Kitabı oku: «Roger Kyffin's Ward», sayfa 7
Chapter Eleven.
“Seeing Life in London.”
Harry accompanied his kind guardian into London the following day, and was introduced in due form to Mr Silas Sleech, one of the principal clerks under Mr Kyffin, as well as to the other persons engaged in Mr Coppinger’s counting-house in Idol Lane.
“You are welcome, Mr Tryon,” said Mr Sleech, with whom Harry found himself left for a short time. “I have heard of you before at Lynderton; indeed, I remember your countenance very well as a boy. You do not probably recollect me, however. Still you may possibly have heard the name of my respected father, one of the principal lawyers in Lynderton. We are a very well-connected family, but we do not boast of that here. While in this office, we are men of business; we sink every other character. You understand me, Mr Tryon, and if you are wise you will follow my advice. Here I am your superior and director, but outside this door we are equals, and I hope soon to say, we are friends.”
Harry watched Mr Sleech’s countenance while he spoke. He did not particularly like its expression. It was then animated and vivacious enough, but directly afterwards, when Mr Kyffin drew near, it assumed a peculiarly dull and inanimate look, as if he was absorbed completely in the books over which he was poring.
Mr Coppinger himself soon afterwards arrived, and called Harry into his private room. He spoke to him much in the same way that Mr Kyffin had done.
“You could not be in better hands than those of your guardian,” he observed. “However, as after a time you may grow tired of your daily walk backwards and forwards to Hampstead, you shall have the room over the counting-house, and I shall be happy to see you at my house, where you can become better acquainted with your cousins.”
Harry thanked his uncle for his kindness, and expressed a hope that he should be attentive to business. The first moment he had time he wrote to Mabel, telling her of his good fortune in having a situation given him in Mr Coppinger’s house. He had previously written in a very different tone, giving an account of his grandmother’s death, and the penury in which she had left him. He had not, however, told Mabel that he would release her from her engagement to him. While any hope yet lingered in his bosom he could not bring himself to do that. Now he was once more in spirits, and he felt sure that fortune would smile on him. He had never told Mabel that it was very possible Mr Kyffin might leave him his property. He had determined never to build on such a possibility. In the first place, Mr Kyffin was not an old man, and might live for many years, or he might have relatives who had claims on him, or he might not consider it necessary, simply because he was his ward, to leave him anything.
What a blessed thing is hope, even in regard to mere mundane matters. Harry had at this time nothing else to live upon. After all the grand expectations he had enjoyed, to find himself at last only a merchant’s clerk with 100 pounds a year! Roger Kyffin’s society might possibly have been more improving to Harry than that of his grandmother. At the same time, after a few weeks, it must be owned that Harry began to wish for a little change. Roger Kyffin had been in the habit of living a good deal by himself, and had not many acquaintances in the immediate neighbourhood. Now and then a few friends came to dine with him, but he seemed to think it a mark of respect to Harry’s grandmother not to see any society at his house for the first two or three weeks after her death.
Mr Coppinger invited him to dinner the following day. He was to sleep at the counting-house, where a room had been prepared for him, which he could occupy whenever he pleased.
“You may wish to see a little more of London and your friends,” said Mr Coppinger, “and you can scarcely do so if you go out to Hampstead every evening.”
Harry of course thanked his uncle for his consideration, and the next, day prepared with some little interest to pay his respects to his unknown cousins.
Although at that time many persons dined early, the custom of late dinners was being generally introduced. Harry arranged his toilet with more than usual care, and somewhat before the hour of five took his way to his uncle’s house in Broad Street. It was a handsome mansion. As Harry knocked, the door flew open, and a couple of livery servants with powdered hair stood ready to receive him, and take his hat and cloak. He followed the servant up-stairs, and was ushered into a large drawing-room. A lady came forward, not very young, according to his idea, but fair and good-looking, with a somewhat full figure, and a pleasant expression of countenance.
“And are you our cousin Harry?” she said, putting out her hand. “Why did you not come before? We heard about you, and are very glad at last to make your acquaintance.”
“I scarcely liked to come without my uncle’s invitation,” said Harry, “but am very happy to have the opportunity of making his daughter’s acquaintance. I conclude that you are Miss Coppinger.”
“Yes, I am generally so called,” answered the young lady, “but I am your cousin Martha, remember that. You must not be formal with us. My younger sisters may encourage you to be so, but you must not attend to their nonsense.”
“I should like to know something about them,” said Harry, feeling himself quite at home with Martha, evidently a kind and sensible woman, and, as people would say, a bit of a character.
