CHAPTER XV. LIFE IN LONDON.
“A plague upon this London! I shall have no luck in it.”
“Your town’s a damned good-for-nothing town,
I wish Î never had come into it.”
The West indian.
In one of those half-forgotten modes of transport, a sailing packet, denominated the Eclipse, I departed from the Pigeon House, and with a fair and steady breeze landed at Holyhead, after a short passage of nine hours. In those days this feat was accounted respectable; for in their transits from the emerald isle to the land of shopkeepers, it was no uncommon circumstance for ill-starred gentlemen to pass so many days and nights at sea, as to induce a belief that, in mistake, they had booked themselves in the Flying Dutchman, and consequently, had the pleasing prospect of sailing to eternity. I was still further fortunate in securing a seat in the London mail. In due time I reached the modern Babylon, transferred my person and effects from the White Horse Cellar to a Bond-street hotel, and there, for a limited period, established my household gods.
At this memorable epoch of my history, my first visit to the great metropolis, life in London was very different to what it is at present. Theatres were frequented by the upper classes, and Vauxhall was in all its glory. An English singer was then listened to; it was not considered disreputable to keep a native servant; and without loss of caste, a lady might submit her head to the curling irons of an artiste, who had been actually born and indoctrinated within sound of Bow bell. The clubs were few and exclusive. People resided in lodgings and hotels adapted to their ranks and pockets; in their mode of life a gentlemanly consistency was maintained: and a man who in noontide was the occupant of an edifice, erected with the costly expense formerly bestowed upon a palace, would not, on an alarm of fire at midnight, have been unkennelled from the back attic of a stay-maker, tenanted for the moderate consideration of three shillings and sixpence, “paid weekly and in advance.” Indeed, a sort of John Bullish principle pervaded society at large. If men staked large sums on questionable events, it was generally expected that they would pay, should their speculations prove unfortunate. The guards were frequently relieved to music not Rossini’s. Tailors who had never seen the Palais Royale, received instructions in bookkeeping from divers of the nobility; and a bootmaker—tell it not in Gath—was considered absolutely fashionable, albeit the unhappy man was afflicted with the desperate patronymic of O’Shaughnessy.
Indeed, at this period of English history, when young and old France were about to retire before Lord Wellington, the tone of society was anti-continental. The aristocracy conversed in their native tongue; meats, as Heaven sent them, might be seen frequently at the table of a peer; and there was a vulgar prejudice against being poisoned, even though the artiste were warranted true Parisien. Saltations, happily unremembered, but bearing as it is believed, a distant affinity to the vulgar affair now termed contre-danse, were extensively perpetrated; and persons engaged in the same, instead of being elegantly paralytic, moved as if their limbs were controllable. Then, the refinement of the valse was undiscovered; and if a cavalier ventured to clasp a lady in his arms—Lombard-street to a China orange!—he would have been kicked by husband, father, or brother, out of the room incontinently.
Assisted by my father’s letter, the great object of my journey was happily accomplished. Within three weeks the exchange I sought for was effected; and I was in due form gazetted to a lieutenancy in an old regiment cantoned for the winter on the Agueda.
At the time I visited the capital, the position a stranger held in society was generally estimated by the quarter he inhabited; and before I started from Dublin, I took counsel touching “the whereabouts” of a suitable abode. Mr. Pryme recommended some place with a “man’s head,” in a lane near Crutched Friars; while Captain Forester, a castle aid-de-camp, denounced the same, declaring it to be only a place fit for a bagman, and recommended Long’s or Stevens’s. Well! it was seventeen years since Mr. Pryme had been in town, and probably Crutched Friars was not as fashionable now as it might have been formerly. Captain Forester infested London every season, and consequently Captain Forester must be right. To Bond-street accordingly I drove. Alas, how blindly people speculate upon events! Had I driven to the “man’s head” in Crutched Friars, I should have been safer by a hundred—“and no mistake.”
