O Tom, Tom! don't ask me, and don't look at me so, Tom. I've been a good wife to you; don't ask me to do such a thing, Tom; don't."

Her husband pauses for a moment, as though nerving himself for a strong effort, and answers, speaking every word distinctly, and as if in acute physical pain--

"Then it must come out, wife; you must know it all, sooner or later; and why not now? Rachel, _I'm wanted_--they're looking for me, the bloodhounds--it's my belief they were after me this very morning. If I don't cross the seas on my own account, the beaks will send me fast enough on theirs."

"O Tom, Tom! what have you done?" interrupts his wife, clasping her hands, and straining her eyes, dilated with horror, upon her husband's working features. "It's not---- Tom, I can't bring myself to say it.

You haven't lifted your hand against another?"

"No, no, Rachel," says he; "not so bad as that, la.s.s, not so bad as that; but it's fourteen years, anyhow, if they bring it home to me.

_I_ must cut and run, whatever happens. Now, there's some men would be off single-handed, and never stop to say good-bye; but I'm not one of that sort. I couldn't bear to leave you and the child; and I won't neither. Rachel, do you mind the time when we sat on the beach at St.

Swithin's, and what you said to me there? Well, dear, that's past and gone, now; but you're not changed, anyhow. Will you do it, Rachel, for _my sake_?"

The poor woman wavers more and more; she is white as a sheet, and the perspiration stands in beads on her lip and forehead. Tom produces a pen and ink, and a certain doc.u.ment we recognise as having lain in Mrs. Kettering's writing-case the night she died at St. Swithin's. But his wife shrinks from the pen as from a serpent, and he has to force it into her fingers.

"It's the _last time_, Rachel," he pleads; "I'll never ask you to do such a thing again. It's the _last time_ I'll do wrong myself, as I stand here. It's but a word, and it will be the saving of us both; ay, and the little one yonder, too--think what she'd be growing up to, in such a place as this. You sign, dear, and I'll witness--I can write my own name, and my old master's too; he's dead and gone now, but he didn't teach me law for nothing."

She does not hear him; her whole being is absorbed in the contemplation of her crime. But she _does it_. Pale, scared, and breathless, she leans over the coa.r.s.e deal table; and though the dazzling sheet is dancing beneath her eyes, and her hands are icy cold, and her frame shakes like a leaf, every letter grows distinct and careful beneath her fingers, and burns itself into her brain, the very facsimile of her old mistress's signature. The clock strikes eleven; and at the first clang she starts with the throb of newly-awakened guilt, and drops the pen from her failing grasp. But the deed is done. From that hour the once respectable woman is a felon; and she feels it. To-morrow morning, for the first time in her life, she will awake with the leaden, stupefying, soul-oppressive weight of actual law-breaking guilt; and from this night she will never sleep as soundly again.

Tom prided himself, above all things, on being "up to trap," as he expressed it. He thought his own cunning more than a match for all the difficulties of his situation and the vengeance of the law. He was considered "a knowing hand" amongst his disreputable a.s.sociates, and had the character of a man who was safe to keep his own neck out of the noose, whatever became of his comrades'. But, though a bold schemer, he was a very coward in action, and his nerves were now so shattered by hard drinking that he was almost afraid of his own shadow. A bad conscience is always the worst of company, but to a man not naturally brave it is a continual bugbear--a fiend that dogs his victim, sleeping or waking--sits with him at his meals, pledges him in his cups, and grins at him on his pillow. Tom possessed this familiar to perfection. Like all "suspected persons," he conceived his movements to be of more importance in the eyes of Justice than they really were; and although the "hocussing" and robbery of Hairblower richly deserved condign punishment, he was suffering from causeless alarm when he informed his wife that he was "wanted" on that score.

The truth is, the police were on a wrong scent. The landlord either could not, or would not, give them any actual information as to his guests; he "remembered the circ.u.mstance of the gentleman being taken ill--did not know the parties with whom he was drinking--thought they were friends of the gentleman--the parties paid for their liquor, and went away, leaving the other party asleep--it was no business of his--had never been in trouble before, he could swear--commiserated the party who had got drunk, and gave him half-a-crown out of sheer humanity--had known what it was to want half-a-crown himself, and to get drunk too--was doing an honest business now, and thought publicans could not be too particular." So the blue-coated myrmidons of Scotland Yard got but little information from Boniface; and for once were completely at fault, more especially as Hairblower, _more suorum_, did not know the number of the note he had lost--could swear it was for five pounds, but was not quite clear as to its being Bank of England.

