The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Bedford-Row Conspiracy, by William Makepeace Thackeray This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Bedford-Row Conspiracy Author: William Makepeace Thackeray Release Date: September 21, 2008 [EBook #1990] Last Updated: March 5, 2018 Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BEDFORD-ROW CONSPIRACY *** Produced by Les Bowler, and David Widger
Note:
A story of Charles de Bernard furnished the plot of
“The Bedford-Row Conspiracy.”
“HOUSE OF COMMONS: June 1, 18—.
“MY DEAR HEELTAP,—You know my opinion about horseracing, and though
I blame neither you nor any brother Englishman who enjoys that manly
sport, you will, I am sure, appreciate the conscientious motives which
induce me not to appear among my friends and constituents on the festival
of the 3rd, 4th, and 5th instant. If I, however, cannot allow my
name to appear among your list of stewards, ONE at least of the
representatives of Oldborough has no such scruples. Sir George Gorgon is
among you: and though I differ from that honourable Baronet on more than
ONE VITAL POINT, I am glad to think that he is with you. A gentleman, a
soldier, a man of property in the county, how can he be better employed
than in forwarding the county's amusements, and in forwarding the
happiness of all?
“Had I no such scruples as those to which I have just alluded, I must
still have refrained from coming among you. Your great Oldborough
common-drainage and inclosure bill comes on to-morrow, and I shall be AT
MY POST. I am sure, if Sir George Gorgon were here, he and I should on
this occasion vote side by side, and that party strife would be forgotten
in the object of our common interest—OUR DEAR NATIVE TOWN.
“There is, however, another occasion at hand, in which I shall be proud to
meet him. Your ball is on the night of the 6th. Party forgotten—brotherly
union—innocent mirth—beauty, OUR DEAR TOWN'S BEAUTY, our
daughters in the joy of their expanding loveliness, our matrons in the
exquisite contemplation of their children's bliss—can you, can I,
can Whig or Tory, can any Briton be indifferent to a scene like this, or
refuse to join in this heart-stirring festival? If there BE such let them
pardon me—I, for one, my dear Heeltap, will be among you on Friday
night—ay, and hereby invite all pretty Tory Misses, who are in want
of a partner.
“I am here in the very midst of good things, you know, and we old folks
like A SUPPER after a dance. Please to accept a brace of bucks and a
turtle, which come herewith. My worthy colleague, who was so liberal last
year of his soup to the poor, will not, I trust, refuse to taste a little
of Alderman Birch's—'tis offered on my part with hearty goodwill.
Hey for the 6th, and vive la joie!
“Ever, my dear Heeltap, your faithful
“W. PITT SCULLY.
“P.S.—Of course this letter is STRICTLY PRIVATE. Say that the
venison, etc. came from a WELL-WISHER TO OLDBOROUGH.”
This amazing letter was published, in defiance of Mr. Scully's
injunctions, by the enthusiastic Heeltap, who said, bluntly, in a preface,
“that he saw no reason why Mr. Scully should be ashamed of his action, and
he, for his part, was glad to let all friends at Oldborough know of it.”
The allusion about the Gorgon soup was killing: thirteen paupers in
Oldborough had, it was confidently asserted, died of it. Lady Gorgon, on
the reading of this letter, was struck completely dumb; Sir George Gorgon
was wild. Ten dozen of champagne was he obliged to send down to the
“Gorgon Arms,” to be added to the festival. He would have stayed away if
he could, but he dared not.
At nine o'clock, he in general's uniform; his wife in blue satin and
diamonds; his daughters in blue crape and white roses; his niece, Lucy
Gorgon, in white muslin; his son, George Augustus Frederick Grimsby
Gorgon, in a blue velvet jacket, sugar-loaf buttons, and nankeens, entered
the north door of the ballroom, to much cheering, and the sound of “God
save the King!”
At that very same moment, and from the south door, issued William Pitt
Scully, Esquire, M.P., and his staff. Mr. Scully had a brand-new blue coat
and brass buttons, buff waistcoat, white kerseymere tights, pumps with
large rosettes, and pink silk stockings.
“This wool,” said he to a friend, “was grown on Oldborough sheep, this
cloth was spun in Oldborough looms, these buttons were cast in an
Oldborough manufactory, these shoes were made by an Oldborough tradesman,
this HEART first beat in Oldborough town, and pray Heaven may be buried
there!”
Could anything resist a man like this? John Perkins, who had come down as
one of Scully's aides-de-camp, in a fit of generous enthusiasm, leaped on
a whist-table, flung up a pocket-handkerchief, and shrieked—“SCULLY
FOR EVER!”
Heeltap, who was generally drunk, fairly burst into tears, and the grave
tradesmen and Whig gentry, who had dined with the Member at his inn, and
accompanied him thence to the “Gorgon Arms,” lifted their deep voices and
shouted “Hear!” “Good!” “Bravo!” “Noble!” “Scully for ever!” “God bless
him!” and “Hurrah!”
The scene was tumultuously affecting; and when young Perkins sprang down
from the table and came blushing up to the Member, that gentleman said,
“Thank you, Jack! THANK you, my boy! THANK you,” in a way which made
Perkins think that his supreme cup of bliss was quaffed; that he had but
to die: for that life had no other such joy in store for him. Scully was
Perkins's Napoleon—he yielded himself up to the attorney, body and
soul.
Whilst this scene was going on under one chandelier of the ballroom,
beneath the other scarlet little General Gorgon, sumptuous Lady Gorgon,
the daughters and niece Gorgons, were standing surrounded by their Tory
court, who affected to sneer and titter at the Whig demonstrations which
were taking place.
“What a howwid thmell of whithkey!” lisped Cornet Fitch, of the Dragoons,
to Miss Lucy, confidentially. “And the—the are what they call
Whigth, are they? He! he!”
“They are drunk, ——me, —drunk, by ——!” said
the General to the Mayor.
“WHICH is Scully?” said Lady Gorgon, lifting her glass gravely (she was at
that very moment thinking of the syllabubs). “Is it that tipsy man in the
green coat, or that vulgar creature in the blue one?”
“Law, my Lady,” said the Mayoress, “have you forgotten him? Why, that's
him in blue and buff.”
“And a monthous fine man, too,” said Cornet Fitch. “I wish we had him in
our twoop—he'th thix feet thwee, if he'th an inch; ain't he,
Genewal?”
No reply.
“And heavens! Mamma,” shrieked the three Gorgons in a breath, “see, one
creature is on the whist-table. Oh, the wretch!
“I'm sure he's very good-looking,” said Lucy, simply.
Lady Gorgon darted at her an angry look, and was about to say something
very contemptuous, when, at that instant, John Perkins's shout taking
effect, Master George Augustus Frederick Grimsby Gorgon, not knowing
better, incontinently raised a small shout on his side.
“Hear! good! bravo!” exclaimed he; “Scully for ever! Hurra-a-a-ay!” and
fell skipping about like the Whigs opposite.
“Silence, you brute you!” groaned Lady Gorgon; and seizing him by the
shirt-frill and coat-collar, carried him away to his nurse, who, with many
other maids of the Whig and Tory parties, stood giggling and peeping at
the landing-place.
Fancy how all these small incidents augmented the heap of Lady Gorgon's
anger and injuries! She was a dull phlegmatic woman for the most part, and
contented herself generally with merely despising her neighbours; but oh!
what a fine active hatred raged in her bosom for victorious Scully! At
this moment Mr. Perkins had finished shaking hands with his Napoleon—Napoleon
seemed bent upon some tremendous enterprise. He was looking at Lady Gorgon
very hard.
