Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 78

Anyone at all acquainted with metropolitan life cannot fail to have been struck with the number of objects which seem, by some mysterious agency, to fade away and disappear altogether.

Years ago, when the disappearance of Mr. Speke (not the “great discoverer,” but the great discovered) attracted so much attention, the papers were full of stories of similar mysterious absences of some people who had gone out some day, “in their usual health and spirits,” and never came back again, nor been heard of, dead or alive, since.

It is impossible they could have been all murdered.

It is astonishing the number of persons who are missing annually, and who are never heard of more.

Take city life in prosperous times—​what lots of new undertakings are daily set on foot, which utterly fail and languish in bad years.

What becomes of the “runners” who, in times of commercial infliction, are so well known in every office?

Individuals who are agents for the sale of all manner of speculative securities, who invite you to realise a swift and easy fortune by purchasing a lead mine in the antipodes, or a coal field at the North Pole, or by taking shares in a projected company for journeying in balloons to the moon.

At seasons of commercial depression these individuals disappear as completely as the summer grasshoppers vanish at the approach of winter.

Places disappear in an equal degree—​the old landmarks are passing rapidly away from London. Holborn-hill has gone, Temple-bar has vanished—​or the last remains of it will in a few days—​Vauxhall-gardens, Cremorne, are things of the past, and the once famous Argyll-rooms have received a knock-down blow.

It is to this last-named place that Peace and his friend are about to pay a visit.

After leaving the “Tumblers” Mr. Kempshead, who was what is called a late bird, proposed that they should drop into the Argyll-rooms. Peace gave his assent to the proposition, and the two companions paid the entrance fee and entered the inner penetralia of that establishment.

They found the place thronged with persons of both sexes—​the female, if anything, predominating. A few hired professionals were dancing mechanically and languidly to a very indifferent band.

People did not go to the Argyll to dance; they went to see and be seen. It was a recognised meeting place—​for ladies and gentlemen shall we say? Perhaps males and females would be the more correct term.

If any one went there for the entertainment they were sure to be miserably disappointed.

The same remark will apply with equal force to the Mabille in Paris, which is dull and depressing to the last degree.

Not so, however, with the Argyll in its halcyon days. There was always a certain amount of life about it, and albeit they were many of them “frail,” some of the most beautiful women in the world were wont to display themselves at this celebrated establishment.

Peace, who was always an admirer of the fair sex, was perfectly charmed with the array of beauty which met his gaze.

He and Kempshead strolled through the place, observing as they did so its most noticeable features.

“I never would have believed it unless I had seen it with my own eyes,” he exclaimed.

“Believed what?”

“Why that such immense throngs of persons should visit these rooms—​then the women! I wouldn’t have missed seeing this on any account.”

A fair Cyprian now came to the front, and asked them to treat her with something to drink.

She had evidently some little knowledge of Kempshead, whom she addressed in a familiar manner.

There was, however, nothing remarkable in this, since most of the ladies who were in the habit of paying nocturnal visits to the Argyll were generally pretty familiar with most persons, whether strangers or otherwise.

“My friend is of a retiring disposition,” said Kempshead.

“Indeed! I’m sorry for him, poor fellow,” returned the girl; “but let the gentleman speak for himself.”

Peace drew towards one of the refreshment counters, and asked the lady what she would have.

She elected to have a glass of port wine.

This was ordered, with seltzers and brandies for the two gentlemen.

“Your friend is from the country; is he not?” said the lady.

“Yes: he’s the celebrated ‘young man from the country,’ about whom you have heard so much.”

“I thought so. Going to stop long in London, sir?”

“Not very long,” said Peace, eyeing the questioner.

“Have you got a sweetheart here?”

“Where?”

“In London.”

“I haven’t been here more than two or three days.”

“Then perhaps you want one. Shall I be your sweetheart?”

“You are a deal too pretty, my dear. This is a lovely girl, isn’t she,” said our hero, chucking her under the chin, and turning towards his friend.

“Oh, dear yes; a most charming creature!”

Then all three laughed as if something clever had been said.

“Here’s to our better acquaintance, darling,” said the young lady, raising the glass to her lips. “I hope you’ll come and see me before you leave London.”

“Come and see you! I don’t know where you live.”

“I live at Brompton.”

“With your parents?”

“No—​with an elder sister. I shall be delighted to make your acquaintance. My place is not half-an-hour’s ride from here. Let’s have a cab and I’ll show you where it is.”

“No, not to-night, my dear, I am otherwise engaged; but on some other occasion I shall be most delighted.”