Under these circ.u.mstances, Tom, had he only known it, might have walked abroad in the light of day, and put in immediate practice any schemes he had on hand. Instead of this he chose to lie in hiding, and only emerged in the evening, to take his indispensable stimulants at one or other of the low haunts which he frequented. Men cannot live without society; the most depraved must have friends, or such as they deem friends, on whom to repose their trust; and Tom Blacke, in an unguarded moment of gin and confidence, let out the whole story of the will (though he was cunning enough to omit the forgery) and boasted what an engine he could make of it to extort money from Miss Blanche's guardian, and how he was certain of getting _at least_ a hundred pounds, and detailed the proposed plan of emigration, and, in short, explained the general tenor of his future life and present fortunes to Mr. Fibbes; of all which matters, though by no means a gentleman of acute perception, that worthy did by degrees arrive at the meaning, quickening his intellects the while with many pipes and a prodigious quant.i.ty of beer. Now, Mr. Fibbes had been concerned in his earlier youth in a business from which his size and his stupidity had gradually emanc.i.p.ated him, but which, compared with his present trade, might almost be called an innocent and virtuous calling. It consisted in ascertaining by diligent and clandestine vigilance the relative merits of race-horses as demonstrated by their _private trials_, and is termed in the vernacular "touting." What may be the _moral_ guilt of such forbidden peeps we are not sufficient casuists to explain, but it is scarcely considered amongst the least particular cla.s.ses a _respectable_ way of obtaining a livelihood. Nor did the a.s.sociation gain additional l.u.s.tre from the adhesion of Mr. Fibbes, who, until his great frame grew too large to be concealed, and his hard head too obtuse to make the best of his information, was the most presuming, as he was least to be depended on, of the whole brotherhood. In this capacity, however, he had made the acquaintance of Major D'Orville, a man who liked to have tools ready to his hand for whatever purpose he had in view; and Mr. Fibbes had been careful to keep up the connection, by respectful bows whenever they met in the streets, or at races, or such gatherings as bring together sporting gentlemen of all ranks. On these occasions Mr. Fibbes would make tender inquiries after the Major's health, and his luck on the turf, and the well-being of his white charger, and sundry other ingratiating topics; or would inform him confidentially of certain rats in his possession which could be produced at half-an-hour's notice, without fail--of terriers, almost imperceptible in weight, which could be backed to kill the rats aforesaid in an incredibly short s.p.a.ce of time--of toy-dogs surpa.s.sing in beauty and discreet in behaviour--or of the pending match against time which "The Copenhagen Antelope" meant to _square_ by running _a cross_, or, in other words, losing it on purpose to play booty. Primed with such conversation he amused the Major, who liked to study human nature in all its phases, and they seldom met without a lengthened dialogue and the transfer of a half-crown from the warrior's pocket into Mr. Fibbes' hand; the latter accordingly lost no opportunity of coming across his generous patron.

Now, Mr. Fibbes had observed, by hanging about Grosvenor Square and making use of his early education, that Major D'Orville was a constant visitant at a certain house in that locality; indeed, on more than one occasion he had held the white horse at the very door which was honoured by the egress and ingress of Blanche Kettering herself. We may be sure he lost no time in discovering the name of the owner, and mastering such particulars of her fortune, position, general habits, and appearance as were attainable through the all-powerful influence of beer; so when Tom Blacke made his ill-advised confidences to his boon companion, omitting neither names, facts, nor dates, Mr. Fibbes, who, to use his own words, was "not such a fool as he looked," put _that_ and _that_ together quite satisfactorily enough, to be sure he had some information well worth a good round douceur, for the ear of his friend the Major. And he waylaid him in consequence, the first sunshiny afternoon on which, according to his wont, D'Orville appeared in the neighbourhood of his lady-love's domicile.

"Want yer horse held, Major?" said he, leaning his huge, dirty hand on the white charger's mane. "Haven't seen your honour since we won so cleverly at Hampton--no offence, Major!"