“She's a fine woman,” said Scully, thoughtfully; he was still holding the
hand of Perkins. And then, after a pause, “Gad! I think I'll try.”
“Try what, sir?”
“She's a DEUCED fine woman!” burst out again the tender solicitor. “I WILL
go. Springer, tell the fiddlers to strike up.”
Springer scuttled across the room, and gave the leader of the band a
knowing nod. Suddenly, “God save the King” ceased, and “Sir Roger de
Coverley” began. The rival forces eyed each other; Mr. Scully, accompanied
by his friend, came forward, looking very red, and fumbling two large kid
gloves.
“HE'S GOING TO ASK ME TO DANCE,” hissed out Lady Gorgon, with a dreadful
intuition, and she drew back behind her lord.
“D—— it, madam, THEN DANCE with him!” said the General. “Don't
you see that the scoundrel is carrying it all his own way! ——
him! and —— him! and —— him!” (All of which dashes
the reader may fill up with oaths of such strength as may be requisite).
“General!” cried Lady Gorgon, but could say no more. Scully was before
her.
“Madam!” exclaimed the Liberal Member for Oldborough, “in a moment like
this—I say—that is—that on the present occasion—your
Ladyship—unaccustomed as I am—pooh, psha—WILL your
Ladyship give me the distinguished honour and pleasure of going down the
country-dance with your Ladyship?”
An immense heave of her Ladyship's ample chest was perceptible. Yards of
blond lace, which might be compared to a foam of the sea, were agitated at
the same moment, and by the same mighty emotion. The river of diamonds
which flowed round her Ladyship's neck, seemed to swell and to shine more
than ever. The tall plumes on her ambrosial head bowed down beneath the
storm. In other words, Lady Gorgon, in a furious rage, which she was
compelled to restrain, trembled, drew up, and bowing majestically, said,—
“Sir, I shall have much pleasure.” With this, she extended her hand.
Scully, trembling, thrust forward one of his huge kid-gloves, and led her
to the head of the country-dance. John Perkins—who I presume had
been drinking pretty freely, so as to have forgotten his ordinary
bashfulness—looked at the three Gorgons in blue, then at the pretty
smiling one in white, and stepping up to her, without the smallest
hesitation, asked her if she would dance with him.
The young lady smilingly agreed. The great example of Scully and Lady
Gorgon was followed by all dancing men and women. Political enmities were
forgotten. Whig voters invited Tory voters' wives to the dance. The
daughters of Reform accepted the hands of the sons of Conservatism. The
reconciliation of the Romans and Sabines was not more touching than this
sweet fusion. Whack—whack! Springer clapped his hands; and the
fiddlers adroitly obeying the cheerful signal, began playing “Sir Roger de
Coverley” louder than ever.
I do not know by what extraordinary charm (nescio qua praeter solitum,
etc.), but young Perkins, who all his life had hated country-dances, was
delighted with this one, and skipped and laughed, poussetting, crossing,
down-the-middling, with his merry little partner, till every one of the
bettermost sort of the thirty-nine couples had dropped panting away, and
till the youngest Miss Gorgon, coming up to his partner, said in a loud
hissing scornful whisper, “Lucy, Mamma thinks you have danced quite enough
with this—this person.” And Lucy, blushing, starting back, and
looking at Perkins in a very melancholy way, made him a little curtsey,
and went off to the Gorgonian party with her cousin. Perkins was too
frightened to lead her back to her place—too frightened at first,
and then too angry. “Person!” said he: his soul swelled with a desperate
republicanism: he went back to his patron more of a Radical than ever.
He found that gentleman in the solitary tea-room, pacing up and down
before the observant landlady and handmaidens of the “Gorgon Arms,” wiping
his brows, gnawing his fingers—his ears looming over his stiff white
shirt-collar as red as fire. Once more the great man seized John Perkins's
hand as the latter came up.
“D—— the aristocrats!” roared the ex-follower of Squaretoes.
“And so say I! but what's the matter, sir?”
“What's the matter?—Why, that woman—that infernal, haughty,
straitlaced, cold-blooded brewer's daughter! I loved that woman, sir—I
KISSED that woman, sir, twenty years ago: we were all but engaged, sir:
we've walked for hours and hours, sir—us and the governess—I've
got a lock of her hair, sir, among my papers now; and to-night, would you
believe it?—as soon as she got to the bottom of the set, away she
went—not one word would she speak to me all the way down: and when I
wanted to lead her to her place, and asked her if she would have a glass
of negus, 'Sir,' says she, 'I have done my duty; I bear no malice: but I
consider you a traitor to Sir George Gorgon's family—a traitor and
an upstart! I consider your speaking to me as a piece of insolent
vulgarity, and beg you will leave me to myself!' There's her speech, sir.
Twenty people heard it, and all of her Tory set too. I'll tell you what,
Jack: at the next election I'll put YOU up. Oh that woman! that woman!—and
to think that I love her still!” Here Mr. Scully paused, and fiercely
consoled himself by swallowing three cups of Mrs. Rincer's green tea.
The fact is, that Lady Gorgon's passion had completely got the better of
her reason. Her Ladyship was naturally cold, and artificially extremely
squeamish; and when this great red-faced enemy of hers looked tenderly at
her through his red little eyes, and squeezed her hand and attempted to
renew old acquaintance, she felt such an intolerable disgust at his
triumph, at his familiarity, and at the remembrance of her own former
liking for him, that she gave utterance to the speech above correctly
reported. The Tories were delighted with her spirit, and Cornet Fitch,
with much glee, told the story to the General; but that officer, who was
at whist with some of his friends, flung down his cards, and coming up to
his lady, said briefly,—
“Madam, you are a fool!”
“I will NOT stay here to be bearded by that disgusting man!—Mr.
Fitch, call my people.—Henrietta, bring Miss Lucy from that
linendraper with whom she is dancing. I will not stay, General, once for
all.”
Henrietta ran—she hated her cousin: Cornet Fitch was departing.
“Stop, Fitch,” said Sir George, seizing him by the arm. “You are a fool,
Lady Gorgon,” said he, “and I repeat it—a —— fool! This
fellow Scully is carrying all before him: he has talked with everybody,
laughed with everybody—and you, with your infernal airs—a
brewer's daughter, by ——, must sit like a queen and not speak
to a soul! You've lost me one seat of my borough, with your infernal pride—fifteen
hundred a year, by Jove!—and you think you will bully me out of
another. No, madam, you SHALL stay, and stay supper too;—and the
girls shall dance with every cursed chimney-sweep and butcher in the room:
they shall—confound me!”
Her Ladyship saw that it was necessary to submit; and Mr. Springer, the
master of the ceremonies, was called, and requested to point out some
eligible partners for the young ladies. One went off with a Whig
auctioneer; another figured in a quadrille with a very Liberal apothecary;
and the third, Miss Henrietta, remained.
“Hallo you, sir!” roared the little General to John Perkins, who was
passing by. John turned round and faced him.
“You were dancing with my niece just now—show us your skill now, and
dance with one of my daughters. Stand up, Miss Henrietta Gorgon—Mr.
What's-your-name?”
“My name,” said John, with marked and majestic emphasis, “is PERKINS.” And
he looked towards Lucy, who dared not look again.
“Miss Gorgon—Mr. Perkins. There, now go and dance.”
“Mr. Perkins regrets, madam,” said John, making a bow to Miss Henrietta,
“that he is not able to dance this evening. I am this moment obliged to
look to the supper; but you will find, no doubt, some other PERSON who
will have much pleasure.”
