The Mysteries of London Volume 1

by Reynolds, George W. M.

  “Merciful heavens,” ejaculated Richard, “can this be true? are you drawing a correct picture, Diana, or inventing a hideous fiction?”

  “God knows how true is all I say!” returned Mrs. Arlington, with profound sincerity of tone and manner. “Want soon stared me in the face: what could I do? Chance threw me in the way of Sir Rupert Harborough:—compelled by an imperious necessity, I became his mistress. This is my history.”

  “And the baronet treats you kindly?” said Richard, inquiringly.

  “The terms upon which our connexion is based do not permit him an opportunity of being either very kind or very cruel.”

  “I must now say farewell for the present,” exclaimed Markham, afraid of trusting himself longer with the Syren who had fascinated him with her misfortunes as well as by her charms. “In a day or two I will see you again. Oh! I cannot blame you for what you have done:—I commiserate—I pity you! Could any sacrifice that I am capable of making, restore you to happiness and—and—”

  “Honour, you would say,” exclaimed Diana, firmly.

  “I would gladly make that sacrifice,” added Richard. “From this moment we will be friends—very sincere friends. I will be your brother,—dearest Diana—and you shall be my sister!”

  The young man rose from the sofa, as he uttered these disjointed sentences in a singularly wild and rapid manner; and Diana, without making any reply, but apparently deeply touched, pressed his hand for some moments between both her own.

  Richard then hastily escaped from the presence of that charming and fascinating creature.

  CHAPTER XI.

  “THE SERVANTS’ ARMS.”

  UPON the same day that this event took place, Mr. Whittingham, the butler of Richard Markham, had solicited and obtained permission to pass the evening with a certain Mr. Thomas Suggett, who occupied the distinguished post of valet de chambre about the person of the Honourable Arthur Chichester. Whittingham was determined to enjoy himself:—he seemed suddenly to have cast off twenty years from his back, and to walk the more upright for having rid himself of the burthen;—his hat was slightly cocked on one side; and, as he walked along, with Mr. Thomas Suggett tucked under his arm, he struck his silver-headed bamboo, which he always carried with him when he went abroad on Sundays and holidays, very forcibly upon the pavement. Mr. Suggett declared “that, for his part, he was very well disposed for a spree;” and he threw into his gait a most awful swagger, which certainly excited considerable attention, because all the small boys in the streets laughed at him as he wended on his way.

  “I wonder what them urchins are garping at so,” said Whittingham. “It mystificates me in no inconsiderable degree. Raly the lower orders of English is exceedingly imperlite. I feel the most inwigorated disgust and the most unboundless contempt for their manners.”

  “That’s jist like me,” observed Suggett: “I can’t a-bear the lower orders. I hate everythink wulgar.—But, by the bye, Mr. Whittingham, do you smoke?”

  “I can’t say but what I like a full-flavoured Havannah—a threepenny, mind,” added the butler, pompously.

  “Just my taste, Mr. Whittingham. If I can’t afford threepennies, I won’t smoke at all.”

  Mr. Suggett entered a cigar shop, purchased half-a-dozen real Havannahs, (manufactured in St. John-street, Clerkenwell), joked with the young lady who served him, and then presented the one which he considered the best to his companion. The two gentlemen’s gentlemen accordingly lighted their cigars, and then continued their walk along the New Road, in the vicinity of which Mr. Whittingham had met Mr. Suggett by appointment upon this memorable afternoon.

  In a short time Mr. Suggett stopped suddenly at the door of a large white public-house, not a hundred miles distant from the new church, St. Pancras.

  “This is a nice crib,” said he. “Excellent company; and to-night there is a supper at eleven.”

  “The very identified thing,” acquiesced Mr. Whittingham; and into the public-house they walked.

  Nothing could be more neat and cleanly than the bar of the Servants’ Arms—no one more obliging nor bustling than the “young lady” behind the bar. The Servants’ Arms was reported to draw the best liquor in all the neighbourhood; and its landlord prided himself upon the superiority of his establishment over those which sold beer “at three-pence a-pot in your own jugs.” And then what a rapid draught the landlord had for all his good things; and how crowded was the space before the bar with customers.

  “Glass of ale—mild, Miss, if you please,” said one.

  “A quartern of gin and three outs, Caroline,” cried a second, who was more familiar.

  “Pint of half-and-half, here,” exclaimed a third.

  “Six of brandy, warm, Miss—four of gin, cold, and a pint of ale with the chill off—parlour!” ejaculated the waiter, who now made his appearance at the bar.

  “Pot of porter; and master’s compliments, and can you lend him yesterday’s Advertiser for half an hour or so?” said a pretty little servant girl, placing a large yellow jug on the bright lead surface of the bar.

  “Pot of ale, and a screw, Miss.”

  “Pint of gin, for mixing, please.”

  “Bottle of Cape wine, at eighteen, landlord.”

  “Four-penn’orth of rum, cold without.”

  “Half pint of porter, and a pipe, Caroline.”