"None whatever, my good fellow," said the Major, who, by the way, was never in a hurry, though few men loved going _fast_ better; "none whatever; but I'm busy now, I've no time to stop. Good-day to you."

"Well, but, Major, see," pleaded Mr. Fibbes, still smoothing the white horse's mane, "I've got something at my place you _would_ like to look at--she's a _real_ beauty, she is--I refused five sovereigns for her this blessed mornin'; for I said, says I, no, says I, not till the Major has seen her, 'cause she _is_ a rare one--not that you care for such in a general way, Major, but if once you clapped eyes on 'Jessie,' you'd never rest till you got her down at the barracks. I never see such a one."

"Such a what?" inquired D'Orville, gradually waxing curious about such manifold perfections.

"Why, such an out-an'-outer," retorted Mr. Fibbes, half angrily; "none of your _brindles_--I can't abide a brindle--they may be good, but they look so _wulgar_. No, no, Jessie's none of your brindles."

"Well, but _what_ is she, my good fellow?" said the Major; "I can't stay here all day."

"_Bul_," replied Mr. Fibbes, throwing into the monosyllable an expression of mingled anger and contempt, which, having given the Major sufficient time to digest, he followed up by the real topic on which he was anxious to enlarge. "No offence, Major," he repeated, "but I've got something else to say--you'll excuse me, sir--but you've stood a friend to me, and I won't see you put upon. Major, there's a screw loose here--it's not _on the square_, you understand."

"What do you mean?" said the Major, amused in spite of himself, at the ungainly nods and winks with which Mr. Fibbes eked out his mysterious communication.

"Well, Major," replied his informant, "what I mean is this here. Some men would hold out in my place, and I've seen the day when my information was worth as much as my neighbours'; but when I've to do with a real gent, why, I trusts to him, and he gives _what he pleases_. Now, Major, look at that there house--it's a good house up-stairs and down, fixtures and furniture all complete, I make no doubt--Major, there's _a man of straw_ in that house." Mr. Fibbes paused, having delivered himself of this oracular piece of information; but, finding his listener less interested in the discovery of the artificial stranger than he had reason to expect, he proceeded in his own way to clear up his metaphor. "What I says is this--a bargain's a bargain; now the young woman as owns that house has got _the boot on the other leg_--my information's _good_, Major, you may depend on it; there's another horse in the stable, sir--there's a young gent as owns all the property they keep such a talk about; I won't ask ye to believe my naked word, Major" (such a request, indeed, would have been superfluous), "but what should you say if I was to tell you--I've spoke to the party as has _seen the will_?"

"Why, I should say that if you have any information that is really well-authenticated, I'll pay you fairly for it, as I always have done," replied D'Orville, unmoved as usual, though in his innermost heart a tide of doubts and hopes and fears was swelling up, in strange tumultuous confusion.

"Well, Major," whispered his informant, "as far as I can learn, for I ain't no scholar, you know--but _as_ far as I can learn, there's been a will found, and by that will the young lady as owns this here house don't own it by rights, and can't keep it much longer. There's a old gentleman as lives here, rayther a crusty old gentleman, so my mate tells _me_, and he knows _nothing_ good or bad; but it stands just as I've said, you may depend; and instead of Miss Kettering, if that's her name, being such a grand lady, why she's no better off than I am, and that's _where_ it is. My mate wouldn't deceive _me_ no more than I'm deceivin' you. Thank ye, Major, you always was a real gentleman; thank you, sir, and good-day to you. You won't come up and take a look at Jessie?" So saying, Mr. Fibbes put his dirty hand, not quite empty, however, into his pocket, and with a s.n.a.t.c.h at his rough hat, and an awkward obeisance, took his departure, his linen jacket and ankle-boots fading gradually in the direction of the nearest public-house, whither he proceeded incontinently to "wet his luck,"

after the manner of his kind.