“Go to ——, sir!” screamed the General, starting up, and
shaking his cane.
“Calm yourself, dearest George,” said Lady Gorgon, clinging fondly to him.
Fitch twiddled his moustaches. Miss Henrietta Gorgon stared with open
mouth. The silks of the surrounding dowagers rustled—the
countenances of all looked grave.
“I will follow you, sir, wherever you please; and you may hear of me
whenever you like,” said Mr. Perkins, bowing and retiring. He heard little
Lucy sobbing in a corner. He was lost at once—lost in love; he felt
as if he could combat fifty generals! he never was so happy in his life.
The supper came; but as that meal cost five shillings a head, General
Gorgon dismissed the four spinsters of his family homewards in the
carriage, and so saved himself a pound. This added to Jack Perkins's
wrath; he had hoped to have seen Miss Lucy once more. He was a steward,
and, in the General's teeth, would have done his duty. He was thinking how
he would have helped her to the most delicate chicken-wings and
blancmanges, how he WOULD have made her take champagne. Under the noses of
indignant aunt and uncle, what glorious fun it would have been!
Out of place as Mr. Scully's present was, and though Lady Gorgon and her
party sneered at the vulgar notion of venison and turtle for supper, all
the world at Oldborough ate very greedily of those two substantial dishes;
and the Mayor's wife became from that day forth a mortal enemy of the
Gorgons: for, sitting near her Ladyship, who refused the proffered soup
and meat, the Mayoress thought herself obliged to follow this disagreeable
example. She sent away the plate of turtle with a sigh, saying, however,
to the baronet's lady, “I thought, mem, that the LORD MAYOR OF LONDON
always had turtle to his supper?”
“And what if he didn't, Biddy?” said his Honour the Mayor; “a good thing's
a good thing, and here goes!” wherewith he plunged his spoon into the
savoury mess. The Mayoress, as we have said, dared not; but she hated Lady
Gorgon, and remembered it at the next election.
The pride, in fact, and insolence of the Gorgon party rendered every
person in the room hostile to them; so soon as, gorged with meat, they
began to find that courage which Britons invariably derive from their
victuals. The show of the Gorgon plate seemed to offend the people. The
Gorgon champagne was a long time, too, in making its appearance. Arrive,
however, it did. The people were waiting for it; the young ladies, not
accustomed to that drink, declined pledging their admirers until it was
produced; the men, too, despised the bucellas and sherry, and were looking
continually towards the door. At last, Mr. Rincer, the landlord, Mr. Hock,
Sir George's butler, and sundry others entered the room. Bang! went the
corks—fizz the foamy liquor sparkled into all sorts of glasses that
were held out for its reception. Mr. Hock helped Sir George and his party,
who drank with great gusto; the wine which was administered to the persons
immediately around Mr. Scully was likewise pronounced to be good. But Mr.
Perkins, who had taken his seat among the humbler individuals, and in the
very middle of the table, observed that all these persons, after drinking,
made to each other very wry and ominous faces, and whispered much. He
tasted his wine: it was a villanous compound of sugar, vitriol,
soda-water, and green gooseberries. At this moment a great clatter of
forks was made by the president's and vice-president's party. Silence for
a toast—'twas silence all.
“Landlord,” said Mr. Perkins, starting up (the rogue, where did his
impudence come from?) “have you any champagne of YOUR OWN?”
“Silence! down!” roared the Tories, the ladies looking aghast. “Silence,
sit down you!” shrieked the well-known voice of the General.
“I beg your pardon, General,” said young John Perkins; “but where COULD
you have bought this champagne? My worthy friend I know is going to
propose the ladies; let us at any rate drink such a toast in good wine.”
(“Hear, hear!”) “Drink her Ladyship's health in THIS stuff? I declare to
goodness I would sooner drink it in beer!”
No pen can describe the uproar which arose: the anguish of the Gorgonites—the
shrieks, jeers, cheers, ironic cries of “Swipes!” etc., which proceeded
from the less genteel but more enthusiastic Scullyites.
“This vulgarity is too much,” said Lady Gorgon, rising; and Mrs. Mayoress
and the ladies of the party did so too.
The General, two squires, the clergyman, the Gorgon apothecary and
attorney, with their respective ladies, followed her: they were plainly
beaten from the field. Such of the Tories as dared remained, and in
inglorious compromise shared the jovial Whig feast.
“Gentlemen and ladies,” hiccupped Mr. Heeltap, “I'll give you a toast.
'Champagne to our real—hic—friends,' no, 'Real champagne to
our friends,' and—hic—pooh! 'Champagne to our friends, and
real pain to our enemies,'—huzzay!”
The Scully faction on this day bore the victory away, and if the polite
reader has been shocked by certain vulgarities on the part of Mr. Scully
and his friends, he must remember imprimis that Oldborough was an
inconsiderable place—that the inhabitants thereof were chiefly
tradespeople, not of refined habits—that Mr. Scully himself had only
for three months mingled among the aristocracy—that his young friend
Perkins was violently angry—and finally, and to conclude, that the
proud vulgarity of the great Sir George Gorgon and his family was
infinitely more odious and contemptible than the mean vulgarity of the
Scullyites and their leader.
Immediately after this event, Mr. Scully and his young friend Perkins
returned to town; the latter to his garrets in Bedford Row—the
former to his apartments on the first floor of the same house. He lived
here to superintend his legal business: his London agents, Messrs. Higgs,
Biggs, and Blatherwick, occupying the ground floor; the junior partner,
Mr. Gustavus Blatherwick, the second flat of the house. Scully made no
secret of his profession or residence: he was an attorney, and proud of
it; he was the grandson of a labourer, and thanked God for it; he had made
his fortune by his own honest labour, and why should he be ashamed of it?
And now, having explained at full length who the several heroes and
heroines of this history were, and how they conducted themselves in the
country, let us describe their behaviour in London, and the great events
which occurred there.
You must know that Mr. Perkins bore away the tenderest recollections of
the young lady with whom he had danced at the Oldborough ball, and, having
taken particular care to find out where she dwelt when in the metropolis,
managed soon to become acquainted with Aunt Biggs, and made himself so
amiable to that lady, that she begged he would pass all his disengaged
evenings at her lodgings in Caroline Place. Mrs. Biggs was perfectly aware
that the young gentleman did not come for her bohea and muffins, so much
as for the sweeter conversation of her niece, Miss Gorgon; but seeing that
these two young people were of an age when ideas of love and marriage will
spring up, do what you will; seeing that her niece had a fortune, and Mr.
Perkins had the prospect of a place, and was moreover a very amiable and
well-disposed young fellow, she thought her niece could not do better than
marry him; and Miss Gorgon thought so too. Now the public will be able to
understand the meaning of that important conversation which is recorded at
the very commencement of this history.
Lady Gorgon and her family were likewise in town; but, when in the
metropolis, they never took notice of their relative, Miss Lucy: the idea
of acknowledging an ex-schoolmistress living in Mecklenburgh Square being
much too preposterous for a person of my Lady Gorgon's breeding and
fashion. She did not, therefore, know of the progress which sly Perkins
was making all this while; for Lucy Gorgon did not think it was at all
necessary to inform her Ladyship how deeply she was smitten by the wicked
young gentleman who had made all the disturbance at the Oldborough ball.
The intimacy of these young persons had, in fact, become so close, that on
a certain sunshiny Sunday in December, after having accompanied Aunt Biggs
to church, they had pursued their walk as far as that rendezvous of
lovers, the Regent's Park, and were talking of their coming marriage, with
much confidential tenderness, before the bears in the Zoological Gardens.