  Such were the orders, issued from all quarters at the same moment, and to which Caroline responded with incredible alacrity; finding time to crack a joke with the known frequenters of the house, and to make a pleasant observation upon the weather to those whose faces were strange to her;—while the landlord contented himself with looking on, or every now and then drawing a pot of beer, apparently as a great favour and in a lazy independant manner. Nevertheless, he was a good, civil kind of a man: only somewhat independent, because he was growing rich. He was never afraid at the end of the month to see Truman and Hanbury’s collector, and Nicholson’s man, alight from their gigs at his door. They were always sure to find the money ready for them, when they sate down to write their receipts in the little narrow slip of a parlour behind the bar. In fact, the landlord of the Servants’ Arms, was reported to be doing “a very snug business:”—and so he was.

  Messrs. Whittingham and Suggett sauntered leisurely into the parlour of the Servants’ Arms, and took their seats at the only table which remained unoccupied.

  “Good evening, Sir,” said the waiter, addressing Mr. Suggett with a sort of semi-familiarity, which showed that the latter gentleman was in the habit of “using the house.”

  “How are you, William?” cried Mr. Suggett, in a patronising manner. “George been here lately?”

  “Not very: I think he’s down in the country.”

  “Oh! Well, what shall we have, Mr. Whittingham—brandy and water?”

  “That’s my inwariable beverage, Mr. Suggett.”

  “Two sixes, gentlemen?” said the waiter.

  “No,” answered Mr. Whittingham, solemnly; “two shillings’ worth, to begin with.”

  The liquor was supplied, and when the two gentlemen had tasted it, and found it to their liking, they glanced around the room to survey the company. It soon appeared that Mr. Suggett was well known to many of the gentlemen present; for, upon making his survey, he acknowledged, with a nod or a short phrase, the bows or salutations of those with whom he was acquainted.

  “Ah! Mr. Guffins, always up in the same corner, eh?” said he, addressing a middle-aged man in seedy black: “got a new work in the press, ’spose? You literary men contrive to enjoy yourselves, I know. How do you do, Mr. Mac Chizzle?” looking towards a short, pock-marked man, with a quick grey eye, and black hair combed upright off his forehead: “how get on the clients? Plenty of business, eh? Ah! you lawyers always contrive to do well. Mr. Drum
mer, your servant, sir. Got a good congregation still, sir?”

  “The chapel thriveth well, I thank you—as well as can be expected in these times of heathen abominations,” answered a demure-looking middle-aged gentleman, who was clad in deep black and wore a white neck-cloth, which seemed (together with the condition of his shirt and stockings) to denote that although he had gained the confidence of his flock, he had certainly lost that of his washer-woman. After having taken a long draught of a pint of half-and-half which stood before him, he added, “There is a many savoury vessels in my congregation—reputable, pious, and prayer-full people, which pays regular for their sittings and fears the Lord.”

  “Well, I am glad of that,” ejaculated Mr. Suggett. “But, ah!” he cried, observing a thin white-haired old gentleman, with huge silver spectacles hanging half-way down his nose,—“I’m glad to see Mr. Cobbington here. How gets on the circulating library, eh—sir?”

  “Pretty well—pretty well, thank’ee,” returned the bookseller: “pretty well—considering.”

  A great many people qualify their observations and answers by the addition of the word “considering;” but they seldom vouchsafe an explanation of what is to be considered. Sometimes they use the phrase “considering all things;” and then the mind has so much to consider, that it cannot consider any one thing definitively. It would be much more straightforward and satisfactory if persons would relieve their friends of all suspense, and say boldly at once, as the case may be, “considering the execution I have got in my house;”[18] or “considering the writ that’s out against me;” or even “considering the trifling annoyance of not having a shilling in my pocket, and not knowing where to look for one.” But, somehow or another, people never will be candid now-a-days; and Talleyrand was right when he said that “language was given to man to enable him to conceal his thoughts.”

  But to continue.

  Mr. Suggett glanced a little further around the room, and recognized another old acquaintance.

  “Ah! Snoggles, how are you?”

  “Very well, thank’ee—how be you?”

  “Blooming; but how come you here?”

  “I dropped in quite permiscuously,” answered Snoggles, “and finding good company, stayed. But it is up’ards o’ three years since I see you, Mr. Suggett.”

  “About. What grade do you now fill in the profession? Any promotion?”

  “I’m sorry to say not,” replied Mr. Snoggles, shaking his head mournfully. “I’ve tumbled off the box down to a level with the osses;” which, being interpreted, means that Mr. Snoggles had fallen from the high estate of coachman to the less elevated rank of ostler. “But what rank do you now hold?”

  “I left off the uniform of tiger last month,” answered Mr. Suggett, “and received the brevet of walley-de-chambre.”

  “That gentleman one of the profession?” demanded Snoggles, alluding to Mr. Whittingham.