“Yes, on some other occasion,” chimed in Kempshead, putting his arm in that of his friend, and sauntering towards the door of the establishment.

“It’s too bad to take him off like that,” said the girl, pouting. “One would think you were his keeper. Ha, ha!” She laughed what was meant to be a merry laugh, but it was forced, hollow, and unreal.

Peace and Kempshead passed into Windmill-street, and in a few seconds were at the corner of the Haymarket.

The throngs of persons who were assembled here and in the adjacent streets seemed to Peace to be almost incredible. It appeared as if all the women in London had, by common consent, assembled in this quarter of the town.

It is not possible to convey to the minds of those of our readers who never witnessed the night scenes in this locality, some twenty or five-and-twenty years ago, the appearance it presented.

Women dressed in the height of fashion, many of them being possessed of a rare order of beauty; languid swells, sporting and betting men, together with others of a still less reputable character, congregated together in one heterogeneous throng.

Anyone seeing these assemblies for the first time would naturally come to the conclusion that the metropolis was a city devoted to nothing but pleasure.

Peace was astounded—​as well he might be. He had heard of these gatherings, had seen a good deal of provincial life, but the reality far exceeded any description that had been given him.

“My word!” said he to Kempshead, “London is a place. What on earth brings all these people here?”

His companion shrugged his shoulders.

“It is always like this, every night the same, that’s all I know. It’s a promenade—​a sort of carnival; but let us go down the Haymarket.”

The two companions threaded their way through the throng of people. At about half-way down the street a still denser crowd was collected. From this proceeded at intervals cheers and loud peals of laughter.

The young men elbowed their way in the crowd, and then discovered the cause of the merriment.

A gentleman in a tourist’s suit was standing on his head in the middle of the cab rank. He was cheered and encouraged by some of his boon companions, as well as the cab-drivers.

“Did you ever see such a consummate donkey—​the fool?” ejaculated Kempshead. “He calls himself a gentleman, I suppose?”

“Bravo—​bravo, well done!” shouted several of the throng.

The crowd grew denser and denser, and in a short time the pathway became blocked up.

A tall policeman came forward and addressed the simpleton who was making himself so ridiculous.

“Now, then, enough of this,” cried the constable. “Do you hear? Give over and move on.”

“All right, old man, I’m not hurting you or any one. Mind your own business, and I’ll mind mine.”

No. 18.

ALF GAVE HIS ASSAILANT A BLOW, WHICH SENT HIM REELING.

“Give over, I tell you,” said the policeman. “You are causing an obstruction, and I shall have to take you into custody.”

“He’s not doing any harm, Mr. Policeman,” said one of his pals; “he’s only doing it for a wager—​let him alone.”

“Don’t mind what the bobby says,” called out a voice from the crowd; “he daren’t do anything. A gentleman has a right to amuse himself after his own fashion.”

The constable stooped down, caught the offending party round the shoulders, and lifted him on his legs.

“Now, you make the best of your way home. If you don’t it will be all the worse for you.”

“I’m a gentleman, and shall do as I like, you impudent fellow,” cried the young man in the tourist suit. “Don’t you lay hands on me.”

He was not particularly sober, but he knew what he was about—​but he was larkish—​determined upon having what he called a spree, and appeared to be mischievously disposed.

The policeman was resolute, and told him if he endeavoured to repeat the offence he would lock him up.

His friends had the prudence to draw him forcibly away.

“Did you ever see such a little fool—​who on earth is he?” said Peace.

“Oh, he’s a gentleman bred and born,” answered one of the bystanders.

“There cannot be a moment’s question about that.”

“Then he ought to know better.”

“He’s eccentric—​a little eccentric, playful.”

“Ah.”

The crowd began to disperse, at the stern demand of the police-officer.

In ten minutes after this the little gentleman in the tourist’s suit was again at his mad pranks.

He was standing again on his head, near to the corner of Panton-street, and as a natural consequence, another crowd assembled to witness his vagaries.

The same policeman again came forward—​he had by this time lost all patience with the offender.

“Now then,” he cried in an angry tone, “you know what I told you.”

“What! may’n’t I amuse myself here then?” argued the young man, perfectly unmoved.

“We’ve had enough of this,” answered the constable. “Since you are determined to get yourself into trouble, don’t blame me.”

He lifted up the obstinate little fool, collared him, and dragged him along towards the station-house. As he did so a crowd of persons followed and abused him. Another constable came up, and the prisoner was locked up.

In the morning he was taken before the magistrate at Marlborough-street, and fined.

This little incident is one of the many scenes enacted by brainless fellows with more money than wits. It is an actual fact, and was reported in the papers of the period, in addition to which it came under the writer’s own observation.