Miss Lucy was ever and anon feeding those interesting animals with buns,
to perform which act of charity she had clambered up on the parapet which
surrounds their den. Mr. Perkins was below; and Miss Lucy, having
distributed her buns, was on the point of following,—but whether
from timidity, or whether from a desire to do young Perkins an essential
service, I know not: however, she found herself quite unwilling to jump
down unaided.
“My dearest John,” said she, “I never can jump that.”
Whereupon John stepped up, put one hand round Lucy's waist; and as one of
hers gently fell upon his shoulder, Mr. Perkins took the other and said,—
“Now jump.”
Hoop! jump she did, and so excessively active and clever was Mr. John
Perkins, that he jumped Miss Lucy plump into the middle of a group formed
of—
Lady Gorgon;
The Misses Gorgon;
Master George Augustus Frederick Grimsby Gorgon;
And a footman, poodle, and French governess: who had all been for two or
three minutes listening to the billings and cooings of these imprudent
young lovers.
“Good-night, my dear John. Do not go QUITE distracted before morning;
and believe me your loving aunt,
“JEMIMA BIGGS.”
“41 BAKER STREET: 11th December.
“MAJOR-GENERAL SIR GEORGE GORGON has heard with the utmost disgust and
surprise of the engagement which Miss Lucy Gorgon has thought fit to form.
“The Major-General cannot conceal his indignation at the share which Miss
Biggs has taken in this disgraceful transaction.
“Sir George Gorgon puts an absolute veto upon all further communication
between his niece and the low-born adventurer who has been admitted into
her society, and begs to say that Lieutenant Fitch, of the Lifeguards, is
the gentleman who he intends shall marry Miss Gorgon.
“It is the Major-General's wish, that on the 28th Miss Gorgon should be
ready to come to his house, in Baker Street, where she will be more safe
from impertinent intrusions than she has been in Mucklebury Square.
“MRS. BIGGS,
“Caroline Place,
“Mecklenburgh Square.”
When poor John Perkins read this epistle, blank rage and wonder filled his
soul, at the audacity of the little General, who thus, without the
smallest title in the world, pretended to dispose of the hand and fortune
of his niece. The fact is, that Sir George had such a transcendent notion
of his own dignity and station, that it never for a moment entered his
head that his niece, or anybody else connected with him, should take a
single step in life without previously receiving his orders; and Mr.
Fitch, a baronet's son, having expressed an admiration of Lucy, Sir George
had determined that his suit should be accepted, and really considered
Lucy's preference of another as downright treason.
John Perkins determined on the death of Fitch as the very least reparation
that should satisfy him; and vowed too that some of the General's blood
should be shed for the words which he had dared to utter.
We have said that William Pitt Scully, Esquire, M.P., occupied the first
floor of Mr. Perkins's house in Bedford Row: and the reader is further to
be informed that an immense friendship had sprung up between these two
gentlemen. The fact is, that poor John was very much flattered by Scully's
notice, and began in a very short time to fancy himself a political
personage; for he had made several of Scully's speeches, written more than
one letter from him to his constituents, and, in a word, acted as his
gratis clerk. At least a guinea a week did Mr. Perkins save to the pockets
of Mr. Scully, and with hearty good will too, for he adored the great
William Pitt, and believed every word that dropped from the pompous lips
of that gentleman.
Well, after having discussed Sir George Gorgon's letter, poor Perkins, in
the utmost fury of mind that his darling should be slandered so, feeling a
desire for fresh air, determined to descend to the garden and smoke a
cigar in that rural quiet spot. The night was very calm. The moonbeams
slept softly upon the herbage of Gray's Inn gardens, and bathed with
silver splendour Theobald's Row. A million of little frisky twinkling
stars attended their queen, who looked with bland round face upon their
gambols, as they peeped in and out from the azure heavens. Along Gray's
Inn wall a lazy row of cabs stood listlessly, for who would call a cab on
such a night? Meanwhile their drivers, at the alehouse near, smoked the
short pipe or quaffed the foaming beer. Perhaps from Gray's Inn Lane some
broken sounds of Irish revelry might rise. Issuing perhaps from Raymond
Buildings gate, six lawyers' clerks might whoop a tipsy song—or the
loud watchman yell the passing hour; but beyond this all was silence; and
young Perkins, as he sat in the summerhouse at the bottom of the garden,
and contemplated the peaceful heaven, felt some influences of it entering
into his soul, and almost forgetting revenge, thought but of peace and
love.
Presently, he was aware there was someone else pacing the garden. Who
could it be?—Not Blatherwick, for he passed the Sabbath with his
grandmamma at Clapham; not Scully surely, for he always went to Bethesda
Chapel, and to a select prayer-meeting afterwards. Alas! it WAS Scully;
for though that gentleman SAID that he went to chapel, we have it for a
fact that he did not always keep his promise, and was at this moment
employed in rehearsing an extempore speech, which he proposed to deliver
at St. Stephen's.
“Had I, sir,” spouted he, with folded arms, slowly pacing to and fro—“Had
I, sir, entertained the smallest possible intention of addressing the
House on the present occasion—hum, on the present occasion—I
would have endeavoured to prepare myself in a way that should have at
least shown my sense of the greatness of the subject before the House's
consideration, and the nature of the distinguished audience I have the
honour to address. I am, sir, a plain man—born of the people—myself
one of the people, having won, thank Heaven, an honourable fortune and
position by my own honest labour; and standing here as I do—”
* * *
Here Mr. Scully (it may be said that he never made a speech without
bragging about himself: and an excellent plan it is, for people cannot
help believing you at last)—here, I say, Mr. Scully, who had one arm
raised, felt himself suddenly tipped on the shoulder, and heard a voice
saying, “Your money or your life!”
The honourable gentleman twirled round as if he had been shot; the papers
on which a great part of this impromptu was written dropped from his
lifted hand, and some of them were actually borne on the air into
neighbouring gardens. The man was, in fact, in the direst fright.
“It's only I,” said Perkins, with rather a forced laugh, when he saw the
effect that his wit had produced.
“Only you! And pray what the dev—what right have you to—to
come upon a man of my rank in that way, and disturb me in the midst of
very important meditations?” asked Mr. Scully, beginning to grow fierce.
“I want your advice,” said Perkins, “on a matter of the very greatest
importance to me. You know my idea of marrying?”
“Marry!” said Scully; “I thought you had given up that silly scheme. And
how, pray, do you intend to live?”
“Why, my intended has a couple of hundreds a year, and my clerkship in the
Tape and Sealing-Wax Office will be as much more.”
“Clerkship—Tape and Sealing-Wax Office—Government sinecure!—Why,
good heavens! John Perkins, you don't tell ME that you are going to accept
any such thing?”
“It is a very small salary, certainly,” said John, who had a decent notion
of his own merits; “but consider, six months vacation, two hours in the
day, and those spent over the newspapers. After all, it's—”
“After all it's a swindle,” roared out Mr. Scully—“a swindle upon
the country; an infamous tax upon the people, who starve that you may
fatten in idleness. But take this clerkship in the Tape and Sealing-Wax
Office,” continued the patriot, his bosom heaving with noble indignation,
and his eye flashing the purest fire,—“TAKE this clerkship, John
Perkins, and sanction tyranny, by becoming one of its agents; sanction
dishonesty by sharing in its plunder—do this, BUT never more be
friend of mine. Had I a child,” said the patriot, clasping his hands and
raising his eyes to heaven, “I would rather see him dead, sir—dead,
dead at my feet, than the servant of a Government which all honest men
despise.” And here, giving a searching glance at Perkins, Mr. Scully began
tramping up and down the garden in a perfect fury.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed the timid John Perkins—“don't say SO. My
dear Mr. Scully, I'm not the dishonest character you suppose me to be—I
never looked at the matter in this light. I'll—I'll consider of it.