  “Mr. Markham’s butler, sir, at your service,” said Whittingham, bowing with awe-inspiring stiffness: “and I may say, without exaggerating, sir, and in no wise compromising my indefatigable character for weracity, that I’m also Mr. Markham’s confidential friend. And what’s more, gen’leman,” added the butler, glancing proudly around the room. “Mr. Richard Markham is the finest young man about this stupendous city of the whole universe—and that’s as true as that this is a hand.”

  As Mr. Whittingham concluded this sentence, he extended his arm to display the hand relative to which he expressed such confidence; and while he flourished the arm to give weight to his language, the aforesaid hand encountered the right eye of the dissenting parson.

  “A case of assault and battery,” instantly exclaimed Mr. Mac Chizzle, the lawyer; “and here are upwards of a dozen witnesses for the plaintiff.”

  “I really beg the gentleman’s pardon,” said Whittingham.

  “Special jury—sittings after term—damages five hundred pounds,” exclaimed Mac Chizzle.

  “No harm was intended,” observed Suggett.

  “Not a bit,” added Snoggles.

  “Verdict for Plaintiff—enter up judgment—issue execution—ca. sa.[19] in no time,” said Mac Chizzle doggedly.

  “I am used to flagellations and persecutions at the hands of the ungodly,” said the Reverend Mr. Drummer, rubbing his eye with his fist, and thereby succeeding in inflaming it.

  “Perhaps the reverend gentleman wouldn’t take it amiss if I was to offer him my apologies in a extra powerful glass of brandy and water?” exclaimed Whittingham.

  “Bribery,” murmured Mac Chizzle.

  “No, let us have a bowl of punch at once,” exclaimed Suggett.

  “And corruption,” added the lawyer.

  The bowl of punch was ordered, and the company was invited to partake of it. Even Mr. Mac Chizzle did not hesitate; and the dissenting minister, in order to convince Mr. Whittingham that he entirely forgave him, consented to partake of the punch so often that he at length began slapping Mr. Whittingham upon the back, and declaring that he was the best fellow in the world.

  The conversation became general; and some of it is worth recording.

  “I hope to have your patronage, sir, for my circulating library,” said Mr. Cobbington to the butler.

  “Depends, sir, upon the specified nature of the books it contains,” was the reply.

  “I have nothing but moral romances in which vice is always punished and virtue rewarded.”

  “That conduct of yours is highly credulous to you.”

  “All books is trash, except one,” observed Mr. Drummer, winking his eyes in an extraordinary manner. “They teaches naught but swearing, lewd conversation, ungodliness, and that worst of all vices—intemperance.”

  “I beg you to understand, sir,” exclaimed Mr. Guffins, who had hitherto remained a silent spectator of the proceedings, although a persevering partaker of the punch; “I beg you to understand, Mr. Drummer, my works, sir, are not the trash you seem to allude to.”

  “I won’t understand nothing nor nobody,” answered the reverend gentleman, swaying backwards and forwards in his chair. “Leave me to commune with myself upon the vanities of this wicked world, and—and—drink my punch in quiet.”

  “Humbug!” exclaimed the literary man, swallowing his resentment and the remainder of his punch simultaneously.

  “Ah!” said the bookseller, after a pause; “nothing now succeeds unless it’s in the comic line. We have comic Latin grammars, and comic Greek grammars; indeed, I don’t know but what English grammar, too, is a comedy altogether. All our tragedies are made into comedies by the way they are performed; and no work sells without comic illustrations to it. I have brought out several new comic works, which have been very successful. For instance, ‘The Comic Wealth of Nations;’ ‘The Comic Parliamentary Speeches;’ ‘The Comic Report of the Poor-Law Commissioners,’ with an Appendix containing the ‘Comic Dietary Scale;’ and the ‘Comic Distresses of the Industrious Population.’ I even propose to bring out a ‘Comic Whole Duty of Man.’ All these books sell well: they do admirably for the nurseries of the children of the aristocracy. In fact they are as good as manuals and text-books.”

  “This rage for the comic is most unexpressedly remarkable,” observed the butler.

  “It is indeed!” ejaculated Snoggles; and, in order to illustrate the truth of the statement, he jerked a piece of lemon-peel very cleverly into the dissenting parson’s left eye.

  “That’s right—stone me to death!” murmured the reverend gentleman. “My name is Stephen—and it is all for righteousness’ sake! I know I’m a chosen vessel, and may become a martyr. My name is Stephen, I tell you—Stephen Drum—um—ummer!”

  He then began an eulogium upon meekness and resignation under injuries, and reiterated his conviction that he was a chose
n vessel; but, becoming suddenly excited by a horse-laugh which fell upon his ear, he forgot all about the chosen vessel, and lifted another very savagely from the table. In a word, he seized a pewter pot in his hand, and would have hurled it at Mr. Snoggles’ head, had not Mr. Whittingham stopped the dangerous missile in time, and pacified the reverend gentleman by calling for more punch.

  “We must certainly have those two men bound over to keep the peace,” said Mac Chizzle; “two sureties in fifty, and themselves in a hundred, each.”

  “I shall dress the whole scene up for one of the Monthlies,” observed Mr. Guffins.