D'Orville laid the rein on his favourite's neck, and paced along at a slow, thoughtful walk, the white horse wondering, doubtless, at his master's unusual fit of equestrian meditation. And what were the suitor's feelings as he pondered over the news he had just received, the downfall of his golden castles in the air, the blow which would surely fall heavy on that bright, happy girl, whom he had been endeavouring to attach to himself day by day? Did he mourn over his withered hopes of wealth and ease? did he regret the melting of the vision, and pine for the domestic future, now impossible, which he had contemplated so often of late? or did he chivalrously resolve to give his hand to a penniless bride where he had been wooing a wealthy heiress, and to love her even more in her misfortunes than he had admired her in her prosperity? Alas! far from it. Some fifteen years ago, indeed, young Gaston D'Orville would have sacrificed his all to a woman, almost to any woman, and been well pleased to throw his heart into the bargain; but fifteen years of the world have more effect on the inner than the outward man, and the boy of five-and-twenty thinks that a glory and a romance which the man who is getting on for forty deems a folly and a bore. The Major was not prepared to give up _everything_, at least for _Blanche_, and his first sensations were those of relief, almost of satisfaction, as he thought he was again free--for of course this arrangement couldn't go on; it would be madness to talk of it now: no, he would make his bow while it was yet time: how lucky he had never positively committed himself: n.o.body could say _he_ had behaved ill. Of course he would take proper measures to ascertain the truth of that rascal's report; and if it had foundation, why, he was once again at liberty. He had his sword and his debts, but India was open to him, as it had been before, and a vision stole over him (the hardened man of the world could scarce repress a smile at his own folly)--a vision stole over him of military distinction, active service, a return to England--and Mary Delaval. So the Major drew his rein through his fingers, pressed his good horse's sides, and cantered off, but did not, _that_ afternoon, pay his usual visit in Grosvenor Square.

CHAPTER XVII

CLUB LAW

A VALID EXCUSE--AN ANONYMOUS LETTER--A RECIPE FOR ANNOYANCES--THE GENERAL ON THE PAVE--SECOND CHILDHOOD--RUNNING THE GAUNTLET--A SUIT OF CLUBS--SETTLED AT LAST--THE FRIEND IN NEED

"Who the deuce ever heard of 'military duty' interfering with dinner?

and what's the use of being one's own commanding-officer if one can't give oneself leave?--What?--read that, Blanche!" We need hardly observe that it was General Bounce who spoke, as he tossed a note across the luncheon-table to his niece, and proceeded to bury himself in his other dispatches. The General was none of your dawdling, half-torpid, dressing-gown and slipper gentlemen, who consider London a fit place in which to spend the greater part of the day in _deshabille_--not a bit of it. The General was up, shaved, and rosy and breakfasted, and prepared to fuss through his day, every morning punctually at eight. On the one in question he had reviewed a battalion of Guards who were at drill in the Park, utterly unconscious of their inspection by such a martinet, and had been good enough to express his disapprobation of their dress, method, and general efficiency, to a quiet, una.s.suming bystander whom he had never set eyes on before, but who happened to be a peer of the realm, and whose son, indeed, commanded the very regiment under discussion. The peer was quite alarmed at the denunciations of a casual acquaintance, so fierce of demeanour and of such warlike costume, the General never stirring abroad, for these morning excursions, save in a military surtout, b.u.t.toned very tight, a stiff black stock and buckskin gloves, armed moreover with a bamboo walking-stick, which he brandished with great impartiality. After his strictures on the sovereign's body-guard he proceeded into the City by a hansom cab; there was no cab-rebellion in those days, but, nevertheless, Bounce succeeded in having a violent altercation with his driver, which resulted in that observer of human nature setting him down for a madman, and his own discomfiture on referring the dispute to an impartial policeman. From thence he visited his stables, and instructed divers helpers belonging to the adjoining mews in the proper method of washing a carriage, a lesson received by those worthies with much covert derision. The General was by this time ready for "tiffin," as he still called it--a meal at which, for the first time in the day, he met the ladies of his establishment, read his notes, letters, etc., and arranged with Blanche the details of the gay life they were every day leading. That young lady, in a very pretty morning-gown, now occupied the head of the table; Mary was up-stairs with a headache--she was very subject to them of late--yet a skilful pract.i.tioner might have guessed the malady lay elsewhere; and whilst the General, with his eyebrows rising into his very forehead, perused a dirty, ill-conditioned-looking missive, which seemed to afford him great astonishment, his niece glanced over her military suitor's excuse for not dining with them, in which he expressed his regret that duty and the absolute necessity of his presence in barracks would prevent his having that pleasure, but did not as usual suggest any fresh arrangements for rides, drives, or walks, which should insure him the charms of her society. Blanche was a little hurt and more than a little offended; yet, had she closely examined her own feelings, she would probably have been surprised to find how little she _really_ cared whether he came or not. "Well, Uncle Baldwin," she said, with her usual merry smile, "you and I will dine _tete-a-tete_, for I don't think poor Mrs. Delaval will be able to come down. We shall not quarrel, I fancy--shall we?" The General was dumb. His whole soul seemed absorbed in the missive which hid his face, but, judging from the red swollen forehead peeping above, indignation appeared to be the prevailing feeling inspired by its contents. It was not badly written, though in an unsteady hand, nor was it incorrectly spelt; it bore no signature, and was to the following effect--