I'll tell Crampton that I will give up the place; but for Heaven's sake,
don't let me forfeit YOUR friendship, which is dearer to me than any place
in the world.”
Mr. Scully pressed his hand, and said nothing; and though their interview
lasted a full half-hour longer, during which they paced up and down the
gravel walk, we shall not breathe a single syllable of their conversation,
as it has nothing to do with our tale.
The next morning, after an interview with Miss Lucy, John Perkins,
Esquire, was seen to issue from Mrs. Biggs's house, looking particularly
pale, melancholy, and thoughtful; and he did not stop until he reached a
certain door in Downing Street, where was the office of a certain great
Minister, and the offices of the clerks in his Lordship's department.
The head of them was Mr. Josiah Crampton, who has now to be introduced to
the public. He was a little old gentleman, some sixty years of age,
maternal uncle to John Perkins; a bachelor, who had been about forty-two
years employed in the department of which he was now the head.
After waiting four hours in an ante-room, where a number of Irishmen, some
newspaper editors, many pompous-looking political personages asking for
the “first lord,” a few sauntering clerks, and numbers of swift active
messengers passed to and fro;—after waiting for four hours, making
drawings on the blotting-book, and reading the Morning Post for that day
week, Mr. Perkins was informed that he might go into his uncle's room, and
did so accordingly.
He found a little hard old gentleman seated at a table covered with every
variety of sealing-wax, blotting-paper, envelopes, despatch-boxes, green
tapers, etc. etc. An immense fire was blazing in the grate, an immense
sheet-almanack hung over that, a screen, three or four chairs, and a faded
Turkey carpet, formed the rest of the furniture of this remarkable room—which
I have described thus particularly, because in the course of a long
official life, I have remarked that such is the invariable decoration of
political rooms.
“Well, John,” said the little hard old gentleman, pointing to an
arm-chair, “I'm told you've been here since eleven. Why the deuce do you
come so early?”
“I had important business,” answered Mr. Perkins, stoutly; and as his
uncle looked up with a comical expression of wonder, John began in a
solemn tone to deliver a little speech which he had composed, and which
proved him to be a very worthy, easy, silly fellow.
“Sir,” said Mr. Perkins, “you have known for some time past the nature of
my political opinions, and the intimacy which I have had the honour to
form with one—with some of the leading members of the Liberal
party.” (A grin from Mr. Crampton.) “When first, by your kindness, I was
promised the clerkship in the Tape and Sealing-Wax Office, my opinions
were not formed as they are now; and having taken the advice of the
gentlemen with whom I act,”—(an enormous grin)—“the advice, I
say, of the gentlemen with whom I act, and the counsel likewise of my own
conscience, I am compelled, with the deepest grief, to say, my dear uncle,
that I—I—”
“That you—what, sir?” exclaimed little Mr. Crampton, bouncing off
his chair. “You don't mean to say that you are such a fool as to decline
the place?”
“I do decline the place,” said Perkins, whose blood rose at the word
“fool.” “As a man of honour, I cannot take it.”
“Not take it! and how are you to live? On the rent of that house of yours?
For, by gad, sir, if you give up the clerkship, I never will give you a
shilling.”
“It cannot be helped,” said Mr. Perkins, looking as much like a martyr as
he possibly could, and thinking himself a very fine fellow. “I have
talents, sir, which I hope to cultivate; and am member of a profession by
which a man may hope to rise to the very highest offices of the State.”
“Profession, talents, offices of the State! Are you mad, John Perkins,
that you come to me with such insufferable twaddle as this? Why, do you
think if you HAD been capable of rising at the bar, I would have taken so
much trouble about getting you a place? No, sir; you are too fond of
pleasure, and bed, and tea-parties, and small-talk, and reading novels,
and playing the flute, and writing sonnets. You would no more rise at the
bar than my messenger, sir. It was because I knew your disposition—that
hopeless, careless, irresolute good-humour of yours—that I had
determined to keep you out of danger, by placing you in a snug shelter,
where the storms of the world would not come near you. You must have
principles forsooth! and you must marry Miss Gorgon, of course: and by the
time you have gone ten circuits, and had six children, you will have eaten
up every shilling of your wife's fortune, and be as briefless as you are
now. Who the deuce has put all this nonsense into your head? I think I
know.”
Mr. Perkins's ears tingled as these hard words saluted them; and he
scarcely knew whether he ought to knock his uncle down, or fall at his
feet and say, “Uncle, I have been a fool, and I know it.” The fact is,
that in his interview with Miss Gorgon and her aunt in the morning, when
he came to tell them of the resolution he had formed to give up the place,
both the ladies and John himself had agreed, with a thousand rapturous
tears and exclamations, that he was one of the noblest young men that ever
lived, had acted as became himself, and might with perfect propriety give
up the place, his talents being so prodigious that no power on earth could
hinder him from being Lord Chancellor. Indeed, John and Lucy had always
thought the clerkship quite beneath him, and were not a little glad,
perhaps, at finding a pretext for decently refusing it. But as Perkins was
a young gentleman whose candour was such that he was always swayed by the
opinions of the last speaker, he did begin to feel now the truth of his
uncle's statements, however disagreeable they might be.
Mr. Crampton continued:—
“I think I know the cause of your patriotism. Has not William Pitt Scully,
Esquire, had something to do with it?”
Mr. Perkins COULD not turn any redder than he was, but confessed with deep
humiliation that “he HAD consulted Mr. Scully among other friends.”
Mr. Crampton smiled—drew a letter from a heap before him, and
tearing off the signature, handed over the document to his nephew. It
contained the following paragraphs:—
“Hawksby has sounded Scully: we can have him any day we want him. He talks
very big at present, and says he would not take anything under a... This
is absurd. He has a Yorkshire nephew coming up to town, and wants a place
for him. There is one vacant in the Tape Office, he says: have you not a
promise of it?”
“I can't—I can't believe it,” said John; “this, sir, is some weak
invention of the enemy. Scully is the most honourable man breathing.”
“Mr. Scully is a gentleman in a very fair way to make a fortune,” answered
Mr. Crampton. “Look you, John—it is just as well for your sake that
I should give you the news a few weeks before the papers, for I don't want
you to be ruined, if I can help it, as I don't wish to have you on my
hands. We know all the particulars of Scully's history. He was a Tory
attorney at Oldborough; he was jilted by the present Lady Gorgon, turned
Radical, and fought Sir George in his own borough. Sir George would have
had the peerage he is dying for, had he not lost that second seat
(by-the-by, my Lady will be here in five minutes), and Scully is now quite
firm there. Well, my dear lad, we have bought your incorruptible Scully.
Look here,”—and Mr. Crampton produced three Morning Posts.
“'THE HONOURABLE HENRY HAWKSBY'S DINNER-PARTY.—Lord So-and-So—Duke
of So-and-So—W. Pitt Scully, Esq. M.P.'
“Hawksby is our neutral, our dinner-giver.
“'LADY DIANA DOLDRUM'S ROUT.—W. Pitt Scully, Esq,' again.
“'THE EARL OF MANTRAP'S GRAND DINNER.'—A Duke—four Lords—'Mr.