“That’s very sensible in you, Harry,” she answered. “Fortunately they have been all out, and only lately went up to dress, so that I shall have time to tell you about them. Next to me there is Susan – she is like me in most respects, and some people take us for twins. However, she really is two years younger. Then there is Mary. She has only one fault. She is somewhat sentimental, and too fond of poetry – reads Cowper and Crabbe, and Miss Burney’s novels, half-bound volumes in marble covers. She sighs over Evelina, and goes into raptures with Clarissa. She is dark, thin, and slight, not a bit like Susan and me. Then there is Maria Jane. She is fair and addicted to laughing, and very good-natured, and not a bit sentimental. Then there is Estella. Harry, you must take care of her. She is something like Mary, but more lively and more practical too. Mary lives in an idea of her own: Estella carries out her romantic notions. Then there is our youngest sister, Sybella, or baby we always used to call her, but she rather objects to the appellation. You must find out about her yourself. There, now you know us all. You are known to us, so you will find yourself perfectly at home by the time you see us assembled round the dinner-table. As we have no brothers we shall make a great deal of you, and take care that you are not spoilt. Above all things, don’t fall in love. You will become hideous and useless if you do. I don’t at all approve of the passion, except when exhibited in gentlemen of comfortable incomes, nor does papa. I warn you of that, so if you wish to take advantage of such hospitality as we can afford you – and we really desire to be kind – you have been cautioned and must act accordingly.”
Harry cordially thanked Martha for the description of her sisters, and with perfect sincerity promised to follow her advice. It showed him that she, at all events, was not aware of his love for Mabel, and though he thought her a very good-natured woman, he had no intention of making her his confidant on that matter.
Harry had soon the opportunity of discovering the correctness of her description of her sisters. The youngest came in last. There was a considerable amount of beauty among them, so that they passed for a family of pretty girls, but when he saw Sybella, he at once acknowledged that she surpassed them all.
She was a bright little fairy, just entering womanhood. Curiously like Mabel, so he thought: indeed, he would not otherwise have admired her so much.
“I am not surprised that Martha warned me,” he thought to himself. “If it were not for Mabel, I should certainly have fallen in love with that little girl, and yet Mabel is her superior in many ways; I am sure of that.”
They were seated at the dinner-table when these thoughts came into Master Harry’s head. Sybella’s eyes met his. She blushed. Could she have divined his thoughts?
His uncle was very kind. No man indeed appeared to better advantage at his dinner-table than did Mr Coppinger. He at once made Harry feel perfectly at home, and as his cousins addressed him by his Christian name, he soon found himself calling them by theirs in return.
“We must make a great deal of use of you, Harry,” said Miss Coppinger. “We sadly want a beau to accompany us in the evenings when we go out. Father cannot often come with us. He comes home tired from business. We six spinsters have consequently to spend most of our time in solitude.”
“You do not look as if you had often been melancholy,” said Harry. “However, I shall be very happy to be at your service whenever you choose to command me.”
“Very prettily spoken,” answered Martha.
When Harry glanced round at his six blooming cousins he felt that they were not likely often to be left in solitude. There were a few other guests at table – Alderman Bycroft and his wife and daughter; one a full-blown rose, the other a bursting bud, giving promise of the same full proportions as her mother.
There was a young gentleman, the son of a wealthy distiller, dressed in the height of fashion, who seemed to consider that he was greatly honouring Mr Coppinger’s family by his presence, and there was another youth of unpretending appearance, who looked as if he felt himself highly honoured by the invitation, though he had in reality taken a high degree at the University, and was the descendant of a long line of proud ancestors.
The distiller, Mr Gilby, was inclined to patronise Harry, especially when he heard Lady Tryon spoken of.
“I will show you a little of London life, my boy,” he whispered. “You know nothing of it as yet, and unless you had a friend like me to introduce you, you might live ten years here and know no more of the ins and outs and doings of this great city than you do now.”
“Mr Tryon would thereby, I suspect, be more fortunate than if he were introduced to the ways of London as you suggest,” observed Mr Pennant, the pale-faced young student.
“I hope you enjoyed your dinner at your uncle’s, yesterday,” said Mr Silas Sleech, as Harry took his seat near him at his office desk the next morning. “Fine girls your cousins, don’t you think? I dine there sometimes, and I then always mind my P’s and Q’s. I flatter myself I stand well there with the fairer portion of the family, and of course our principal has a great respect for my uprightness and integrity,” and a curious leer came into Mr Sleech’s eyes which he could not repress. “Who was there, Tryon?”
Harry told him.