"GENERAL BOUNCE,

"Sir,--This from a friend.--Seeing that you would probably be averse to an exposure of family matters, in which Miss Blanche's name must necessarily appear, a well-wisher sends these few lines to warn you that _all has been discovered_.

The late Mrs. K.'s will has been found, in which she devises everything, with the exception of certain legacies, to C----.

The writer has seen it, and knows where it is to be found. His own interests prompt him to make _everything_ public, but his regard for the family would induce him to listen to terms, could he himself be guaranteed from loss. General, time is everything: to-morrow may be too late. If you should be unwilling to disturb muddy water, an advertis.e.m.e.nt to X. Y., in the second column of the _Times_, or a line addressed to P.

Q., care of Mr. John Stripes, Bear and Bagpipes, corner of Goat Street, Tiler's Road, Lambeth, would meet with prompt attention. Be wise."

We regret to state that the General's exclamation, on arriving at the conclusion of this mysterious doc.u.ment, was of a profane fervour, inexcusable under any provocation, and very properly amenable to a fine of five shillings by the laws of this well-regulated country. It was repeated, moreover, oftener than once; and without deigning to explain to his astonished niece the cause of his evident discomposure, was followed by his immediate departure to his own private snuggery--by the way, the very worst and darkest room in the house, whither our discomfited warrior made a tremulous retreat, banging every door after him with a shock that caused the very window-frames to quiver again.

"Zounds! I won't believe it!--it's impossible--it's a forgery--it's a lie--it's an artifice of the devil! Why, it's written in a clerk's hand. 'Gad, if I thought there was a word of truth in it, I'd go to bed for a month!" burst out the General, as soon as he was safe in his own sanctuary, choking with pa.s.sion, and tugging at the black stock and tight frock-coat as if to put his threat of retiring into immediate execution. It was one of his peculiarities, which we have omitted to mention, to adopt this method of avoiding the common annoyances and irritations of life. When anything went wrong in the household, the General made no more ado but incontinently proceeded to _strip and turn in_. When there was an _emeute_ below stairs, and Newton-Hollows was in a "state of siege"--a calamity which occurred about once in two years--the proprietor used to go to bed till the disturbance had completely blown over. When the news arrived of Mrs.

Kettering's death, her brother gave vent to his feelings between the sheets, although he was obliged to get up within a few hours and travel post-haste to join the afflicted family at St. Swithin's; nay, it is related of him that, on one occasion, when an alarming fire happened to break out in a country-house where he was staying on a visit, nothing but the personal exertions of his friends, who hurried after him, and carried him off by force from his chamber, where he was rapidly undressing, prevented his being burnt alive in his nightcap.

At the present crisis the General had already divested himself of coat, waistcoat, etc., ere the sight of a clean change of apparel, laid out ready for his afternoon wear, altered the current of his ideas, and he bethought him that it would be wiser to walk down to his club, amuse himself as usual in his habitual resorts, and thus drive this impertinent "attempt at extortion," for so he did not hesitate to call it, entirely from his mind, than place himself at once _hors de combat_ amongst the blankets. So, instead of his night-gear, the General struggled into a stiffer black stock and a tighter frock-coat even than those which he had discarded, and arming himself with his formidable bamboo (how he wished the head and shoulders of his unknown correspondent were within its range), strutted off to Noodles', feeling, as he c.o.c.ked his chin up, and threw his chest out, and struck his cane against the sunny pavement, that he was still young and _debonnaire_, as in the _beaux jours_ at Cheltenham twenty, ay, thirty years ago.