“There are a good many fools in the world, and that fellow is one of them,” said Kempshead; “but I’ve another little place I want you to visit. Come this way.”

The speaker turned down Jermyn-street. He was followed by Peace. The two arrived in front of a house on the left side of the street in question, which to all appearance was a coffee-shop. It was a great unobtrusive-looking establishment, with ground-glass windows in its front, on which were inscribed the words “Coffee Room.”

“This little drum is worth seeing,” said Kempshead. “No one but the initiated would dream that such a place existed.”

The two went down a narrow passage, and reached a pair of small folding doors. Peace’s companion opened one of them, and said to a man inside, “All right, Sam.”

The man touched his hat, and they then passed in. To all appearance it was a coffee-shop. There were compartments, seats, and side tables, such as are seen in ordinary houses of that description; but these were filled with magnificently attired women and aristocratic looking gentlemen, who were quiet, well-behaved, and reserved in their manner.

It was said by Peace’s chaperon that more than one titled person was present. At the end of the room was the bar, in which was seated a mahogany-faced gentleman, with an aquiline nose, who was evidently an Israelite.

He came forward from this inner penetralia, and shook Kempshead warmly by the hand. He was introduced by that gentleman to Mr. Charles Peace.

“What shall we have?” said Kempshead. “A cup of green tea?”

“Yes, if you like.”

“Two cups of green tea, Isaacson, if you please.”

These were brought by a waiter and paid for by Kempshead.

Peace discovered that the so-called “green tea” was cold brandy and water, and he was informed by his friend that black tea, with sugar, was warm brandy and water, but in both cases the grog was brought in an elegantly-shaped cup and saucer.

Other refreshments were served in this delectable establishment, which was kept open, in defiance of the law, during the greater portion of the night.

It was a quiet snug retreat for ladies and gentlemen who did not want to be seen in places of more public resort, such as the Argyll and the Holborn.

The writer of this work was taken there from his club some years ago, between one and two on Sunday morning, by one of the most renowned of London theatrical managers, in company with an actor of celebrity.

The place was not interfered with for years, the reason being that it was patronised by many of the upper ten thousand. The Jew who conducted it carried on the concern, small as it was, sufficiently long to amass a large fortune.

He was unmolested by the police authorities, and, although he had no spirit licence, he contrived to serve brandy and other liquors in the guise of cups of tea and coffee.

It has been with truth often said that “one man may steal a horse, while a less favoured one must not look over the hedge.”

While Peace and his companion were seated at one of the tables, taking stock of the company, a private soldier suddenly entered the sacred precincts of this hallowed establishment.

The porter told him to leave—​that he could not be served with anything.

The soldier was “half seas over,” and, striking a defiant attitude, declared his money was as good as anybody else’s, and that he would be served.

The landlord came from behind the bar, and informed this valiant son of Mars that he was in a club-house, and none but members could be served.

This did not satisfy the soldier, who was disposed to be troublesome, for he was too powerful a man to be forcibly ejected, and of course everyone present dreaded a row.

A tall gentlemanly-looking man with the greatest composure rose from one of the tables, and, walking up to the side of the soldier, whispered something in his ear.

The effect of this was perfectly magical.

From a lion the soldier became a lamb; he slid through the folding doors, and disappeared like a sprite in a pantomime.

“You possess a potent power,” said Kempshead to the gentleman. “How did you contrive to tame the wild animal?”

“I merely mentioned the name of his commanding officer,” replied the other.

“Wonderful. It shows what discipline does.”

The company assembled in the coffee-room took no notice of Peace or Kempshead, whom they doubtless looked upon as beneath them, and as there was nothing more to be seen they arose and took their departure.

They had not gone very far before they were brought to a sudden halt.

A fashionably dressed woman, who was walking behind them, touched Peace on the shoulder—​he turned round and stared her full in the face.

“Well,” said he, “what do you want with me?”

“Don’t you know me?” cried the female.”

“No, I can’t say that I do, but your voice is familiar to me.”

“Don’t you remember Laura Stanbridge, Charlie?”

“Why of course, mercy on us, it is a long time since I set eyes upon you. Laura, dear me, yes, I know you well enough. I haven’t seen you for ever so long—​not since you left Sheffield.”

“No, not since I left Sheffield.”

“I’ll take my hook,” said Kempshead to Peace. “You can follow me on to the hotel. I suppose you have met with an old acquaintance?”

“I shan’t be long after you,” murmured Peace.

“Right you are,” returned Mr. Kempshead, walking rapidly away.