Chapter VI My Lord Marlborough Makes a Note
London Streets—A Chair!—A Great Man’s Portals—An Effort of Memory—Patronage—Marlborough—A Step in the Peerage—A Memorandum—A Friend in London—A Dinner at Locket’s—Mr. Colley Cibber—Great Expectations—A Thick Stick—Prevarication
Harry was awake long before Sherebiah tapped at his door next morning. His projected visit to Lord Godolphin gave him some concern. He had no tremors of shyness at the thought of meeting the Lord Treasurer; but, ignorant as he was of London ways, he knew not how to time his visit, and could hope for no counsel on that point from Sherebiah. He was too much excited to do justice to the crisp rashers which were placed before him at the breakfast-table, and felt little disposed to converse with Jan Grootz the Dutchman opposite. Sherebiah had taken upon himself to wait at table, but, as a privileged servitor, did not think it unbecoming to throw in a word here and there. He gave Grootz his views on the price of oats and the policy of King Louis of France with equal assurance.
“Know ye where de lord live?” asked the Dutchman suddenly.
Harry had forgotten that he had mentioned his errand to his fellow-passenger, and for the moment repented his confidence. Before he could reply, Grootz went on:
“He live over against the Queen’s Wood Yard, by Thames-side, leading to Scotland Yard. My vrient John Evelyn built de house. I have been dere.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Harry. “Then can you tell me the best time to visit him?”
“Ja! De best time, it is ten o’clock, before he go to de palace. He rise late; he has many visitors; I zee him myself in his dressing-gown before his zervant have curled his wig, and I wait my turn two hours. And when you zee him, you zall lose no time; he like man to speak out, mark you.”
The Dutchman spoke very slowly, not interrupting his meal, and wagging his fat finger as he concluded.
“And how shall I go? Shall I walk?”
“I’ feck, no,” said Sherebiah from behind. “The night have been rainy, and the streets be mushed wi’ mud; you’d be spattered from head to heel, Master Harry. Nay; you med walk as far as the Exchange and buy ’ee a pair o’ gloves there for seemliness, and then get your shoes brushed by one o’ the blackguards at the corner. Then you can take a chair; ’tis a shilling a mile, and easier goen nor the hackneys, for the chairmen walk on the pavement, and you won’t get jolted nor splashed so bad.”
“Ja, and I tell you dis,” added the Dutchman. “Short poles, and short men; zo, dey take not zo much room, and if dey upzet you, why, you do not fall zo much.”
“Ay, and don’t let ’em chouse ’ee out o’ more than their due,” said Sherebiah. “I know they men. If they think a man be up from country, they look at un and then at the shilling, up and down, and miscall un wi’ such brazen tongues that he’ll pay anything to save his ears. A shilling a mile, Master Harry, no more.”
“Zo! De counsel is good. But I give you a better: go not at all. Lords! I tell you dis before: an honest merchant is worth two, dree, no man zay how many lords; and de Book zay, ‘Put not your drust in princes’. Still, I wish you good luck, my young vrient, Jan Grootz; zo!”
He squeezed Harry’s hand in his own great fist, and then, having demolished his mountain of food, filled his pipe and set forth for the Custom House on Thames bank. Two hours later, Harry left the inn under Sherebiah’s guidance, and for the first time in his life trod the streets of London. Filled though his mind was with the approaching interview, which might mean so much to him, he was yet able to take an interest in the strange scenes that opened before his inexperienced eyes: the brilliant shops, each with its sign of painted copper, pewter, or wood hanging from iron branches; the taverns and coffee-houses, already crowded with people eager to hear and discuss the news, and perhaps to get a peep at the morning’s Courant; the court and porticoes of the Royal Exchange, to which merchants were flocking; the crowds of money-dealers in Change Alley, looking for clients. He went up to the gallery on the first floor of the Exchange, and bought a pair of gloves from a neat and pretty girl at one of the booths; then strolled along, admiring the rich and dazzling display of silks and jewellery which a few hours later would attract all the fine ladies in town.
Descending to the street again, he passed up Cheapside and through St. Paul’s Churchyard, down Ludgate Hill and through Ludgate, where he beheld impaled on stakes a row of hideous heads of traitors, one of which, Sherebiah told him with indignation, was that of Noll Crum’ell. Then skirting the Fleet Ditch, once navigable, but now a noisome slimy sewer, he came into Fleet Street, through Temple Bar to the Strand, and at length arrived at Charing Cross, where he was nearly overturned by a hasty chair-man, whose “By your leave!” was not yet familiar to his ears. At Charing Cross stood a number of boys with boxes before them on the pavement, and cries of “Clean your shoes!” “London fucus!” “Best Spanish blacking!” came in eager competing tones. Sherebiah selected one whose stand was in front of a barber’s shop.
“Here’s the blackguard for ’ee, Master Harry,” he said. “He’ll shine your shoes while barber shaves my stubble. A penny; no more.”
When the shoes were polished and the stubble mown, Sherebiah called up a couple of chairmen who were sitting on their poles near by.