“Oh! young Gilby! was he? He’s a rollicking blade. He offered to introduce you into London society, did he? Why, he knows nothing about it. Do not trust him. He would only take you to a few low haunts, where you would see enough certainly of what he calls life. He invited you to dine with him a week hence, did he? Well, then, come with me to-night, and before that time I will enable you to show him that you know far more of London life than he does. But, mum, here comes your respected guardian, Mr Roger Kyffin. Will this pen suit you, Mr Tryon?” he said, in a loud voice. “A good handwriting is an important matter in the qualifications of a young clerk.”
Harry scarcely knew what to think of Silas Sleech. His manner offended him, but he seemed good-natured and obliging; so he thought to himself, “I will take him as I find him, and he is more likely to initiate me into real London life than that young fop Gilby.” Harry agreed, therefore, to dine with Mr Sleech that evening at a coffee-house, and to accompany him afterwards to some place of amusement.
Harry Tryon was not a hero of romance. He had never got into any serious scrape, but then he had not been much tempted. He was now to be left very much to his own resources. His kind guardian had formed a higher opinion of him than he perhaps deserved. He also held Mr Sleech in considerable esteem. It is surprising that he did so, but the fact was, that that individual was a most consummate hypocrite – he otherwise would not certainly have deceived such acute observers as Mr Coppinger and his managing clerk. Harry could not have met with a worse person as a companion in London. Young Gilby might have led him into scrapes, while the other, by imbuing him with his own principles, and introducing him to profligates and designing knaves, might injure his future prospects, and destroy him body and soul, as many another young man has been destroyed. Harry, when he accepted Mr Sleech’s proffered civilities, had no conception of the dangerous course into which he was about to lead him. He remembered old Sleech at Lynderton, a smooth-spoken, oily-tongued, civil gentleman, profuse in his bows to gentlemen on horseback or ladies in their carriages, but very apt to button up his breeches pockets at the approach of a supplicant. As to his character he knew nothing, except that he was looked upon as a lawyer of sharp practice. Once upon a time Harry would not have wished to be seen walking down Lynderton Street in company with Silas Sleech, but now things were altered. In London people needed not to be so particular as to their associates.
As soon as the counting-house was closed, Harry set off with Silas Sleech to the West End. That first evening was spent in a way that even Roger Kyffin, had he made enquiries, would probably have approved. They had been to the play, and afterwards supped at a respectable chop-house, frequented by several actors, authors, and wits. Silas Sleech even suggested that Harry should mention it to his guardian.
“I don’t often go to such places myself, you see,” he observed afterwards to Mr Kyffin, “but I thought that Harry would require something to divert his mind, and I rather put myself out of the way to amuse him.”
Mr Kyffin begged that Mr Sleech would in future take no trouble on that score; and at the same time he did not wish to shut Harry up altogether, and was much obliged to him for what he had done.
“You were always kind and wise, sir,” said Mr Sleech, in his softest tone; “it is really a pleasure to me to enter into such scenes for the sake of our young friend, otherwise I confess that more sober amusements suit me best.”
It was strange, however, that Mr Sleech should press Harry the following evening to spend it precisely in the same way as the former, though the house to which he took him after the play was of a somewhat different character from that of the previous evening. He observed the guests occasionally slipping out of the public room and going up-stairs.
“I should like to know what they are about,” said Mr Sleech to Harry; “what do you say, shall we try and get up?”
Harry, of course, had no objection.
“Follow me, then,” said Sleech; “I observed the turn the others took, and dare say that I can find my way.”
Mr Sleech had no difficulty, although there were several dark passages and a flight or two of stairs to be passed. At length a light fell on their faces from an opening in the upper part of the wall. Mr Sleech uttered a few strange words, and a door, hitherto invisible, opening, he drew Harry through it. Another passage and another door were passed through, and they found themselves in a room of considerable size, in which a number of people were assembled round a table on which dice were rattling, and a gentleman with a long stick was drawing up towards him small piles of gold placed at the edge, and occasionally paying out others to some bystanders.
“Why, we have got into something like a hell,” whispered Mr Sleech to Harry. “I had no idea of the sort of place we were coming to. However, now we are here, let us stop and see the fun; it seems very exciting. See how eager these men watch the throws. I say, I feel quite a longing to have a cast myself; it is not a right thing to do, but when one once is in such a place it cannot much matter.”
“I would rather look on,” said Harry.
“So, of course, would I, generally,” said Sleech; “still it won’t do to be here long without having a throw now and then; but still it is better you should keep to your good resolution. If you like to take any refreshment, you will find plenty of it on the sideboard there. You will have nothing to pay; and if it is necessary I will see about that.”
