor?” she inquired; “did you happen to hear it?—the woman who was taken in first?”
“Mrs. Ringrose, I believe.”
“Ringrose, Ringrose,” hunting through the leaves with feverish haste. “Ye-es, here it is.”
“James—Walter—Ringrose—he is a member of council in Calcutta, and just one week senior to P.!” and she gazed at her niece with a face almost devoid of colour, and the expression of a naughty child who is desperately ashamed of herself. “So I’ve been in a tantrum, and missed my dinner and a pleasant evening, all for nothing! Well, to be sure, I’ve been a fine old fool,” throwing the book on the table. “But what brings Calcutta people up here?” she demanded pettishly.
“I think she is sister to some one in Shirani, and her husband has gone on to the snows, and left her here. Dear Aunt Sara,” continued Honor playfully, “why do you trouble your head about precedence? How can it matter how you go in to a meal, or where you sit?”
“My dear child, it’s in my very blood. I can’t help it; it is meat and drink to me; it is what a lover is to a girl, a coronet to a duchess, a medal to a soldier—it’s the outward and visible sign of P.’s deserts—and mine. And the sight of another woman sitting in my lawful place just chokes me. ‘A woman takes rank according to her husband,’ that seemed to be ringing in my ears all the evening. How was I to know her husband was in council too? However, I went in to dinner, that’s one comfort.” (It had not been much comfort to her cavalier). “At first I was in two minds to go straight home. I remember hearing of three ladies at a party, who each expected to go in with the host, and when he took one, the others got up and walked off supperless.”
“I think they were extremely foolish—they ought to have taken each other in arm-in-arm; it’s what I should have done,” said Honor emphatically.
“Yes, young people don’t care; but I can no more change than a leopard his skin, and a nigger his spots—well, you know what I mean. I am not always such a stickler, though—for instance, this very winter, when I happened to go into the ladies’ club at Alijore, and no one stood up to receive me, I took no notice, though I was so hurt that I scarcely closed an eye that night. Kiss me, dearie, and forgive me, as one of the party, for breaking up so early, and spoiling every one’s pleasure” (a supreme flight of imagination). “Maybe some day you will be touchy too.”
“Perhaps I may, but not about rank and precedence. Surely there is no precedence in heaven.”
“I’m not so certain of that,” rejoined Mrs. Brande; “an archangel is above an angel. However, I may leave my proud thoughts behind, for I shall have a lowly place—if I ever get there at all. Now, dear, I’m just starving; a morsel of fish and a spoonful of aspic was all I had. So call Bahadar Ali to get me some cold turkey and ham, and a glass of claret. Maybe you would take a pick too?”
“No indeed, thank you. I had a capital dinner.”
“And you found your partner pleasant?—a rising young civilian. I nursed him through typhoid, and I know him well. He draws twelve hundred a month. If you married him you would take the pas of Mrs. Langrishe.”
“Dear Auntie,” bursting out into a peal of laughter, “how funny you are! I am not going to marry any one; you must deliver me at home a single young woman.”
“What nonsense! However,” as if struck by a happy thought, “you might be engaged and still single; I saw you talking to Sir Gloster——”
“Yes, he is rather agreeable—he was telling me about his tour among the old cities of the Deccan. And——”
“And I noticed Miss Lalla trying to put in her spoon. What a pushing little monkey she is—her aunt’s very double!”
To show her penitence, instead of the letter she had threatened—which lay like a nightmare on poor Mrs. Loyd—Mrs. Brande sent restitution the next day in the form of a dozen pine-apples and a basket of fresh eggs. They were gladly accepted as peace-offerings, and Mrs. Loyd heard no more about “the table of precedence.”