No place makes a man forget his years so much as London. In the great city, one unit of that circling population rapidly loses his individuality. There nothing seems extraordinary--nothing seems out of the common course of events--there, it is proverbial, people of all pretensions immediately find their own level. If a man thinks he is wiser, or better, or cleverer, or handsomer, or stronger, or more famous than his neighbours, in London he will be sure to meet those who can equal, if not excel him, in all for which he gives himself credit; and so if an elderly gentleman begins to feel at his country-place that all around him speaks of maturity, not to say decay--that his young trees, and his old buildings, and his missing contemporaries, and the boy to whom he gave apples standing for the county, and the village he remembers a hamlet growing into a town, and all such progressive arrangements of Father Time, hint rather personally at old-fellowhood--let him come to London, and take his diversion amongst a crowd of fools more ancient than himself: he will feel a boy again--Regent Street will not appear altered to his enchanted eye, though they _have_ taken down the colonnade in that well-remembered thoroughfare. Pall Mall is as much Pall Mall to him as it was when he trod it in considerably tighter boots, never mind how many years ago. At his club the same waiter (waiters never die) will bring him the paper, and stir the fire for him, just as he used to do when the Reform Bill was a thing unheard of, and he can contemplate his bald head in the very same mirror that once reflected locks of Hyacinthine cl.u.s.ter. He meets an old crony, and he is shocked (though but for the moment) to find him so dreadfully altered--it is possible the old crony, in his heart of hearts, may return the compliment, but in all human probability he will greet the friend of his boyhood as if he had seen him the day before yesterday. If a very demonstrative man, and it should be before two o'clock in the day--for in the afternoon our English manners are all squared to the same pattern--the old crony may perhaps exclaim, with languid rapture, "Why, I haven't seen you _for ages_; I don't think you were in London _all_ last season!" Why should our gentleman from the country undeceive him, and tell him they have not met for more than twenty years, and remind him with mellowing heart of boyhood's sunny hours and joyous escapades? The old crony will only think him _a twaddle_ and _a bore_, and thank his stars that he has stuck to London and the world, and his G.o.ds, such as they are, and is a much _younger_ man of his age than his rustic friend. And so our country mouse will find in a day or two that the artificial sits quite as easily upon _him_. When he has visited two or three of his old haunts he will feel as if he had never left them. He will go, perhaps, to some well-remembered palace of revelry, and find there, it may be, one contemporary out of a hundred with whom he once drank deep of dissipation and amus.e.m.e.nt, but he forgets the other ninety-nine. He feels as if the world had gone along with him, and that threescore years and odd were, after all, as the French king's courtiers said, _L'age de tout le monde_; so he lifts the cup of pleasure once more with shaking hands to his poor, dry old lips, and pours its flood, erst so luscious, over a palate, alas! deadened to all but the intoxication of the draught. Why is it that we so sedulously strive to deceive ourselves about the lapse of time? Why do we so wilfully close our eyes to that certainty that every pa.s.sing moment brings an instant nearer? It must come! Why will we not look the shape steadily in the face? We are not afraid to front our fellow-man in the struggle for life and death; why should we shrink from the shadowy foe, from whom there is no escape? Perhaps, like all other distant horrors, it will lose half its terrors when it does approach--perhaps it will turn out a friend after all. Man lives in the future; can he not carry his future a little beyond life? Will it be such a bereavement to lose a poor, old, worn-out frame, with its gout and its rheumatism, and its hundred aches and pains, and burdens dragging it day by day towards the earth from whence it sprung? But where will the disembodied self find shelter? "Ay, there's the rub,"

and so "conscience doth make cowards of us all."

Well, young or old, boys will be boys, whether at one score or three, and all the sermonising in the world will not empty St. James's Street towards four o'clock on a summer's afternoon, or prevent one nose being flattened against those club-windows from which the _terrarum_ _domini_ of the present day look upon the world with a mixture of good-humoured satire and careless contempt. Stoics are they in manners and principles, Epicureans in tastes and practice, and Philosophers of the Porch on the clear bright evenings--or rather midnights--when they a.s.semble to smoke in gossiping brotherhood. But now, in the afternoon, laws human and divine would vote it "bad style" to have anything in their mouths save the tops of their canes and riding-whips, and these are scarcely removed to make a pa.s.sing remark on the unconscious General as, having accomplished the crossing of Piccadilly, he sweeps under the guns of battery No 1, on his way to his own resort, where he too will stand at a window and make comments on the pa.s.sers-by.

