It was a very tedious journey, and it took the whole day to accomplish
a distance which a rapid express train now can achieve in an hour. The
coach carried six inside passengers, and they had to dine on the road.
All the passengers were strangers to Mr. Ferrars, and he was by them
unknown; one of them purchased, though with difficulty, a second
edition of the “Times” as they approached London, and favoured his
fellow-travellers with the news of the change of ministry. There was
much excitement, and the purchaser of the paper gave it as his opinion,
“that it was an intrigue of the Court and the Tories, and would never
do.” Another modestly intimated that he thought there was a decided
reaction. A third announced that England would never submit to be
governed by O’Connell.
As the gloom of evening descended, Mr. Ferrars felt depressed. Though
his life at Hurstley had been pensive and melancholy, he felt now the
charm and the want of that sweet domestic distraction which had often
prevented his mind from over-brooding, and had softened life by sympathy
in little things. Nor was it without emotion that he found himself again
in London, that proud city where once he had himself been so proud. The
streets were lighted, and seemed swarming with an infinite population,
and the coach finally stopped at a great inn in the Strand, where Mr.
Ferrars thought it prudent to secure accommodation for the night. It
was too late to look after the Rodneys, but in deference to the strict
injunction of Mrs. Ferrars, he paid them a visit next morning on his way
to his political chief.
In the days of the great modistes, when an English lady might absolutely
be dressed in London, the most celebrated mantua-maker in that city was
Madame Euphrosyne. She was as fascinating as she was fashionable.
She was so graceful, her manners were so pretty, so natural, and so
insinuating! She took so lively an interest in her clients--her very
heart was in their good looks. She was a great favourite of Mrs.
Ferrars, and that lady of Madame Euphrosyne. She assured Mrs. Ferrars
that she was prouder of dressing Mrs. Ferrars than all the other fine
ladies in London together, and Mrs. Ferrars believed her. Unfortunately,
while in the way of making a large fortune, Madame Euphrosyne, who was
romantic, fell in love with, and married, a very handsome and worthless
husband, whose good looks had obtained for him a position in the
company of Drury Lane Theatre, then a place of refined resort, which his
abilities did not justify. After pillaging and plundering his wife for
many years, he finally involved her in such engagements, that she had
to take refuge in the Bankruptcy Court. Her business was ruined, and her
spirit was broken, and she died shortly after of adversity and chagrin.
Her daughter Sylvia was then eighteen, and had inherited with the grace
of her mother the beauty of her less reputable parent. Her figure
was slight and undulating, and she was always exquisitely dressed. A
brilliant complexion set off to advantage her delicate features, which,
though serene, were not devoid of a certain expression of archness. Her
white hands were delicate, her light eyes inclined to merriment, and her
nose quite a gem, though a little turned up.
After their ruin, her profligate father told her that her face was her
fortune, and that she must provide for herself, in which she would find
no difficulty. But Sylvia, though she had never enjoyed the advantage of
any training, moral or religious, had no bad impulses even if she had
no good ones, was of a rather cold character, and extremely prudent. She
recoiled from the life of riot, and disorder, and irregularity, in
which she had unwittingly passed her days, and which had terminated so
tragically, and she resolved to make an effort to secure for herself
a different career. She had heard that Mrs. Ferrars was in want of an
attendant, and she determined to apply for the post. As one of the
chief customers of her mother, Sylvia had been in the frequent habit of
waiting on that lady, with whom she had become a favourite. She was
so pretty, and the only person who could fit Mrs. Ferrars. Her appeal,
therefore, was not in vain; it was more than successful. Mrs. Ferrars
was attracted by Sylvia. Mrs. Ferrars was magnificent, generous, and
she liked to be a patroness and surrounded by favourites. She determined
that Sylvia should not sink into a menial position; she adopted her as a
humble friend, and one who every day became more regarded by her. Sylvia
arranged her invitations to her receptions, a task which required finish
and precision; sometimes wrote her notes. She spoke and wrote French
too, and that was useful, was a musician, and had a pretty voice. Above
all, she was a first-rate counsellor in costume; and so, looking also
after Mrs. Ferrars’ dogs and birds, she became almost one of the family;
dined with them often when they were alone, and was frequently Mrs.