“Do ’ee know my Lord Godolphin’s noble house?” he asked.
“Ay; servant, sir.”
“Well then, carry my young master to that very house, and see ’ee don’t jolt ’n, or drop ’n, or let ’n get splashed. ’Tis under a mile, Master Harry,” he whispered at parting.
Harry would rather have walked. The men took what care they could, but the press of people was so great that they had to dodge at every few steps, and their fare gripped the seat to prevent himself from being knocked against first one side, then the other, of the conveyance. At the corner of Whitehall, as they turned into Scotland Yard, a passing dray splashed up a shower of liquid mud, and Harry felt a moist dab upon his nose. Fortunately the spot was soon removed with his handkerchief; and when, after crossing by the Charcoal House and through the Wood Yard, the chairmen at length set him down at the door of Godolphin’s house, he would have felt no anxiety about his personal appearance, if he had been sufficiently self-conscious to think about it. He had put on his best coat, silk stockings, and buckle shoes; at his side he wore the sword about which he had spoken to Sherebiah. He sprang alertly up the steps, and looked about him with a keen quick gaze that bespoke a definite purpose.
The great entrance-hall was thronged. Servants, officers, government officials, men about town, stood in groups or moved here and there in pursuit of their several objects of business or pleasure. No one appeared to remark the presence of the new-comer, who walked quietly through the throng towards the broad staircase. At the foot a gorgeously-dressed flunkey was standing, to whom one or two gentlemen had already applied for information. As Harry was about to address him, his attention was attracted by a woolly-pated wide-grinning black boy, who at that moment ran down the stairs. He carried a silver tray, on which a cup and jug of fine porcelain jingled as he ran.
“Done, Sambo?” asked the tall flunkey at the stair-foot.
“Yussir!” replied the boy with a white grin. “My lord jolly dis mornin; oh yes; drink him chocolate without one cuss. Gwine to begin work now; oh yes.”
“Can I see the Lord Godolphin?” asked Harry, stepping up to the servant as Sambo disappeared.
The man gave Harry a stare, but answered respectfully: “My lord’s levee is over, sir. The nigger brings down the tray when the last visitor has gone.”
“I have come specially to see my lord, and——”
“Have you an appointment, sir?”
“I think if you will take my name to my lord he will see me.”
Harry spoke quietly; he was determined not to be turned from his purpose by mere formality or red tape. The man eyeing him saw nothing but self-possession and confidence in his air.
“My lord is now engaged with his correspondence,” he said. “He does not brook interruption.”
“My name is Harry Rochester; I will answer for it that you will do no wrong in acquainting his lordship.”
After a moment’s hesitation the man beckoned to a fellow-servant, and gave him Harry’s message. He went upstairs, and returning in a few minutes said:
“What is your business with my lord, sir? His lordship does not remember your name.”
There was the suggestion of a sneer in the man’s voice. With hardly a perceptible pause Harry replied:
“Tell his lordship I am from Winton St. Mary, at his invitation.”
A faint smile curled the lips of the two flunkeys. The second again mounted the stairs. When he descended, his face wore its usual expression of deference and respect.
“Be so good as to wait upon his lordship,” he said, and led the way.
In a few minutes Harry found himself, hat in hand, making his bow to Lord Godolphin in a large wainscoted apartment. Four large candles burnt upon the mantel-piece, daylight being kept out by the heavy curtains on either side of the narrow window. A huge log fire filled the chimney-place; beyond it stood a broad table littered with papers, which at that moment a young man was sorting by the light of a shaded candle. Lord Godolphin was in dressing-gown and slippers.
“Well, sir?” he said.
“My name is Rochester, my lord.”
“I am aware of that. I do not recall it. Well?”
My lord’s tone was cold and uninviting.
“Your lordship will permit me to mention a little incident on the Roman road by Sir Godfrey Fanshawe’s park, when——”
“Stay, I remember now. You are the lad they called the young parson, eh? I have a poor head for names. When my man spoke of Winton St. Mary I supposed you might be a messenger from the gentleman who entertained us there.”
Now that Harry was actually face to face with the Lord Treasurer, he felt some diffidence in opening the subject of his visit. My lord, in spite of his deshabille, seemed far less approachable than he had been on the old Roman road. Then he was the country sportsman; now he was the chief minister of the Queen.
“Your shouting friend with the scriptural name—how is he?” he asked in a somewhat more cordial tone.
“He is well, my lord; he is with me in London.”
“And your father: has he won his case against the squire? I heard something of him at Sir Godfrey Fanshawe’s, I think.”
“My father is dead, my lord.”
“Indeed! Pray accept my condolences. And now, tell me what brings you here.”
“Your lordship may remember, after the scene with the highwaymen——”
“Yes, yes; you did me a service, you and your man; what then?”
“It was but a slight service, my lord; I do not presume on it; but you were so good as to say that if, at some future time, I should find myself in need of assistance, I was to come to your lordship.”