Scully, and Sir George Gorgon.'”
“Well, but I don't see how you have bought him; look at his votes.”
“My dear John,” said Mr. Crampton, jingling his watch-seals very
complacently, “I am letting you into fearful secrets. The great common end
of party is to buy your opponents—the great statesman buys them for
nothing.”
Here the attendant genius of Mr. Crampton made his appearance, and
whispered something, to which the little gentleman said, “Show her
Ladyship in,”—when the attendant disappeared.
“John,” said Mr. Crampton, with a very queer smile, “you can't stay in
this room while Lady Gorgon is with me; but there is a little clerk's room
behind the screen there, where you can wait until I call you.”
John retired, and as he closed the door of communication, strange to say,
little Mr. Crampton sprang up and said, “Confound the young ninny, he has
shut the door!”
Mr. Crampton then, remembering that he wanted a map in the next room,
sprang into it, left the door half open in coming out, and was in time to
receive Her Ladyship with smiling face as she, ushered by Mr.
Strongitharm, majestically sailed in.
* * *
At the period when the important events occurred which have been recorded
here, parties ran very high, and a mighty struggle for the vacant
Speakership was about to come on. The Right Honourable Robert Pincher was
the Ministerial candidate, and Sir Charles Macabaw was patronised by the
Opposition. The two Members for Oldborough of course took different sides,
the baronet being of the Pincher faction, while Mr. William Pitt Scully
strongly supported the Macabaw party.
It was Mr. Scully's intention to deliver an impromptu speech upon the
occasion of the election, and he and his faithful Perkins prepared it
between them: for the latter gentleman had wisely kept his uncle's counsel
and his own and Mr. Scully was quite ignorant of the conspiracy that was
brooding. Indeed, so artfully had that young Machiavel of a Perkins
conducted himself, that when asked by his patron whether he had given up
his place in the Tape and Sealing Wax Office, he replied that “he HAD
tendered his resignation,” but did not say one word about having recalled
it.
“You were right, my boy, quite right,” said Mr. Scully. “A man of
uncompromising principles should make no compromise.” And herewith he sat
down and wrote off a couple of letters, one to Mr. Hawksby, telling him
that the place in the Sealing-Wax Office was, as he had reason to know,
vacant; and the other to his nephew, stating that it was to be his. “Under
the rose, my dear Bob,” added Mr. Scully, “it will cost you five hundred
pounds; but you cannot invest your money better.”
It is needless to state that the affair was to be conducted “with the
strictest secresy and honour,” and that the money was to pass through Mr.
Scully's hands.
While, however, the great Pincher and Macabaw question was yet undecided,
an event occurred to Mr. Scully, which had a great influence upon his
after-life. A second grand banquet was given at the Earl of Mantrap's:
Lady Mantrap requested him to conduct Lady Gorgon to dinner; and the
latter, with a charming timidity, and a gracious melancholy look into his
face (after which her veined eyelids veiled her azure eyes), put her hand
into the trembling one of Mr. Scully and said as much as looks could say,
“Forgive and forget.”
Down went Scully to dinner. There were dukes on his right hand and earls
on his left; there were but two persons without title in the midst of that
glittering assemblage; the very servants looked like noblemen. The cook
had done wonders; the wines were cool and rich, and Lady Gorgon was
splendid! What attention did everybody pay to her and to him! Why WOULD
she go on gazing into his face with that tender imploring look? In other
words, Scully, after partaking of soup and fish (he, during their
discussion, had been thinking over all the former love-and-hate passages
between himself and Lady Gorgon), turned very red, and began talking to
her.
“Were you not at the opera on Tuesday?” began he, assuming at once the
airs of a man of fashion. “I thought I caught a glimpse of you in the
Duchess of Diddlebury's box.”
“Opera, Mr. Scully?” (pronouncing the word “Scully” with the utmost
softness). “Ah, no! we seldom go, and yet too often. For serious persons
the enchantments of that place are too dangerous. I am so nervous—so
delicate; the smallest trifle so agitates, depresses, or irritates me,
that I dare not yield myself up to the excitement of music. I am too
passionately attached to it; and, shall I tell you? it has such a strange
influence upon me, that the smallest false note almost drives me to
distraction, and for that very reason I hardly ever go to a concert or a
ball.”
“Egad,” thought Scully, “I recollect when she would dance down a matter of
five-and-forty couple, and jingle away at the 'Battle of Prague' all day.”
She continued: “Don't you recollect, I do, with—oh, what regret!—that
day at Oldborough race-ball, when I behaved with such sad rudeness to you?
You will scarcely believe me, and yet I assure you 'tis the fact, the
music had made me almost mad. Do let me ask your pardon for my conduct. I
was not myself. Oh, Mr. Scully! I am no worldly woman; I know my duties,
and I feel my wrongs. Nights and days have I lain awake weeping and
thinking of that unhappy day—that I should ever speak so to an old
friend; for we WERE old friends, were we not?”
Scully did not speak; but his eyes were bursting out of his head, and his
face was the exact colour of a deputy-lieutenant's uniform.
“That I should ever forget myself and you so! How I have been longing for
this opportunity to ask you to forgive me! I asked Lady Mantrap, when I
heard you were to be here, to invite me to her party. Come, I know you
will forgive me—your eyes say you will. You used to look so in old
days, and forgive me my caprices THEN. Do give me a little wine—we
will drink to the memory of old days.”
Her eyes filled with tears; and poor Scully's hand caused such a rattling
and trembling of the glass and the decanter that the Duke of Doldrum—who
had been, during the course of this whispered sentimentality, describing a
famous run with the Queen's hounds at the top of his voice—stopped
at the jingling of the glass, and his tale was lost for ever. Scully
hastily drank his wine, and Lady Gorgon turned round to her next
neighbour, a little gentleman in black, between whom and herself certain
conscious looks passed.
“I am glad poor Sir George is not here,” said he, smiling.
Lady Gorgon said, “Pooh, for shame!” The little gentleman was no other
than Josiah Crampton, Esquire, that eminent financier, and he was now
going through the curious calculation before mentioned, by which you BUY A
MAN FOR NOTHING. He intended to pay the very same price for Sir George
Gorgon, too; but there was no need to tell the baronet so; only of this
the reader must be made aware.
While Mr. Crampton was conducting this intrigue, which was to bring a new
recruit to the Ministerial ranks, his mighty spirit condescended to ponder
upon subjects of infinitely less importance, and to arrange plans for the
welfare of his nephew and the young woman to whom he had made a present of
his heart. These young persons, as we said before, had arranged to live in
Mr. Perkins's own house in Bedford Row. It was of a peculiar construction,
and might more properly be called a house and a half: for a snug little
tenement of four chambers protruded from the back of the house into the
garden. These rooms communicated with the drawing-rooms occupied by Mr.
Scully; and Perkins, who acted as his friend and secretary, used
frequently to sit in the one nearest the Member's study, in order that he
might be close at hand to confer with that great man. The rooms had a
private entrance too, were newly decorated, and in them the young couple
proposed to live; the kitchen and garrets being theirs likewise. What more
could they need? We are obliged to be particular in describing these
apartments, for extraordinary events occurred therein.
To say the truth, until the present period Mr. Crampton had taken no great
interest in his nephew's marriage, or, indeed, in the young man himself.
The old gentleman was of a saturnine turn, and inclined to undervalue the
qualities of Mr. Perkins, which were idleness, simplicity, enthusiasm, and
easy good-nature.