Ferrars’ companion in her carriage.
Sylvia, though not by nature impulsive, really adored her patroness. She
governed her manners and she modelled her dress on that great original,
and, next to Mrs. Ferrars, Sylvia in time became nearly the finest lady
in London. There was, indeed, much in Mrs. Ferrars to captivate a
person like Sylvia. Mrs. Ferrars was beautiful, fashionable, gorgeous,
wonderfully expensive, and, where her taste was pleased, profusely
generous. Her winning manner was not less irresistible because it was
sometimes uncertain, and she had the art of being intimate without being
familiar.
When the crash came, Sylvia was really broken-hearted, or believed she
was, and implored that she might attend the deposed sovereigns into
exile; but that was impossible, however anxious they might be as to
the future of their favourite. Her destiny was sooner decided than they
could have anticipated. There was a member of the household, or rather
family, in Hill Street, who bore almost the same relation to Mr. Ferrars
as Sylvia to his wife. This was Mr. Rodney, a remarkably good-looking
person, by nature really a little resembling his principal, and
completing the resemblance by consummate art. The courtiers of Alexander
of Macedonia could not study their chief with more devotion, or more
sedulously imitate his mien and carriage, than did Mr. Rodney that
distinguished individual of whom he was the humble friend, and who he
was convinced was destined to be Prime Minister of England. Mr. Rodney
was the son of the office-keeper of old Mr. Ferrars, and it was the
ambition of the father that his son, for whom he had secured a sound
education, should become a member of the civil service. It had become an
apothegm in the Ferrars family that something must be done for Rodney,
and whenever the apparent occasion failed, which was not unfrequent, old
Mr. Ferrars used always to add, “Never mind; so long as I live, Rodney
shall never want a home.” The object of all this kindness, however, was
little distressed by their failures in his preferment. He had implicit
faith in the career of his friend and master, and looked forward to the
time when it might not be impossible that he himself might find a haven
in a commissionership. Recently Mr. Ferrars had been able to confer
on him a small post with duties not too engrossing, and which did not
prevent his regular presence in Hill Street, where he made himself
generally useful.
If there were anything confidential to be accomplished in their domestic
life, everything might be trusted to his discretion and entire devotion.
He supervised the establishment without injudiciously interfering with
the house-steward, copied secret papers for Mr. Ferrars, and when that
gentleman was out of office acted as his private secretary. Mr. Rodney
was the most official person in the ministerial circle. He considered
human nature only with reference to office. No one was so intimately
acquainted with all the details of the lesser patronage as himself,
and his hours of study were passed in the pages of the “Peerage” and in
penetrating the mysteries of the “Royal Calendar.”
The events of 1832, therefore, to this gentleman were scarcely a less
severe blow than to the Ferrars family itself. Indeed, like his chief,
he looked upon himself as the victim of a revolution. Mr. Rodney had
always been an admirer of Sylvia, but no more. He had accompanied her
to the theatre, and had attended her to the park, but this was quite
understood on both sides only to be gallantry; both, perhaps, in their
prosperity, with respect to the serious step of life, had indulged in
higher dreams. But the sympathy of sorrow is stronger than the sympathy
of prosperity. In the darkness of their lives, each required comfort: he
murmured some accents of tender solace, and Sylvia agreed to become Mrs.
Rodney.
When they considered their position, the prospect was not free from
anxiety. To marry and then separate is, where there is affection,
trying. His income would secure them little more than a roof, but how to
live under that roof was a mystery. For her to become a governess, and
for him to become a secretary, and to meet only on an occasional Sunday,
was a sorry lot. And yet both possessed accomplishments or acquirements
which ought in some degree to be productive. Rodney had a friend, and he
determined to consult him.
That friend was no common person; he was Mr. Vigo, by birth a
Yorkshireman, and gifted with all the attributes, physical and
intellectual, of that celebrated race. At present he was the most
fashionable tailor in London, and one whom many persons consulted.