The intervals between my visits to the Horse Guards were occupied in exploring the capital from Tyburn Turnpike to Tower Hill; and by singular good fortune, I formed an acquaintance with a gentleman to whom London and all its wonders were familiar. He kindly undertook to play bear-leader for the nonce and under the guidance of Colonel Santonier, I traversed “the mighty mass of brick, and stone, and mortar,” even from Dan to Beersheba.
The Colonel was an emigrant who, for political opinions, had been exiled from “la belle France.” He was a royalist connected with half the nobility of the ancient regime, his address was good, his disposition plastic and companionable. He had seen the world extensively, and therefore was the better qualified to introduce a neophyte like me upon the stage of life. On quitting his native country he had been accompanied by his sister. She was young, pretty, and accomplished; and, as the Colonel declared, “the most artless being in the world.” I never saw relatives more attached. They never met or parted without a kiss; and yet, one thing struck me as remarkable, there was not the slightest family likeness between them.
Is it surprising that an acquaintance so valuable and agreeable, ripened into a friendship of such ardour that Damon and Pythias might have been jealous? Most of my time was spent in the society of the Colonel and his fair sister; and as I had jobbed a buggy, sometimes I drove my friend about town, or exhibited Mademoiselle Adelaide in Rotten Row. Santonier had few acquaintances, and when I had Madame by my side, I often remarked that very impudent looks were directed towards the lady. Once, too, when we were brought to a dead halt by the break-down of a coal-waggon, I heard a fashionable scoundrel observe to his companion as they passed—“Lord, Frank, what a flat that spoon is!” Flat!—spoon! Hang it,—neither term surely could apply to me!
I think, had it lasted only another week, our friendship would have been registered in heaven. We dined here and there, made short excursions out of town, our amicable arrangements were perfect—for Monsieur Santonier placed such implicit confidence in my honour and discretion, that Adelaide was considered in perfect security when with me. She, sweet girl, was so inartificial that she even owned she felt herself minus a heart,—and had I been consigned to the gallows, I verily believe the Colonel would have borne me company, and requested to be accommodated with another rope.
It was probably a delicate sensitiveness respecting Adelaide, which made Santonier so very particular as to those who should be admitted to his house. With one exception, I was an exclusive visitor; for in Jermyn-street I never met any person but a nice old gentleman with green spectacles and a bald head, called the Baron Francheti; and every night he added himself to the party. We had coffee, played cards, and Adelaide was my partner, although, sweet girl, I was literally her ruin. I held bad hands, introduced spades when I should lead diamonds, of course we always lost, Adelaide never murmured, but handed the money to the Baron without a reflection on my unskilful play. What could I do? Nothing but present an indemnity in the morning; and she graciously approved the taste of my selection, and condescended to accept the offering.
On the day I was gazetted, in company with some other aspirants for military glory, we dined together to celebrate our promotion, and, as became soldiers of promise, got drunk afterwards. Some managed to reach their hotels, some stopped short in divers watch-houses; while I, under the guidance of the star of love, headed my course instinctively to my lady’s bower in Jermyn-street. As usual, the family party were at home. We played; for I remember something about overturning a lamp upon the card cloth. In a short time I dropped off the chair, was trundled home in a coach, put to bed, and remained in deep repose, until daylight and a thundering head-ache brought their pleasant reminiscences. I looked to the table: no property was there, except a couple of shillings and an empty note-case. Before I had gone to dinner, I changed my last fifty, and stocked my pocket-book with the produce. A pleasant position! Out of two hundred pounds advanced me by the Quaker, not a sous left, and the hotel bill and half my appointments still unpaid!
I never had known a pecuniary difficulty before. What was to be done? In London, and without a guinea! Should I write to my father, and tell him that before I had been three months upon the world, I had despised his admonitions, contracted debts, and gambled away the means given me to discharge them? I had only to own the truth, and I should be immediately relieved—but to me, how bitter would be the humiliation—to him, how painful the disclosure! Hours passed: I cursed my folly; but still I could devise no plan to remedy it; and my brain was teeming with wild expedients, when a tap was heard at the door, and in glided my London Palinurus, the Colonel. In his look there was nothing consolatory, for the expression of his countenance was gloomy, as if he had been “performing” at a funeral. He sate down at my bed-side, took my hand in his, looked unutterable things, and then, in a broken voice, inquired tenderly after his “dear friend’s health.”