Harry watched the proceedings for some time. He had too often, when with Lady Tryon, witnessed play going forward in private not to be too well acquainted with all the games in vogue. By degrees, therefore, his interest was aroused. Silas Sleech seemed unable any longer to resist the influence, and soon, pulling out some gold, he began to bet as the rest of the guests were doing. He was the winner of a considerable sum. Coming round to Harry, he put ten guineas into his hand. “There, my boy,” he said, “just try your luck with this; if you are the winner you can pay me, if not, never mind. It’s luck’s profits, so I shall not feel the loss.”
Harry hesitated. He had no love for gambling, and he knew that his guardian would be sorry to hear that he had engaged in play. Sleech, however, urged him to go on. “You’re sure to win, and you’ll repent it if you go away without anything in your pocket.”
Thus persuaded, Harry staked a couple of guineas and won. He then staked five, and was also successful. He doubled his stakes – again he came off the winner. It would have been better for him had he lost. He was still moderate in his stakes – fortunately, for luck, as Sleech called it, began to go against him. However, he left off with 100 pounds in his pocket. Sleech congratulated him as they wound their way out of the room down-stairs again.
“It’s a nice little sum,” he whispered; “you see what can be done if a man is cool and calm; only there is one little piece of advice I wish to give you: Don’t mention the matter to Mr Kyffin. If he asks you, just say that you have been to the same sort of place that you went to yesterday, but that you have seen enough of that sort of thing for the present. You know that to-morrow you are engaged to Mr Coppinger’s; so you told me. So we cannot go again for some little time.”
His second dinner at his uncle’s went off as pleasantly as the first. His cousins even improved on acquaintance. Sybella especially made herself agreeable to him. She did not try; it was her artless, natural manner which was so attractive. She was a sweet little creature, there was no doubt about that, and had not his heart been already given to Mabel, he would certainly have lost it to her. The only other guest was Mr Gilby. He seemed to be a very frequent visitor at the house, but Harry could not discover which of his cousins was the attraction. Perhaps the young gentleman himself had not made up his mind. Mr Coppinger was kind and courteous, but treated Harry with quite as much attention as he did the wealthy Mr Gilby. Indeed, that gentleman knew perfectly well that, should he wish to secure him for one of his daughters, the surest way to succeed would be to show perfect indifference about the matter. Harry was somewhat surprised at the interest his cousins took in the descriptions Mr Gilby gave of some of his exploits. He himself had never seen the fun of knocking down watchmen, running off with their rattles, and rousing up medical practitioners from their midnight slumbers, or calling reverend gentlemen out of their beds to visit dying people. By his own account, also, he had the entrée behind the scenes at all the theatres, and in many of them his chair upon the stage. He was a regular frequenter of Newmarket and the principal races in the kingdom, and there were very few hells and gambling-houses of every sort into which he had not found his way. He, however, seemed to be aware that Mr Coppinger could not approve of this part of his proceedings, and therefore only spoke of them out of hearing of his host. He seemed to look down with supreme contempt on Harry, who had not such experiences to talk of, and again offered to introduce him into life.
“Thank you,” said Harry; “but you see I have become a man of business, and have very little time to spare for those sort of amusements; besides, I confess I care very little about them.”
“Well, you must take your own way,” answered the young gentleman, “though I must say I don’t think a young fellow of spirit would be content to live the humdrum life you do; or perhaps ‘still waters run deep,’ eh? that’s it, is it not?”
Wherever Harry had been on the previous night, or however late he had been in bed, he was always at his desk directly the office was open, and he also got through his work very much to Roger Kyffin’s satisfaction. Silas Sleech also always praised him. He told him also, should he find any difficulty, to come to him, and on several occasions Harry had to take advantage of his offer. His uncle, after some months, spoke approvingly to him. “You will, I have great hopes, in time be fitted to fulfil an important post in my office, from the reports I hear of you, and the way in which I see you get on with your work. You have your own fortune in your own hands, Harry, and I see no reason why you should not make it. Your success is secure if you go on as you have begun.”
Harry was not happy, however. He had great doubts on that subject. Mr Silas Sleech had been more cautious in his proceedings. He suspected that Harry might easily have been alarmed had he attempted to initiate him too rapidly into London life. For several weeks he did not take Harry to the gaming-house into which he had before introduced him. Indeed, sometimes he declined taking him out at all.
“It won’t do, my boy,” he said; “you are knocking yourself up with dissipation, and I am afraid you will get a taste for those sort of things if I take you out too often. Why you won more money last night than I have pocketed for months together. ‘The pitcher which goes too often to the well gets broken,’ and if you don’t take care you will have a run of ill-luck, and if you lose, where is the money to come from to pay your debts of honour?”
