It was only ten o’clock when Endymion returned to Warwick Street, and
for the first time in his life used a pass-key, with which Mr. Rodney
had furnished him in the morning, and re-entered his new home. He
thought he had used it very quietly, and was lighting his candle and
about to steal up to his lofty heights, when from the door of the
parlour, which opened into the passage, emerged Miss Imogene, who took
the candlestick from his hand and insisted on waiting upon him.
“I thought I heard something,” she said; “you must let me light you up,
for you can hardly yet know your way. I must see too if all is right;
you may want something.”
So she tripped up lightly before him, showing, doubtless without
premeditation, as well-turned an ankle and as pretty a foot as could
fall to a damsel’s fortunate lot. “My sister and Mr. Rodney have gone to
the play,” she said, “but they left strict instructions with me to see
that you were comfortable, and that you wanted for nothing that we could
supply.”
“You are too kind,” said Endymion, as she lighted the candles on his
dressing-table, “and, to tell you the truth, these are luxuries I am not
accustomed to, and to which I am not entitled.”
“And yet,” she said, with a glance of blended admiration and pity, “they
tell me time was when gold was not good enough for you, and I do not
think it could be.”
“Such kindness as this,” said Endymion, “is more precious than gold.”
“I hope you will find your things well arranged. All your clothes are in
these two drawers; the coats in the bottom one, and your linen in those
above. You will not perhaps be able to find your pocket-handkerchiefs
at first. They are in this sachet; my sister made it herself. Mr. Rodney
says you are to be called at eight o’clock and breakfast at nine. I
think everything is right. Good-night, Mr. Endymion.”
The Rodney household was rather a strange one. The first two floors, as
we have mentioned, were let, and at expensive rates, for the apartments
were capacious and capitally furnished, and the situation, if not
distinguished, was extremely convenient--quiet from not being a
thoroughfare, and in the heart of civilisation. They only kept a couple
of servants, but their principal lodgers had their personal attendants.
And yet after sunset the sisters appeared and presided at their
tea-table, always exquisitely dressed; seldom alone, for Mr. Rodney
had many friends, and lived in a capacious apartment, rather finely
furnished, with a round table covered with gaudy print-books, a
mantelpiece crowded with vases of mock Dresden, and a cottage piano, on
which Imogene could accompany her more than pleasing voice.
Somehow or other, the process is difficult to trace, Endymion not
unfrequently found himself at Mrs. Rodney’s tea-table. On the first
occasion or so, he felt himself a little shy and embarrassed, but it
soon became natural to him, and he would often escape from the symposia
at Joe’s, and, instead of the Divan, find in Warwick Street a more
congenial scene. There were generally some young men there, who seemed
delighted with the ladies, listened with enthusiasm to Imogene’s
singing, and were allowed to smoke. They were evidently gentlemen, and
indeed Mr. Rodney casually mentioned to Endymion that one of the most
frequent guests might some day even be a peer of the realm. Sometimes
there was a rubber of whist, and, if wanted, Mrs. Rodney took a hand in
it; Endymion sitting apart and conversing with her sister, who amused
him by her lively observations, indicating even flashes of culture; but
always addressed him without the slightest pretence and with the utmost
naturalness. This was not the case with Mr. Rodney; pretence with him
was ingrained, and he was at first somewhat embarrassed by the presence
of Endymion, as he could hardly maintain before his late patron’s son
his favourite character of the aristocratic victim of revolution. And
yet this drawback was more than counterbalanced by the gratification of
his vanity in finding a Ferrars his habitual guest. Such a luxury seemed
a dangerous indulgence, but he could not resist it, and the moth was
always flying round the candle. There was no danger, however, and that
Mr. Rodney soon found out. Endymion was born with tact, and it came to
him as much from goodness of heart as fineness of taste. Mr. Rodney,
therefore, soon resumed his anecdotes of great men and his personal
experience of their sayings, manners, and customs, with which he was
in the habit of enlivening or ornamenting the whist table; occasionally
introducing Endymion to the notice of the table by mentioning in a low
tone, “That is Mr. Ferrars, in a certain sense under my care; his father
is a privy councillor, and had it not been for the revolution--for I
maintain, and always will, the Reform Bill was neither more nor less
than a revolution--would probably have been Prime Minister. He was my
earliest and my best friend.”
When there were cards, there was always a little supper: a lobster and
a roasted potato and that sort of easy thing, and curious drinks, which
the sisters mixed and made, and which no one else, at least all said so,
could mix and make. On fitting occasions a bottle of champagne appeared,
and then the person for whom the wine was produced was sure with
wonderment to say, “Where did you get this champagne, Rodney? Could you
get me some?” Mr. Rodney shook his head and scarcely gave a hope,
but subsequently, when the praise in consequence had continued and
increased, would observe, “Do you really want some? I cannot promise,
but I will try. Of course they will ask a high figure.”
“Anything they like, my dear Rodney.”
And in about a week’s time the gentleman was so fortunate as to get his
champagne.