Besides being consummate in his art, Mr. Vigo had the reputation
of being a man of singularly good judgment. He was one who obtained
influence over all with whom he came in contact, and as his business
placed him in contact with various classes, but especially with the
class socially most distinguished, his influence was great. The golden
youth who repaired to his counters came there not merely to obtain
raiment of the best material and the most perfect cut, but to see and
talk with Mr. Vigo, and to ask his opinion on various points. There
was a spacious room where, if they liked, they might smoke a cigar, and
“Vigo’s cigars” were something which no one could rival. If they liked
to take a glass of hock with their tobacco, there was a bottle ready
from the cellars of Johannisberg. Mr. Vigo’s stable was almost as famous
as its master; he drove the finest horses in London, and rode the
best hunters in the Vale of Aylesbury. With all this, his manners were
exactly what they should be. He was neither pretentious nor servile, but
simple, and with becoming respect for others and for himself. He never
took a liberty with any one, and such treatment, as is generally the
case, was reciprocal.
Mr. Vigo was much attached to Mr. Rodney, and was proud of his intimate
acquaintance with him. He wanted a friend not of his own order, for that
would not increase or improve his ideas, but one conversant with the
habits and feelings of a superior class, and yet he did not want a fine
gentleman for an intimate, who would have been either an insolent patron
or a designing parasite. Rodney had relations with the aristocracy,
with the political world, and could feel the pulse of public life. His
appearance was engaging, his manners gentle if not gentlemanlike, and
he had a temper never disturbed. This is a quality highly appreciated
by men of energy and fire, who may happen not to have a complete
self-control.
When Rodney detailed to his friend the catastrophe that had occurred and
all its sad consequences, Mr. Vigo heard him in silence, occasionally
nodding his head in sympathy or approbation, or scrutinising a statement
with his keen hazel eye. When his visitor had finished, he said--
“When there has been a crash, there is nothing like a change of scene. I
propose that you and Mrs. Rodney should come and stay with me a week at
my house at Barnes, and there a good many things may occur to us.”
And so, towards the end of the week, when the Rodneys had exhausted
their whole programme of projects, against every one of which there
seemed some invincible objection, their host said, “You know I rather
speculate in houses. I bought one last year in Warwick Street. It is a
large roomy house in a quiet situation, though in a bustling quarter,
just where members of parliament would like to lodge. I have put it in
thorough repair. What I propose is that you should live there, let the
first and second floors--they are equally good--and live on the ground
floor yourselves, which is amply convenient. We will not talk about
rent till the year is over and we see how it answers. The house is
unfurnished, but that is nothing. I will introduce you to a friend of
mine who will furnish it for you solidly and handsomely, you paying
a percentage on the amount expended. He will want a guarantee, but of
course I will be that. It is an experiment, but try it. Try it for
a year; at any rate you will be a householder, and you will have the
opportunity of thinking of something else.”
Hitherto the Rodneys had been successful in their enterprise, and the
soundness of Mr. Vigo’s advice had been proved. Their house was full,
and of the best tenants. Their first floor was taken by a distinguished
M.P., a county member of repute whom Mr. Rodney had known before the
“revolution,” and who was so pleased with his quarters, and the comfort
and refinement of all about him, that to ensure their constant enjoyment
he became a yearly tenant. Their second floor, which was nearly as good
as their first, was inhabited by a young gentleman of fashion, who took
them originally only by the week, and who was always going to give
them up, but never did. The weekly lodger went to Paris, and he went
to German baths, and he went to country houses, and he was frequently
a long time away, but he never gave up his lodgings. When therefore Mr.
Ferrars called in Warwick Street, the truth is the house was full and
there was no vacant room for him. But this the Rodneys would not admit.
Though they were worldly people, and it seemed impossible that anything
more could be gained from the ruined house of Hurstley, they had,
like many other people, a superstition, and their superstition was an
adoration of the family of Ferrars. The sight of their former master,
who, had it not been for the revolution, might have been Prime Minister
of England, and the recollection of their former mistress and all her
splendour, and all the rich dresses which she used to give so profusely
to her dependent, quite overwhelmed them. Without consultation this
sympathising couple leapt to the same conclusion. They assured Mr.
Ferrars they could accommodate him, and that he should find everything
prepared for him when he called again, and they resigned to him, without
acknowledging it, their own commodious and well-furnished chamber, which
Mrs. Rodney prepared for him with the utmost solicitude, arranging his
writing-table and materials as he used to have them in Hill Street, and
showing by a variety of modes she remembered all his ways.