By these remarks it will be understood that Harry Tryon had not resisted the temptations to play which Silas had placed in his way, but as he had come off the gainer hitherto, he had in consequence suffered no inconvenience. He had been too much accustomed to see his grandmother replenish her purse in that way to feel acutely any sense of shame at depriving others of their property, which happily keeps some high-minded men from the vice. Silas Sleech had other baits by which he hoped to obtain entire power over his young companion. There was one, however, with which he entirely failed, Harry would never be allured by meretricious beauty. Silas was puzzled. He took good care to conceal his own sins from public view.
“The young one is deep,” he thought to himself. “He knows what he’s about, I am pretty sure of that.”
Harry, though duped by Silas, had never made him his confidant. He saw that Harry delighted in excitement, and took him once or twice to hear the debates in the House of Commons. They were pretty stormy sometimes, when Fox, and Pitt, and Wyndham were on their feet. Silas professed to be a “friend of the people.” Harry’s generous heart rose in rebellion against anything like tyranny and oppression, and Silas easily persuaded him that the French Revolution had been brought about by the tyrannical way in which the aristocracy had treated the people.
“Let me ask you, Harry,” he said, “are not our own people treated very much in the same way? Look at our ill-fed, ill-clad soldiers, robbed on all sides, and left to perish like dogs from neglect. Then see our sailors. Were you ever on board a man-of-war, Harry? I have been. Just see the tough dry meat, and weevily biscuit they are fed with; the fearful way in which they are flogged for the slightest offence, at the will, often capricious, of their captains; the little care taken of them in sickness; the ill-paid, half-educated men sent out as surgeons; and the wretched pensions they receive after, if they escape death, when wounded in battle.”
So Silas talked on. There was much truth in what he said, but his statements were often exaggerated.
“However, I am but a poor speaker, Harry,” he said; “come with me some evening, and you shall hear all that I have said put forth far more forcibly, and in far better language. Don’t tell old Kyffin where you have been, that’s all. He holds to old-fangled notions, and has no faith in Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality. We will look in first at two or three of the clubs to which I belong, and there’s no reason why he should not suppose that you have been to one of those. There’s the Hums’; you remember my taking you there, at the Blue Posts, in Covent Garden, and the ‘Rights of Man’ Club. I have belonged to that since I came to town. Then we can look in at the Pearl Drinkers’, and if by chance our friend presses you, tell him what you saw there. He probably does not guess that I belong to more than one quiet club, and he may be a little astonished at first, but that won’t matter. He has no power over me out of the office. Mr Coppinger knows my merits, I flatter myself, too much to dispense with my services at Mr Roger Kyffin’s bidding.”
“I don’t like those remarks,” thought Harry to himself. “Ought I to go with this man?”
He very often had thought as much, and yet had followed Sleech’s lead. The day’s work was over. Harry had thought of proposing to walk home with Mr Kyffin, but he went out, and had no opportunity afterwards of speaking to him. Was Roger Kyffin pleased with his ward? Not altogether. He thought that he spent too much time in going to places of public amusement. He might more frequently have offered to go out to Hampstead. Still he did not like to lecture the young man.
“When I was young I should not have been contented with what now pleases me. Harry will soon have had enough of this sort of life, and then will take to more useful pastimes.”
“Come, Harry, let’s be off,” said Mr Sleech, taking him by the arm.
Harry did not resist. Mr Sleech gave him a capital dinner at the “Blue Posts,” and looked in afterwards at the “Pearl Drinkers’ Club.”
“Come now,” he said, “we will steer for the ‘Saracen’s Head,’ Gerard Street, Soho. I will introduce you there to some liberal-minded men, who will make you open your eyes a little.”
Mr Sleech was a rapid walker, and they quickly got over the ground. Giving his name, they were admitted into a large room, already full of persons. A considerable number were young men, but there were some already advanced in life. In address and appearance the greater number had imitated the French Republicans, while all, as a sign of their liberality, kept on their hats. A young man was on his legs, his hair escaping from under his hat, hanging over his shoulders. His eyes rolled wildly, while he flung his arms about in every direction, every now and then bringing his doubled fist down upon the palm of his other hand. His oratory was fluent and bold.
“The past must be buried in oblivion!” he exclaimed. “We dare not look at it. A hideous system of the domination of one class over the souls and minds and bodies of the vast majority. A new era must be organised, but before a better system can be raised up, the ancient must be levelled with the dust. On a new foundation – the whole of the people – we must build up a glorious temple, a superb superstructure, in which people of all nations, united in the bonds of fraternity, must come and worship together the great Goddess of Reason.”
