Rodney Stone by Arthur Conan Doyle (i love reading books txt) 📖

savage little white teeth clenched together, throw herself forward and tug with both hands at the off-side reins.

“Jam them, Jack!” she cried.  “Jam the—before they can pass.”

Had she done it an instant sooner we should have crashed against the wood-work, carried it away, and been hurled into the deep gully below.  As it was, it was not the powerful haunch of the black leader which caught our wheel, but the forequarter, which had not weight enough to turn us from our course.  I saw a red wet seam gape suddenly through the black hair, and next instant we were flying alone down the road, whilst the four-in-hand had halted, and Sir John and his lady were down in the road together tending to the wounded horse.

“Easy now, my beauties!” cried my uncle, settling down into his seat again, and looking back over his shoulder.  “I could not have believed that Sir John Lade would have been guilty of such a trick as pulling that leader across.  I do not permit a mauvaise plaisanterie of that sort.  He shall hear from me to-night.”

“It was the lady,” said I.

My uncle’s brow cleared, and he began to laugh.

“It was little Letty, was it?” said he.  “I might have known it.  There’s a touch of the late lamented Sixteen-string Jack about the trick.  Well, it is only messages of another kind that I send to a lady, so we’ll just drive on our way, nephew, and thank our stars that we bring whole bones over the Thames.”

We stopped at the Greyhound, at Croydon, where the two good little mares were sponged and petted and fed, after which, at an easier pace, we made our way through Norbury and Streatham.  At last the fields grew fewer and the walls longer.  The outlying villas closed up thicker and thicker, until their shoulders met, and we were driving between a double line of houses with garish shops at the corners, and such a stream of traffic as I had never seen, roaring down the centre.  Then suddenly we were on a broad bridge with a dark coffee-brown river flowing sulkily beneath it, and bluff-bowed barges drifting down upon its bosom.  To right and left stretched a broken, irregular line of many-coloured houses winding along either bank as far as I could see.

“That’s the House of Parliament, nephew,” said my uncle, pointing with his whip, “and the black towers are Westminster Abbey.  How do, your Grace?  How do?  That’s the Duke of Norfolk—the stout man in blue upon the swish-tailed mare.  Now we are in Whitehall.  There’s the Treasury on the left, and the Horse Guards, and the Admiralty, where the stone dolphins are carved above the gate.”

I had the idea, which a country-bred lad brings up with him, that London was merely a wilderness of houses, but I was astonished now to see the green slopes and the lovely spring trees showing between.

“Yes, those are the Privy Gardens,” said my uncle, “and there is the window out of which Charles took his last step on to the scaffold.  You wouldn’t think the mares had come fifty miles, would you?  See how les petites cheries step out for the credit of their master.  Look at the barouche, with the sharp-featured man peeping out of the window.  That’s Pitt, going down to the House.  We are coming into Pall Mall now, and this great building on the left is Carlton House, the Prince’s Palace.  There’s St. James’s, the big, dingy place with the clock, and the two red-coated sentries before it.  And here’s the famous street of the same name, nephew, which is the very centre of the world, and here’s Jermyn Street opening out of it, and finally, here’s my own little box, and we are well under the five hours from Brighton Old Square.”

p. 136CHAPTER IX.
WATIER’S.

My uncle’s house in Jermyn Street was quite a small one—five rooms and an attic.  “A man-cook and a cottage,” he said, “are all that a wise man requires.”  On the other hand, it was furnished with the neatness and taste which belonged to his character, so that his most luxurious friends found something in the tiny rooms which made them discontented with their own sumptuous mansions.  Even the attic, which had been converted into my bedroom, was the most perfect little bijou attic that could possibly be imagined.  Beautiful and valuable knick-knacks filled every corner of every apartment, and the house had become a perfect miniature museum which would have delighted a virtuoso.  My uncle explained the presence of all these pretty things with a shrug of his shoulders and a wave of his hands.  “They are des petites cadeaux,” said he, “but it would be an indiscretion for me to say more.”

We found a note from Ambrose waiting for us which increased rather than explained the mystery of his disappearance.

“My dear Sir Charles Tregellis,” it ran, “it will ever be a subject of regret to me that the force of circumstances should have compelled me to leave your service in so abrupt a fashion, but something occurred during our journey from Friar’s Oak to Brighton which left me without any possible alternative.  I trust, however, that my absence may prove to be but a temporary one.  The isinglass recipe for the shirt-fronts is in the strong-box at Drummond’s Bank.—Yours obediently, AMBROSE.”

“Well, I suppose I must fill his place as best I can,” said my uncle, moodily.  “But how on earth could something have occurred to make him leave me at a time when we were going full-trot down hill in my curricle?  I shall never find his match again either for chocolate or cravats.  Je suis desolé!  But now, nephew, we must send to Weston and have you fitted up.  It is not for a gentleman to go to a shop, but for the shop to come to the gentleman.  Until you have your clothes you must remain en retraite.”