Talking of these batteries, we can recollect, old as we are, when we preferred to thread the press of Piccadilly, and so dodging down Bury Street to bring up eventually opposite Arlington Street, rather than face the ordeal of pa.s.sing under those great guns. Yet was our cab well hung and well painted, our tiger a pocket-Apollo, and our horse well-actioned and in good condition, while no one but ourselves and the dealer who sold him to us could be aware of his broken knee. What strategy wasted! What skill in charioteering thrown away! How should we then, in our shy and sensitive boyhood, have winced from the truth, that no one probably in that dreaded window would have thought it worth while to waste a single monosyllable on anything so insignificant as ourselves. Verily, _mauvaise honte_ is a contradictory foible; but of this weakness the General, like most men who have arrived at his time of life, has but a small leaven. He toddles boldly down, under the battery, masked as it is by the _Times_ newspaper, and nods familiarly to a well-brushed hat and luxuriant pair of grey whiskers just peering above the broadsheet. The whiskers return the salutation, and a stout gentleman at the fireplace, where he has been standing for the last three-quarters of an hour, hatted, gloved, and umbrellaed, as though prepared for instant departure, carelessly remarks, "Old Bounce is getting devilish shaky;" to which the grey whiskers reply, "No wonder; he's an oldish fellow now. Why, Bounce'll be a lieutenant-general next brevet. By the by, when _are_ we to have a brevet?" the whiskers forgetting, as after the lapse of so many years it is natural they should, that they were at school with "the oldish fellow," who was then a "younger fellow" than themselves.

However, they have talked about him quite long enough, and pa.s.s on to a fresh topic by the time the General himself arrives at Noodles'.

This very excellent and exclusive club seems to bear to inst.i.tutions of a like nature much the same relation that Greenwich and Chelsea Hospitals do to the crews and battalions of our forces by land and sea. Should the warrior who enlists under the banner of Fashion have the good fortune to escape the various casualties common in his profession, such as absenteeism, imprisonment, marriage, or any other sort of ruin, he is pretty safe to anchor at Noodles' at last. There he brings up, after all his perils and all his triumphs, amongst a shattered remnant of those who set sail with him in the morning of life, when every wind was fair and every channel practicable. Many have been lured by the siren on to sunken rocks, and gone down "all standing"--many have lost their reckoning and drifted clean away, till they can "fetch up" no more--many have been captured by crafts trim and flaunting as themselves, and towed away as prizes into different havens, where they ride in somewhat wearisome monotony--and of many there is no account, save that which shall be rendered when the sea gives up its dead. Yet a few crazy old barks have made the haven at last--worn, leaky, and sea-worthless, with bulging ribs and warped spars, and tackle strained, yet are they still just buoyant enough to float--can still drift with the tide, and, above all, are still disposed to take in cargo on every available opportunity. As London is now const.i.tuted, you can almost tell a man's age by the clubs he frequents. "Tell me your a.s.sociates, and I will tell you your character," says the ancient philosopher. "Tell me your club, and I will tell you your age," says the modern "ingenious youth," as that sporting Falstaff Mr. Jorrocks calls him, who begins with huge cigars, gin and soda-water, and billiards, much bemused, at Trappe's. Anon, as his collars get higher, and the down upon his cheek begins to justify a n.o.bler ambition, he aspires to the science of numbers, and lays the odds to more experienced calculators at "The Short-Gra.s.s." But our youth is becoming a man-about-town, or thinks he is, and must have the _entree_ to more than one of these luxurious republics; so according to his rank, his profession, or his pretensions, he affects another afternoon club, esteeming it, whichever it may be, the best and _most select_ in London. Here he has a plentiful choice. If a professional or a politician, he will find a.s.sociations purposely established for those of his own practice or opinions; and here they are looming like a city of palaces--the Conflagrative, the Anarchic, the Regency, the Hat-and-Umbrella, the Chelsea, and the Peace and Plenty. Is there not the Megatherium for the literary, and the Munchausen for the travelled? But peradventure our youth is fast, and aspires to be a man of figure; so shall his carriage be seen waiting at the G.o.diva, or himself shall face the ballot at Blight's. For a time all goes on smooth and sunny; but the young ones keep growing up, and they rather jostle him in his chair, and "people let in such boys now-a-days"; so in disgust he abdicates a sovereignty conferred by years, and retreats to quieter resorts, where the cutlet is equally well dressed and the wine a thought better. So we find him presiding over house-dinners at Alfred's, or winning the odd trick after a quiet _parti carre_ at Snookes's. But even from these celestial seats he must be ousted at last. Still that pressure from below keeps increasing year by year, "and the young men of the present day are so slangy, and so noisy, and so disagreeable," that he can stand it no longer, and puts his name down for the first vacancy in that last refuge recommended by his old friend Sapless. Behold him at length shouldered into the harbour, and safely landed at Noodles'.

