Sybil by Benjamin Disraeli (snow like ashes series .txt) 📖

series of small obscure dingy streets, when the cab-driver giving a flank to his steed to stimulate it to a last effort, the horse sprang forward, and the wheel of the cab came off.

Sybil extricated herself from the vehicle unhurt; a group immediately formed round the cab, a knot of young thieves, almost young enough for infant schools, a dustman, a woman nearly naked and very drunk, and two unshorn ruffians with brutality stamped on every feature, with pipes in their mouths, and their hands in their pockets.

"I can take you no further," said the cabman: "my fare is three shillings."

"What am I to do?" said Sybil, taking out her purse.

"The best thing the young lady can do," said the dustman, in a hoarse voice, "is to stand something to us all."

"That's your time o'day," squeaked a young thief.

"I'll drink your health with very great pleasure my dear," hiccupped the woman.

"How much have you got there?" said the young thief making a dash at the purse, but he was not quite tall enough, and failed.

"No wiolence," said one of the ruffians taking his pipe out of his mouth and sending a volume of smoke into Sybil's face, "we'll take the young lady to Mother Poppy's, and then we'll make a night of it."

But at this moment appeared a policeman, one of the permanent garrison of the quarter, who seeing one of her Majesty's carriages in trouble thought he must interfere. "Hilloa," he said, "what's all this?" And the cabman, who was a good fellow though in too much trouble to aid Sybil, explained in the terse and picturesque language of Cockaigne, doing full justice to his late fare, the whole circumstances.

"Oh! that's it," said the policeman, "the lady's respectable is she? Then I'd advise you and Hell Fire Dick to stir your chalks, Splinter-legs. Keep moving's the time of day, Madam; you get on. Come;" and taking the woman by her shoulder he gave her a spin that sent her many a good yard. "And what do you want?" he asked gruffly of the lads.

"We wants a ticket for the Mendicity Society," said the captain of the infant hand putting his thumb to his nose and running away, followed by his troop.

"And so you want to go to Silver Street?" said her official preserver to Sybil, for she had not thought it wise to confess her ultimate purpose, and indicate under the apprehended circumstances the place of rendezvous to a member of the police.

"Well; that's not very difficult now. Go a-head; take the second turning to your right, and the third to your left, and you're landed."

Aided by these instructions, Sybil hastened on, avoiding notice as much as was in her power, and assisted in some degree by the advancing gloom of night. She had reached Silver Street; a long, narrow, hilly Street; and now she was at fault. There were not many persons about, and there were few shops here; yet one was at last at hand, and she entered to enquire her way. The person at the counter was engaged, and many customers awaited him: time was very precious: Sybil had made the enquiry and received only a supercilious stare from the shopman, who was weighing with precision some article that he was serving. A young man, shabby, but of a very superior appearance to the people of this quarter, good-looking, though with a dissolute air, and who seemed waiting for a customer in attendance, addressed Sybil. "I am going to Hunt Street," he said, "shall I show you the way?"

She accepted this offer most thankfully. "It is close at hand, I believe?"

"Here it is," he said; and he turned down a street. "What is your house?"

"No. 22: a printing-office." said Sybil; for the street she had entered was so dark she despaired of finding her way, and ventured to trust so far a guide who was not a policeman.

"The very house I am going to," said the stranger: "I am a printer." And they walked on some way, until they at length stopped before a glass and illumined door, covered with a red curtain. Before it was a group of several men and women brawling, but who did not notice Sybil and her companion.

"Here we are," said the man; and he pushed the door open, inviting Sybil to enter. She hesitated; it did not agree with the description that had been given her by the coffee-house keeper, but she had seen so much since, and felt so much, and gone through so much, that she had not at the moment that clear command of her memory for which she was otherwise remarkable; but while she faltered, an inner door was violently thrown open, and Sybil moving aside, two girls, still beautiful in spite of gin and paint, stepped into the Street.

"This cannot be the house," exclaimed Sybil starting back, overwhelmed with shame and terror. "O! holy Virgin aid me!"

"And that's a blessed word to hear in this heathen land," exclaimed an Irishman, who was one of the group on the outside.

"If you be of our holy church," said Sybil appealing to the man who had thus spoken and whom she gently drew aside, "I beseech you, by everything we hold sacred, to aid me."

"And will I not?" said the man; "and I should like to see the arm that would hurt you;" and he looked round, but the young man had disappeared. "You are not a countrywoman I am thinking," he added.

"No, but a sister in Christ," said Sybil; "listen to me, good friend. I hasten to my father,--he is in great danger,--in Hunt Street,--I know not my way,--every moment is precious,--guide me, I beseech you,--honestly and truly guide me!"