“Such fellows never do anything in the world,” he would say, and for such
he had accordingly the most profound contempt. But when, after John
Perkins's repeated entreaties, he had been induced to make the
acquaintance of Miss Gorgon, he became instantly charmed with her, and
warmly espoused her cause against her overbearing relations.
At his suggestion she wrote back to decline Sir George Gorgon's peremptory
invitation, and hinted at the same time that she had attained an age and a
position which enabled her to be the mistress of her own actions. To this
letter there came an answer from Lady Gorgon which we shall not copy, but
which simply stated that Miss Lucy Gorgon's conduct was unchristian,
ungrateful, unladylike, and immodest; that the Gorgon family disowned her
for the future, and left her at liberty to form whatever base connections
she pleased.
“A pretty world this,” said Mr. Crampton, in a great rage, when the letter
was shown to him. “This same fellow, Scully, dissuades my nephew from
taking a place, because Scully wants it for himself. This prude of a Lady
Gorgon cries out shame, and disowns an innocent amiable girl: she a
heartless jilt herself once, and a heartless flirt now. The Pharisees, the
Pharisees! And to call mine a base family, too!”
Now, Lady Gorgon did not in the least know Mr. Crampton's connection with
Mr. Perkins, or she would have been much more guarded in her language; but
whether she knew it or not, the old gentleman felt a huge indignation, and
determined to have his revenge.
“That's right, Uncle! SHALL I call Gorgon out?” said the impetuous young
Perkins, who was all for blood.
“John, you are a fool,” said his uncle. “You shall have a better revenge:
you shall be married from Sir George Gorgon's house, and you shall see Mr.
William Pitt Scully sold for nothing.” This to the veteran diplomatist
seemed to be the highest triumph which man could possibly enjoy.
It was very soon to take place: and, as has been the case ever since the
world began, woman, lovely woman was to be the cause of Scully's fall. The
tender scene at Lord Mantrap's was followed by many others equally
sentimental. Sir George Gorgon called upon his colleague the very next
day, and brought with him a card from Lady Gorgon inviting Mr. Scully to
dinner. The attorney eagerly accepted the invitation, was received in
Baker Street by the whole amiable family with much respectful cordiality,
and was pressed to repeat his visits as country neighbours should. More
than once did he call, and somehow always at the hour when Sir George was
away at his club, or riding in the Park, or elsewhere engaged. Sir George
Gorgon was very old, very feeble, very much shattered in constitution.
Lady Gorgon used to impart her fears to Mr. Scully every time he called
there, and the sympathising attorney used to console her as best he might.
Sir George's country agent neglected the property—his lady consulted
Mr. Scully concerning it. He knew to a fraction how large her jointure
was; how she was to have Gorgon Castle for her life; and how, in the event
of the young baronet's death (he, too, was a sickly poor boy), the chief
part of the estates, bought by her money, would be at her absolute
disposal.
“What a pity these odious politics prevent me from having you for our
agent,” would Lady Gorgon say; and indeed Scully thought it was a pity
too. Ambitious Scully! what wild notions filled his brain. He used to take
leave of Lady Gorgon and ruminate upon these things; and when he was gone,
Sir George and her Ladyship used to laugh.
“If we can but commit him—if we can but make him vote for Pincher,”
said the General, “my peerage is secure. Hawksby and Crampton as good as
told me so.”
The point had been urged upon Mr. Scully repeatedly and adroitly. “Is not
Pincher a more experienced man than Macabaw?” would Sir George say to his
guest over their wine. Scully allowed it. “Can't you vote for him on
personal grounds, and say so in the House?” Scully wished he could—how
he wished he could! Every time the General coughed, Scully saw his
friend's desperate situation more and more, and thought how pleasant it
would be to be lord of Gorgon Castle. “Knowing my property,” cried Sir
George, “as you do, and with your talents and integrity, what a comfort it
would be could I leave you as guardian to my boy! But these cursed
politics prevent it, my dear fellow. Why WILL you be a Radical?” And
Scully cursed politics too. “Hang the low-bred rogue,” added Sir George,
when William Pitt Scully left the house: “he will do everything but
promise.”
“My dear General,” said Lady Gorgon, sidling up to him and patting him on
his old yellow cheek—“My dear Georgy, tell me one thing,—are
you jealous?”
“Jealous, my dear! and jealous of THAT fellow—pshaw!”
“Well, then, give me leave, and you shall have the promise to-morrow.”
* * *
To-morrow arrived. It was a remarkably fine day, and in the forenoon Mr.
Perkins gave his accustomed knock at Scully's study, which was only
separated from his own sitting-room by a double door. John had wisely
followed his uncle's advice, and was on the best terms with the honourable
Member.
“Here are a few sentences,” said he, “which I think may suit your purpose.
Great public services—undeniable merit—years of integrity—cause
of reform, and Macabaw for ever!” He put down the paper. It was, in fact,
a speech in favour of Mr. Macabaw.
“Hush,” said Scully, rather surlily; for he was thinking how disagreeable
it was to support Macabaw; and besides, there were clerks in the room,
whom the thoughtless Perkins had not at first perceived. As soon as that
gentleman saw them, “You are busy, I see,” continued he in a lower tone.
“I came to say that I must be off duty to-day, for I am engaged to take a
walk with some ladies of my acquaintance.”
So saying, the light-hearted young man placed his hat unceremoniously on
his head, and went off through his own door, humming a song. He was in
such high spirits that he did not even think of closing the doors of
communication, and Scully looked after him with a sneer.
“Ladies, forsooth,” thought he; “I know who they are. This precious girl
that he is fooling with, for one, I suppose.” He was right: Perkins was
off on the wings of love, to see Miss Lucy; and she and Aunt Biggs and
Uncle Crampton had promised this very day to come and look at the
apartments which Mrs. John Perkins was to occupy with her happy husband.
“Poor devil,” so continued Mr. Scully's meditations, “it is almost too bad
to do him out of his place; but my Bob wants it, and John's girl has, I
hear, seven thousand pounds. His uncle will get him another place before
all that money is spent.” And herewith Mr. Scully began conning the speech
which Perkins had made for him.
He had not read it more than six times,—in truth, he was getting it
by heart,—when his head clerk came to him from the front room,
bearing a card: a footman had brought it, who said his lady was waiting
below. Lady Gorgon's name was on the card! To seize his hat and rush
downstairs was, with Mr. Scully, the work of an infinitesimal portion of
time.
It was indeed Lady Gorgon in her Gorgonian chariot.
“Mr. Scully,” said she, popping her head out of window and smiling in a
most engaging way, “I want to speak to you, on something very particular
INDEED”—and she held him out her hand. Scully pressed it most
tenderly: he hoped all heads in Bedford Row were at the windows to see
him. “I can't ask you into the carriage, for you see the governess is with
me, and I want to talk secrets to you.”
“Shall I go and make a little promenade?” said mademoiselle, innocently.
And her mistress hated her for that speech.
“No. Mr. Scully, I am sure, will let me come in for five minutes?”
Mr. Scully was only too happy. My Lady descended and walked upstairs,
leaning on the happy solicitor's arm. But how should he manage? The front
room was consecrated to clerks; there were clerks too, as ill-luck would
have it, in his private room. “Perkins is out for the day,” thought
Scully; “I will take her into his room.” And into Perkins's room he took
her—ay, and he shut the double doors after him too, and trembled as
he thought of his own happiness.
“What a charming little study,” said Lady Gorgon, seating herself. And
indeed it was very pretty: for Perkins had furnished it beautifully, and
laid out a neat tray with cakes, a cold fowl, and sherry, to entertain his
party withal. “And do you bachelors always live so well?” continued she,
pointing to the little cold collation.