Thither we have likewise brought the General, and given him ample time to spell through the papers, and reconnoitre his acquaintance as they pa.s.s up and down St. James's Street. But the General is ill at ease--he cannot get that infernal anonymous letter out of his head; do what he will, he cannot prevent himself from glancing at the second column of the _Times_, and poring over a map of London in search of Goat Street, Tiler's Road, Lambeth. He fancies, too, as a man is apt to do when self-conscious of anything peculiar, that people look at him strangely; and if two men happen to whisper in a window, he cannot help thinking they must be talking about him. At last he gets nervous, and determines to take counsel of a friend; nor is he long in selecting a recipient for his sorrows, inasmuch as the most remarkable object in the room is Sir Bloomer b.u.t.tercup, who is standing in an att.i.tude near the fireplace (Sir Bloomer, for certain mechanical reasons, cannot sit down in that particular pair of trousers), and to him the General resolves to confide his annoyances, and by his advice determines to abide. Although, probably, no man in this world ever managed his own affairs so badly as Sir Bloomer b.u.t.tercup--partly, it must be owned, in consequence of his having the most generous heart that ever beat under three inches of padding--yet in all matters unconnected with self, his judgment was as sound as his penetration was remarkable. No man had got his friends out of so many sc.r.a.pes, no man had given such good counsel, and no man had probably done so many foolish things as kind, good-natured Sir Bloomer; and when he minced after the General into an empty room on those poor, gouty, shiny toes, he really felt as ready as he expressed himself, to "see his old friend through it, whatever it was."

"I'll tell you what, Bounce," lisped the old beau, as the General concluded his tale with that most puzzling of questions, "What would you advise me to do?"--"I'll tell you what. I think I know a fellow that can sift this for us to the bottom. You know, my dear boy, that I have occasionally been in slight difficulties--merely temporary, of course, and entirely owing to circ.u.mstances over which I had no control" (Sir B. had spent two fortunes, and was now living on the recollection of them, and the possible reversion of a third)--"but still difficulties--eh?--a ten-knot breeze was always more to my fancy than a calm. Well, I've been brought in contact with all kinds of fellows, and I do know one man, a sort of a lawyer, that's in with every rogue in London. He could get to the rights of this in twenty-four hours if we made it worth his while. He's a clever fellow," added Bloomer reflectively, "a very clever fellow; in fact, a most consummate rascal. Shall I take you to him?"

"This instant," burst out the General, with a terrific s.n.a.t.c.h at the bell; "I'll send for my brougham--what?--it'll be here in five minutes. Zounds! not go in a brougham? Why not?"

Sir Bloomer had frightful misgivings as to the effects on his costume of the necessary att.i.tude in which carriage exercise must be taken; but in the cause of friendship he was prepared to hazard even a rupture of the most important ties, and he replied heroically, "I'll see you through it, Bounce; what o'clock is it? Ah! I promised--never mind--they must be disappointed sometimes; and for the sake of your charming niece, I'd go through fire and water a good deal farther than the City. Bounce, Bounce, what an angel that girl is! She mustn't be told a syllable of this--not a syllable; with me, of course, it's secret as the grave." So the pair started, firmly persuaded that not a soul in London, save their two selves, knew a word about the letter, or the will, or the dethronement of poor little Blanche from her pedestal as an heiress.

CHAPTER XVIII