"Will I not? Don't you be afraid my dear. And her poor father is ill! I wish I had such a daughter! We have not far to go. You should have taken the next turning. We must walk up this again for 'tis a small street with no thoroughfare. Come on without fear."

Nor did Sybil fear; for the description of the street which the honest man had incidentally given, tallied with her instructions. Encouraging her with many kind words, and full of rough courtesies, the good Irishman led her to the spot she had so long sought. There was the court she was told to enter. It was well lit, and descending the steps she stopped at the first door on her left, and knocked.


Book 5 Chapter 7


On the same night that Sybil was encountering so many dangers, the saloons of Deloraine House blazed with a thousand lights to welcome the world of power and fashion to a festival of almost unprecedented magnificence. Fronting a royal park, its long lines of illumined windows and the bursts of gay and fantastic music that floated from its walls attracted the admiration and curiosity of another party that was assembled in the same fashionable quarter, beneath a canopy not less bright and reclining on a couch scarcely less luxurious, for they were lit by the stars and reposed upon the grass.

"I say, Jim," said a young genius of fourteen stretching himself upon the turf, "I pity them ere jarvies a sitting on their boxes all the night and waiting for the nobs what is dancing. They as no repose."

"But they as porter," replied his friend, a sedater spirit with the advantage of an additional year or two of experience. "They takes their pot of half-and-half by turns, and if their name is called, the link what they subscribe for to pay, sings out 'here;' and that's the way their guvners is done."

"I think I should like to be a link Jim," said the young one.

"I wish you may get it," was the response: "it's the next best thing to a crossing: it's what every one looks to when he enters public life, but he soon finds 'taint to be done without a deal of interest. They keeps it to themselves, and never lets any one in unless he makes himself very troublesome and gets up a party agin 'em."

"I wonder what the nobs has for supper," said the young one pensively. "Lots of kidneys I dare say."

"Oh! no; sweets is the time of day in these here blowouts: syllabubs like blazes, and snapdragon as makes the flunkys quite pale."

"I would thank you, sir, not to tread upon this child," said a widow. She had three others with her, slumbering around, and this was the youngest wrapt in her only shawl.

"Madam," replied the person whom she addressed, in tolerable English, but with a marked accent, "I have bivouacked in many lands, but never with so young a comrade: I beg you a thousand pardons."

"Sir, you are very polite. These warm nights are a great blessing, but I am sure I know not what we shall do in the fall of the leaf."

"Take no thought of the morrow," said the foreigner, who was a Pole; had served as a boy beneath the suns of the Peninsula under Soult and fought against Diebitsch on the banks of the icy Vistula. "It brings many changes." And arranging the cloak which he had taken that day out of pawn around him, he delivered himself up to sleep with that facility which is not uncommon among soldiers.

Here broke out a brawl: two girls began fighting and blaspheming; a man immediately came up, chastised and separated them. "I am the Lord Mayor of the night," he said, "and I will have no row here. 'Tis the like of you that makes the beaks threaten to expel us from our lodgings." His authority seemed generally recognized, the girls were quiet, but they had disturbed a sleeping man, who roused himself, looked around him and said with a scared look, "Where am I? What's all this?"

"Oh! it's nothin'," said the elder of the two lads we first noticed, "only a couple of unfortinate gals who've prigged a watch from a cove what was lushy and fell asleep under the trees between this and Kinsington."

"I wish they had not waked me," said the man, "I walked as far as from Stokenchurch, and that's a matter of forty miles, this morning to see if I could get some work, and went to bed here without any supper. I'm blessed if I worn't dreaming of a roast leg of pork."

"It has not been a lucky day for me," rejoined the lad, "I could not find a single gentleman's horse to hold, so help me, except one what was at the House of Commons, and he kept me there two mortal hours and said when he came out, that he would remember me next time. I ain't tasted no wittals to-day except some cat's-meat and a cold potatoe what was given me by a cabman; but I have got a quid here, and if you are very low I'll give you half."

In the meantime Lord Valentine and the Princess Stephanie of Eurasberg with some companions worthy of such a pair, were dancing a new Mazurka before the admiring assembly at Deloraine House. The ball was in the statue gallery illumined on this night in the Russian fashion, which while it diffused a brilliant light throughout the beautiful chamber, was peculiarly adapted to develope the contour of the marble forms of grace and loveliness that were ranged around.

"Where is Arabella?" enquired Lord Marney of his mother, "I want to present young Huntingford to her. He