The measuring was a most solemn and serious function, though it was nothing to the trying-on two days later, when my uncle stood by in an agony of apprehension as each garment was adjusted, he and Weston arguing over every seam and lapel and skirt until I was dizzy with turning round in front of them.  Then, just as I had hoped that all was settled, in came young Mr. Brummell, who promised to be an even greater exquisite than my uncle, and the whole matter had to be thrashed out between them.  He was a good-sized man, this Brummell, with a long, fair face, light brown hair, and slight sandy side-whiskers.  His manner was languid, his voice drawling, and while he eclipsed my uncle in the extravagance of his speech, he had not the air of manliness and decision which underlay all my kinsman’s affectations.

“Why, George,” cried my uncle, “I thought you were with your regiment.”

“I’ve sent in my papers,” drawled the other.

“I thought it would come to that.”

“Yes.  The Tenth was ordered to Manchester, and they could hardly expect me to go to a place like that.  Besides, I found the major monstrous rude.”

“How was that?”

“He expected me to know about his absurd drill, Tregellis, and I had other things to think of, as you may suppose.  I had no difficulty in taking my right place on parade, for there was a trooper with a red nose on a flea-bitten grey, and I had observed that my post was always immediately in front of him.  This saved a great deal of trouble.  The other day, however, when I came on parade, I galloped up one line and down the other, but the deuce a glimpse could I get of that long nose of his!  Then, just as I was at my wits’ end, I caught sight of him, alone at one side; so I formed up in front.  It seems he had been put there to keep the ground, and the major so far forgot himself as to say that I knew nothing of my duties.”

My uncle laughed, and Brummell looked me up and down with his large, intolerant eyes.

“These will do very passably,” said he.  “Buff and blue are always very gentlemanlike.  But a sprigged waistcoat would have been better.”

“I think not,” said my uncle, warmly.

“My dear Tregellis, you are infallible upon a cravat, but you must allow me the right of my own judgment upon vests.  I like it vastly as it stands, but a touch of red sprig would give it the finish that it needs.”

They argued with many examples and analogies for a good ten minutes, revolving round me at the same time with their heads on one side and their glasses to their eyes.  It was a relief to me when they at last agreed upon a compromise.

“You must not let anything I have said shake your faith in Sir Charles’s judgment, Mr. Stone,” said Brummell, very earnestly.

I assured him that I should not.

“If you were my nephew, I should expect you to follow my taste.  But you will cut a very good figure as it is.  I had a young cousin who came up to town last year with a recommendation to my care.  But he would take no advice.  At the end of the second week I met him coming down St. James’s Street in a snuff-coloured coat cut by a country tailor.  He bowed to me.  Of course I knew what was due to myself.  I looked all round him, and there was an end to his career in town.  You are from the country, Mr. Stone?”

“From Sussex, sir.”

“Sussex!  Why, that is where I send my washing to.  There is an excellent clear-starcher living near Hayward’s Heath.  I send my shirts two at a time, for if you send more it excites the woman and diverts her attention.  I cannot abide anything but country washing.  But I should be vastly sorry to have to live there.  What can a man find to do?”

“You don’t hunt, George?”

“When I do, it’s a woman.  But surely you don’t go to hounds, Charles?”

“I was out with the Belvoir last winter.”

“The Belvoir!  Did you hear how I smoked Rutland?  The story has been in the clubs this month past.  I bet him that my bag would weigh more than his.  He got three and a half brace, but I shot his liver-coloured pointer, so he had to pay.  But as to hunting, what amusement can there be in flying about among a crowd of greasy, galloping farmers?  Every man to his own taste, but Brookes’s window by day and a snug corner of the macao table at Watier’s by night, give me all I want for mind and body.  You heard how I plucked Montague the brewer!”

“I have been out of town.”

“I had eight thousand from him at a sitting.  ‘I shall drink your beer in future, Mr. Brewer,’ said I.  ‘Every blackguard in London does,’ said he.  It was monstrous impolite of him, but some people cannot lose with grace.  Well, I am going down to Clarges Street to pay Jew King a little of my interest.  Are you bound that way?  Well, good-bye, then!  I’ll see you and your young friend at the club or in the Mall, no doubt,” and he sauntered off upon his way.

“That young man is destined to take my place,” said my uncle, gravely, when Brummell had departed.  “He is quite young and of no descent, but he has made his way by his cool effrontery, his natural taste, and his extravagance of speech.  There is no man who can be impolite in so polished a fashion.  He has a half-smile, and a way of raising his eyebrows, for which he will be shot one of these mornings.  Already his opinion is quoted in the clubs as a rival to my own.  Well, every man has his day, and when I am convinced that mine is past, St. James’s Street shall know me no more, for it is not in my nature to be second to any man.  But now, nephew, in that buff and blue suit you may pass anywhere; so, if you please, we will step into my vis-à-vis, and I will show you something of the town.”

How can I describe all that we saw and all that we did upon that lovely spring day?  To me it was as if I had been wafted to a fairy world, and my uncle might have been some benevolent enchanter in a high-collared, long-tailed coat, who was guiding me about in it.  He showed me the West-end streets, with the bright carriages and the gaily dressed ladies and sombre-clad men, all crossing and hurrying and recrossing like an ants’ nest when you turn it over with a stick.  Never had I formed a conception of such endless banks of houses, and such a ceaseless stream of life flowing between.  Then we passed down the Strand, where the crowd was thicker than ever, and even penetrated beyond Temple Bar and into the City, though my uncle begged me not to mention it, for he would not wish it to be