Mr. Scully looked rather blank when he saw it, and a dreadful suspicion
crossed his soul; but there was no need to trouble Lady Gorgon with
explanations: therefore, at once, and with much presence of mind, he asked
her to partake of his bachelor's fare (she would refuse Mr. Scully nothing
that day). A pretty sight would it have been for young Perkins to see
strangers so unceremoniously devouring his feast. She drank—Mr.
Scully drank—and so emboldened was he by the draught that he
actually seated himself by the side of Lady Gorgon, on John Perkins's new
sofa.
Her Ladyship had of course something to say to him. She was a pious woman,
and had suddenly conceived a violent wish for building a chapel of ease at
Oldborough, to which she entreated him to subscribe. She enlarged upon the
benefits that the town would derive from it, spoke of Sunday-schools,
sweet spiritual instruction, and the duty of all well-minded persons to
give aid to the scheme.
“I will subscribe a hundred pounds,” said Scully, at the end of her
Ladyship's harangue: “would I not do anything for you?”
“Thank you, thank you, dear Mr. Scully,” said the enthusiastic woman. (How
the “dear” went burning through his soul!) “Ah!” added she, “if you WOULD
but do anything for me—if you, who are so eminently, so truly
distinguished, in a religious point of view, would but see the truth in
politics too; and if I could see your name among those of the true patriot
party in this empire, how blest—oh! how blest should I be! Poor Sir
George often says he should go to his grave happy, could he but see you
the guardian of his boy; and I, your old friend (for we WERE friends,
William), how have I wept to think of you as one of those who are bringing
our monarchy to ruin. Do, do promise me this too!” And she took his hand
and pressed it between hers.
The heart of William Pitt Scully, during this speech, was thumping up and
down with a frightful velocity and strength. His old love, the agency of
the Gorgon property—the dear widow—five thousand a year clear—a
thousand delicious hopes rushed madly through his brain, and almost took
away his reason. And there she sat—she, the loved one, pressing his
hand and looking softly into his eyes.
Down, down he plumped on his knees.
“Juliana!” shrieked he, “don't take away your hand! My love—my only
love!—speak but those blessed words again! Call me William once
more, and do with me what you will.”
Juliana cast down her eyes and said, in the very smallest type, “William!”
.....
—when the door opened, and in walked Mr. Crampton, leading Mrs.
Biggs, who could hardly contain herself for laughing, and Mr. John
Perkins, who was squeezing the arm of Miss Lucy. They had heard every word
of the two last speeches.
For at the very moment when Lady Gorgon had stopped at Mr. Scully's door,
the four above-named individuals had issued from Great James Street into
Bedford Row.
Lucy cried out that it was her aunt's carriage, and they all saw Mr.
Scully come out, bare-headed, in the sunshine, and my Lady descend, and
the pair go into the house. They meanwhile entered by Mr. Perkins's own
private door, and had been occupied in examining the delightful rooms on
the ground-floor, which were to be his dining-room and library—from
which they ascended a stair to visit the other two rooms, which were to
form Mrs. John Perkins's drawing-room and bedroom. Now whether it was that
they trod softly, or that the stairs were covered with a grand new carpet
and drugget, as was the case, or that the party within were too much
occupied in themselves to heed any outward disturbances, I know not; but
Lucy, who was advancing with John (he was saying something about one of
the apartments, the rogue!)—Lucy started and whispered, “There is
somebody in the rooms!” and at that instant began the speech already
reported, “THANK YOU, THANK YOU, DEAR MR. SCULLY,” etc. etc., which was
delivered by Lady Gorgon in a full clear voice; for, to do her Ladyship
justice, SHE had not one single grain of love for Mr. Scully, and during
the delivery of her little oration, was as cool as the coolest cucumber.
Then began the impassioned rejoinder, to which the four listened on the
landing-place; and then the little “William,” as narrated above: at which
juncture Mr. Crampton thought proper to rattle at the door, and, after a
brief pause, to enter with his party.
“William” had had time to bounce off his knees, and was on a chair at the
other end of the room.
“What, Lady Gorgon!” said Mr. Crampton, with excellent surprise, “how
delighted I am to see you! Always, I see employed in works of charity”
(the chapel-of-ease paper was on her knees), “and on such an occasion,
too,—it is really the most wonderful coincidence! My dear madam,
here is a silly fellow, a nephew of mine, who is going to marry a silly
girl, a niece of your own.”
“Sir, I—” began Lady Gorgon, rising.
“They heard every word,” whispered Mr. Crampton eagerly. “Come forward,
Mr. Perkins, and show yourself.” Mr. Perkins made a genteel bow. “Miss
Lucy, please to shake hands with your aunt; and this, my dear madam, is
Mrs. Biggs, of Mecklenburgh Square, who, if she were not too old, might
marry a gentleman in the Treasury, who is your very humble servant.” And
with this gallant speech, old Mr. Crampton began helping everybody to
sherry and cake.
As for William Pitt Scully, he had disappeared, evaporated, in the most
absurd sneaking way imaginable. Lady Gorgon made good her retreat
presently, with much dignity, her countenance undismayed, and her face
turned resolutely to the foe.
* * *
About five days afterwards, that memorable contest took place in the House
of Commons, in which the partisans of Mr. Macabaw were so very nearly
getting him the Speakership. On the day that the report of the debate
appeared in the Times, there appeared also an announcement in the Gazette
as follows:—
“The King has been pleased to appoint John Perkins, Esquire, to be
Deputy-Subcomptroller of His Majesty's Tape Office and Custos of the
Sealing-Wax Department.”
Mr. Crampton showed this to his nephew with great glee, and was chuckling
to think how Mr. William Pitt Scully would be annoyed, who had expected
the place, when Perkins burst out laughing and said, “By heavens, here is
my own speech! Scully has spoken every word of it; he has only put in Mr.
Pincher's name in the place of Mr. Macabaw's.”
“He is ours now,” responded his uncle, “and I told you WE WOULD HAVE HIM
FOR NOTHING. I told you, too, that you should be married from Sir George
Gorgon's, and here is proof of it.”
It was a letter from Lady Gorgon, in which she said that, “had she known
Mr. Perkins to be a nephew of her friend Mr. Crampton, she never for a
moment would have opposed his marriage with her niece, and she had written
that morning to her dear Lucy, begging that the marriage breakfast should
take place in Baker Street.”
“It shall be in Mecklenburgh Square,” said John Perkins stoutly; and in
Mecklenburgh Square it was.
William Pitt Scully, Esquire, was, as Mr. Crampton said, hugely annoyed at
the loss of the place for his nephew. He had still, however, his hopes to
look forward to, but these were unluckily dashed by the coming in of the
Whigs. As for Sir George Gorgon, when he came to ask about his peerage,
Hawksby told him that they could not afford to lose him in the Commons,
for a Liberal Member would infallibly fill his place.
And now that the Tories are out and the Whigs are in, strange to say a
Liberal does fill his place. This Liberal is no other than Sir George
Gorgon himself, who is still longing to be a lord, and his lady is still
devout and intriguing. So that the Members for Oldborough have changed
sides, and taunt each other with apostasy, and hate each other cordially.
Mr. Crampton still chuckles over the manner in which he tricked them both,
and talks of those five minutes during which he stood on the
landing-place, and hatched and executed his “Bedford-Row Conspiracy.”
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Bedford-Row Conspiracy, by
William Makepeace Thackeray
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