There was one subject in which Mr. Rodney appeared to be particularly
interested, and that was racing. The turf at that time had not developed
into that vast institution of national demoralisation which it now
exhibits. That disastrous character may be mainly attributed to the
determination of our legislators to put down gaming-houses, which,
practically speaking, substituted for the pernicious folly of a
comparatively limited class the ruinous madness of the community. There
were many influences by which in the highest classes persons might
be discouraged or deterred from play under a roof; and in the great
majority of cases such a habit was difficult, not to say impossible, to
indulge. But in shutting up gaming-houses, we brought the gaming-table
into the street, and its practices became the pursuit of those who
would otherwise have never witnessed or even thought of them. No doubt
Crockford’s had its tragedies, but all its disasters and calamities
together would hardly equal a lustre of the ruthless havoc which has
ensued from its suppression.
Nevertheless, in 1835 men made books, and Mr. Rodney was not inexpert
in a composition which requires no ordinary qualities of character
and intelligence; method, judgment, self-restraint, not too much
imagination, perception of character, and powers of calculation. All
these qualities were now in active demand and exercise; for the Derby
was at hand, and the Rodney family, deeply interested in the result,
were to attend the celebrated festival.
One of the young gentlemen, who sometimes smoked a cigar and sometimes
tasted a lobster in their parlour, and who seemed alike and equally
devoted to Mrs. Rodney and her sister, insisted upon taking them to
Epsom in his drag, and they themselves were to select the party to
accompany them. That was not difficult, for they were naturally all
friends of their munificent host with one exception. Imogene stipulated
that Endymion should be asked, and Mr. Rodney supported the suggestion.
“He is the son of the privy councillor the Right Hon. William Pitt
Ferrars, my earliest and my best friend, and in a certain sense is under
my care.”
The drive to the Derby was not then shorn of its humours and glories. It
was the Carnival of England, with equipages as numerous and various,
and with banter not less quick and witty. It was a bright day--a day, no
doubt, of wild hopes and terrible fears, but yet, on the whole, of joy
and exultation. And no one was happier and prouder than pretty Mrs.
Rodney, exquisitely dressed and sitting on the box of a patrician
drag, beside its noble owner. On the seat behind them was Imogene, with
Endymion on one side, and on the other the individual “who might one
day be a peer.” Mr. Rodney and some others, including Mr. Vigo, faced
a couple of grooms, who sat with folded arms and unmoved countenances,
fastidiously stolid amid all the fun, and grave even when they opened
the champagne.
The right horse won. Mr. Rodney and his friends pocketed a good stake,
and they demolished their luncheon of luxuries with frantic gaiety.
“It is almost as happy as our little suppers in Warwick Street,”
whispered their noble driver to his companion.
“Oh! much more than anything you can find there,” simpered Mrs. Rodney.
“I declare to you, some of the happiest hours of my life have been
passed in Warwick Street,” gravely murmured her friend.
“I wish I could believe that,” said Mrs. Rodney.
As for Endymion, he enjoyed himself amazingly. The whole scene was new
to him--he had never been at a race before, and this was the most famous
of races. He did not know he had betted, but he found he too had won a
little money, Mr. Rodney having put him on something, though what that
meant he had not the remotest idea. Imogene, however, assured him it was
all right--Mr. Rodney constantly put her on something. He enjoyed
the luncheon too; the cold chicken, and the French pies, the wondrous
salads, and the iced champagne. It seemed that Imogene was always
taking care that his plate or his glass should be filled. Everything was
delightful, and his noble host, who, always courteous, had hitherto been
reserved, called him “Ferrars.”
What with the fineness of the weather, the inspirations of the excited
and countless multitude, the divine stimulus of the luncheon, the
kindness of his charming companions, and the general feeling of
enjoyment and success that seemed to pervade his being, Endymion felt
as he were almost acting a distinguished part in some grand triumph of
antiquity, as returning home, the four splendid dark chestnuts swept
along, two of their gay company playing bugles, and the grooms sitting
with folded arms of haughty indifference.
Just at this moment his eye fell upon an omnibus full, inside and out,
of clerks in his office. There was a momentary stoppage, and while he
returned the salute of several of them, his quick eye could not avoid
recognising the slightly surprised glance of Trenchard, the curious
amazement of Seymour Hicks, and the indignant astonishment of St. Barbe.
“Our friend Ferrars seems in tiptop company,” said Trenchard.
“That may have been a countess on the box,” said Seymour Hicks, “for I
observed an earl’s coronet on the drag. I cannot make out who it is.”
“There is no more advantage in going with four horses than with two,”
said St. Barbe; “indeed, I believe you go slower. It is mere pride;
puffed-up vanity. I should like to send those two grooms with their
folded arms to the galleys--I hate those fellows. For my part, I never
was behind four horses except in a stage-coach. No peer of the realm
ever took me on his drag. However, a day of reckoning will come; the
people won’t stand this much longer.”
Jawett was not there, for he disapproved of races.