The Caxtons: A Family Picture — Complete. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон
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triumph of the wittiest rogue. My friend here has no chance!”
“‘Praise from Sir Hubert Stanley,’ hem—yes, Hal Peacock may be witty, but he is no rogue.”
“This was not exactly my meaning,” said the boy, dryly.
“‘A fico for your meaning,’ as the Swan says.—Hallo, you sir! Bully Host, clear the table—fresh tumblers—hot water—sugar—lemon—and—The bottle’s out! Smoke, sir?” and Mr. Peacock offered me a cigar.
Upon my refusal, he carefully twirled round a very uninviting specimen of some fabulous havanna, moistened it all over, as a boa-constrictor may do the ox he prepares for deglutition, bit off one end, and lighting the other from a little machine for that purpose which he drew from his pocket, he was soon absorbed in a vigorous effort (which the damp inherent in the weed long resisted) to poison the surrounding atmosphere. Therewith the young gentleman, either from emulation or in self-defence, extracted from his own pouch a cigar-case of notable elegance,—being of velvet, embroidered apparently by some fair hand, for “From Juliet” was very legibly worked thereon,—selected a cigar of better appearance than that in favor with his comrade, and seemed quite as familiar with the tobacco as he had been with the brandy.
“Fast, sir, fast lad that,” quoth Mr. Peacock, in the short gasps which his resolute struggle with his uninviting victim alone permitted; “nothing but [puff, puff] your true [suck, suck] syl—syl—sylva—does for him. Out, by the Lord! the ‘jaws of darkness have devoured it up;’” and again Mr. Peacock applied to his phosphoric machine. This time patience and perseverance succeeded, and the heart of the cigar responded by a dull red spark (leaving the sides wholly untouched) to the indefatigable ardor of its wooer.
This feat accomplished, Mr. Peacock exclaimed triumphantly: “And now, what say you, my lads, to a game at cards? Three of us,—whist and a dummy; nothing better, eh?” As he spoke, he produced from his coat-pocket a red silk handkerchief, a bunch of keys, a nightcap, a tooth-brush, a piece of shaving-soap, four lumps of sugar, the remains of a bun, a razor, and a pack of cards. Selecting the last, and returning its motley accompaniments to the abyss whence they had emerged, he turned up, with a jerk of his thumb and finger, the knave of clubs, and placing it on the top of the rest, slapped the cards emphatically on the table.
“You are very good, but I don’t know whist,” said I.
“Not know whist—not been to a play—not smoke! Then pray tell me, young man,” said he majestically, and with a frown, “what on earth you do know.”
Much consternated by this direct appeal, and greatly ashamed of my ignorance of the cardinal points of erudition in Mr. Peacock’s estimation, I hung my head and looked down.
“That is right,” renewed Mr. Peacock, more benignly; “you have the ingenuous shame of youth. It is promising, sir; ‘lowliness is young ambition’s ladder,’ as the Swan says. Mount the first step, and learn whist,—sixpenny points to begin with.”
Notwithstanding any newness in actual life, I had had the good fortune to learn a little of the way before me, by those much-slandered guides called novels,—works which are often to the inner world what maps are to the outer; and sundry recollections of “Gil Blas” and the “Vicar of Wakefield” came athwart me. I had no wish to emulate the worthy Moses, and felt that I might not have even the shagreen spectacles to boast of in my negotiations with this new Mr. Jenkinson. Accordingly, shaking my head, I called for my bill. As I took out my purse,—knit by my mother,—with one gold piece in one corner, and sundry silver ones in the other, I saw that the eyes of Mr. Peacock twinkled.
“Poor spirit, sir! poor spirit, young man! ‘This avarice sticks deep,’ as the Swan beautifully observes. ‘Nothing venture, nothing have.’”
“Nothing have, nothing venture,” I returned, plucking up spirit.
“Nothing have! Young sir, do you doubt my solidity—my capital—my ‘golden joys’?”
“Sir, I spoke of myself. I am not rich enough to gamble.”
“Gamble!” exclaimed Mr. Peacock, in virtuous indignation—“gamble! what do you mean, sir? You insult me!” and he rose threateningly, and slapped his white hat on his wig. “Pshaw! let him alone, Hal,” said the boy, contemptuously. “Sir, if he is impertinent, thrash him.” (This was to me.) “Impertinent! thrash!” exclaimed Mr. Peacock, waxing very red; but catching the sneer on his companion’s lip, he sat down, and subsided into sullen silence.
Meanwhile I paid my bill. This duty—rarely a cheerful one—performed, I looked round for my knapsack, and perceived that it was in the boy’s hands. He was very coolly reading the address, which, in case of accidents, I prudently placed on it: “Pisistratus Caxton, Esq.,—Hotel,—Street, Strand.”
I took my knapsack from him, more surprised at such a breach of good manners in a young gentleman who knew life so well, than I should have been at a similar error on the part of Mr. Peacock. He made no apology, but nodded farewell, and stretched himself at full length on the bench. Mr. Peacock, now absorbed in a game of patience, vouchsafed no return to my parting salutation, and in another moment I was alone on the high-road. My thoughts turned long upon the young man I had left; mixed with a sort of instinctive compassionate foreboding of an ill future for one with such habits and in such companionship, I felt an involuntary admiration, less even for his good looks than his ease, audacity, and the careless superiority he assumed over a comrade so much older than himself.
The day twas far gone when I saw the spires of a town at which I intended to rest for the night. The horn of a coach behind made me turn my head, and as the vehicle passed me, I saw on the outside Mr. Peacock, still struggling with a cigar,—it could scarcely be the same,—and his young friend stretched on the roof amongst the luggage, leaning his handsome head on his hand, and apparently unobservant both of me and every one else.
CHAPTER V
I am apt—judging egotistically, perhaps, from my own experience—to measure a young man’s chance of what is termed practical success in life by what may seem at first two very vulgar qualities; viz., his inquisitiveness and his animal vivacity. A curiosity which springs forward to examine everything new to his information; a nervous activity, approaching to restlessness, which rarely allows bodily fatigue to interfere with some object in view,—constitute, in my mind, very profitable stock-in-hand to begin the world with.
Tired as I was, after I had performed my ablutions and refreshed myself in the little coffee-room of the inn at which I put up, with the pedestrian’s best beverage, familiar and oft calumniated tea, I could not resist the temptation of the broad, bustling street, which, lighted with gas, shone on me through the dim windows of the coffee-room. I had never before seen a large town, and the contrast of lamp-lit, busy night in the streets, with sober, deserted night in the lanes and fields, struck me forcibly.
I sauntered out, therefore, jostling and jostled, now gazing at the windows, now hurried along the tide of life, till I found myself before a cookshop, round which clustered a small knot of housewives, citizens, and hungry-looking children. While contemplating this group, and marvelling how it comes to pass that the staple business of earth’s majority is how, when, and where to eat, my ear was struck with “‘In Troy there lies the scene,’ as the illustrious Will remarks.”
Looking round, I perceived Mr. Peacock pointing his stick towards an open doorway next to the cookshop, the hall beyond which was lighted with gas, while painted in black letters on a pane of glass over the door was the word “Billiards.”
Suiting the action to the word, the speaker plunged at once into the aperture, and vanished. The boy-companion was following more slowly, when his eye caught mine. A slight blush came over his dark cheek; he stopped, and leaning against the door-jambs, gazed on me hard and long before he said: “Well met again, sir! You find it hard to amuse yourself in this dull place; the nights are long out of London.”