“My health, Colonel, is not affected, beyond a drunken head-ache; but on my conduct I cannot look back without self-reproach and shame.”
The brother of Adelaide shrugged his shoulders to his ears, and then delivered himself of a speech, which seemed intended rather to be exculpatory of himself, than consolatory to me. According to his account, I would play madly on, Adelaide in despair quitted the room, he remonstrated—all to no purpose; for the demon of play had entered into me, and play I would. I lost the contents of my pocket-book, and “the leetle note of hand to the Baron.”
“Note of hand to the Baron!” I exclaimed, springing bolt upright in the bed.
It was absolutely true; for a billet was brought me at the moment by the waiter, in which the nice old gentleman affectionately requested “to know how I had rested the preceding night, with a casual inquiry at what bank my note for £120 should be presented?”
‘For a time I could not believe the evidence of my eyes, but read the Baron’s billet again and again. At last, I began to fancy I had been duped. In a moment, a flood of light poured upon my mind, a thousand trifles were recollected, and my worst suspicions were confirmed.
The Colonel remarked a change of countenance that threatened an explosion, and, pleading a forgotten engagement, he took a hurried leave.
I rose, dressed, wrote twenty letters, and tore them; then ordered my gig, drove down two streets, and returned. I passed a miserable day—ate no dinner—drank brandy and water extensively; and retired to a private room, in a frame of mind which a demon might find pity for, to write letters. Write letters! Pshaw! merely blot paper.
Twilight fell—my brain was half on fire—I rejected candles—the gloom of evening was best suited for the bitter musings of a mind like mine. I gazed from the window, objects passed, but I saw none of them. I heard the door open—a figure stood beside me. I looked carelessly up—it was Adelaide. In thought I was connecting her agency with the villany of her brother and the Baron—proofs against her appeared strong, and I had set her down a guilty thing. No wonder that I received her coldly; and my frigid civility semed to wound her more than actual rudeness.
“You are changed,” said the Colonel’s sister: “had I visited you once, my reception would have been very different.”
“It might,” I said, coldly. “I did not then believe that the Colonel was a scoundrel, the Baron a rogue, and yourself—”
“What?” she inquired.
“Why—a very convenient associate.”
“I can remain here but a few minutes. The errand is urgent—the time short.” She took a small packet from her bosom, where it had been concealed, laid it on the table, and then proceeded. “To a certain extent, I admit your charges. The statement of your being-plundered is correct, and the description of the plunderers is true; the Colonel was a fencing-master first, a cheat and thief afterwards. The Baron, I believe, a swindler from his cradle. Of me—ask not what I was—know what I am—a fallen woman—one who, in the common course of crime, has sunk by degrees, and at last, at twenty-one, become the confederate of thieves and ruffians. Oh Heaven! if women only knew what fearful penalties hang upon one lapse from virtue, how few would fall!”
She wept. The tears were irresistible.
“Adelaide,” I said, “you must forgive me. I have been severe—my losses have annoyed me. What is that parcel you desire me to take?”
“Your watch—I purloined it.”
“Good Heaven! impossible!”
“No, no, O’Halloran—it was only to secure it. Hear me—a few minutes, and we part for ever. I am a woman—a lost one—but still my heart is not altogether callous. I saw you—you were young and unsuspicious, and became an easy victim. I watched the course of spoliation—you imagined that I lost money, and generously made me a recompense. Am I forgiven?” she added. “And must I leave thee?”
“Not on my account, I trust,” responded a voice, deep as that of Lablache, at our elbow.
We started—Adelaide hurried from the room—I remained, so did the stranger—Mr. Hartley!