“Why, I did speak of a country parsonage, I believe. But you,”—he smiled—“why, I really may not venture to set you up in a cure of souls. You have to take your degrees yet.”
“That is impossible, my lord. My father impoverished himself in his feuds with Mr. Berkeley; when his affairs were settled I found myself possessed of but a poor twenty guineas. I have given up all thought of going to Oxford; I must seek a livelihood.”
“H’m!”
Lord Godolphin looked him up and down, as though estimating his chances of making his way in the world.
“You wear a sword,” he said. “Rochester—you are no connection of the earl’s?—no, of course not, he is a Wilmot. Where do you spring from?”
“My grandfather was a soldier, my lord; I have heard that he died young, but my father seldom spoke of these matters; we have no relatives.”
“H’m! I bethink me now, you yourself have an itch for martial life. All boys have, I suppose. Young Lord Churchill was cut to the heart a few months ago because my lady Marlborough would not permit him to follow his father to Flanders. Well, to be frank with you, I see no way of helping you. With twenty guineas you can no more buy a commission than you can enter yourself at a college. To enlist as a common soldier would be a last resource to one of your breeding. There are too many young scions of good stocks for the lesser places at court to go round among them. Yet I would fain do something for you.”
He began to saunter up and down the room, his hands clasped behind him, stopping for a moment to listen as the sound of cheers came from the street. Suddenly the door was opened, and the voice of the servant was heard announcing a visitor.
“My lord Marlborough.”
Harry looked with eager curiosity as the great soldier entered the room. He saw a tall, singularly handsome man, with short curved upper lip, firm chin, long almond-shaped eyes, and a calm benignity of expression. John Churchill, Earl of Marlborough, was at this time fifty-two years of age. As captain-general of the English forces, in the summer of this year, 1702, he had opened in concert with the Dutch a campaign in Flanders against Louis the Fourteenth of France,—a new campaign in the great war of the Spanish Succession which the policy of William the Third had bequeathed to his sister-in-law. Venloo and other towns had been captured by the confederate armies, Liège had been reduced, and the forces having gone into winter quarters, Marlborough had returned to England to support the Occasional Conformity Bill. He was a close personal friend of Godolphin, and allied to him by the marriage of Francis Godolphin to his daughter Henrietta.
“Welcome, my dear lord!” said Godolphin, starting forward to meet the earl. “I did not know you had arrived.”
“I am but just come from waiting on the Queen,” said Marlborough. “I arrived late last night.”
“You are welcome indeed. All men’s mouths are full of your praises.”
“Ay,” returned Marlborough with a smile; “your Londoners have lusty throats. And I have a piece of news for you.” He dropped his voice: the secretary had vanished through a further door: Harry stood in a quandary, the noblemen both seeming to ignore his presence. “The Queen has been pleased to express her wish to make me a duke.”
Godolphin laid his hand on his friend’s arm, and said cordially: “I congratulate you, Jack, with all my heart. Why, this very morning I have a letter from Churchill at Cambridge; there are shrewd wits there; he says ’tis whispered you are to be raised in the peerage, and the boy, young dog, begs me to tell him what his own title will be then.”
“Ah! ’tis over soon to talk of it. I must acquaint my lady first, and methinks she will object.”
“Stap me, Jack! ’tis few women would hesitate to exchange countess for duchess.—God bless me, I’d forgotten the boy! My lord, this is the hero of the little adventure at Winton St. Mary I writ you of. ’Twas he that inspired the stout fellow to shout, and scared the highwaymen out of their five wits.”
Marlborough looked towards Harry, who flushed and bowed. An idea seemed to strike Godolphin. Linking his arm with the earl’s, he led him slowly to the other end of the room, and stood there talking earnestly to him in tones too low for Harry to catch a word. Once or twice both glanced at the tall youthful figure standing in some natural embarrassment near the door. Once Marlborough shook his head and frowned, upon which Godolphin took him by a button of his laced coat and spoke more earnestly than before. At length Marlborough smiled, laid a hand on Godolphin’s shoulder, and spoke a few words in his ear. Then he turned about, and coming slowly towards Harry, said, in his clear bell-like tones:
“My lord Godolphin tells me you have lost your father and are all but penniless. ’Tis an unfortunate situation for a lad of your years. You would serve the Queen?”
“Ay, my lord.”
“You have a quick wit, my lord says. I may make some use of you. Write your name on a piece of paper, and the name of your lodging.”
Godolphin motioned him to the table, where he found paper and a pencil. He wrote his name and the name of his inn, and handed the paper to Marlborough, who said, as he folded it and placed it in his pocket:
“I will send for you, Master Rochester, if I can serve you.”
“My lord, I am much beholden to you—” began Harry.
Marlborough interrupted him.
“’Tis my lord Godolphin you should thank for his good word.”
“‘Faith, my lord,” said Godolphin, “’tis due to Master Rochester that the Queen is served by her present Lord Treasurer. I am glad, my lad, that my friend Lord Marlborough chanced to come upon us here, and I hope you will have reason to be glad also. Now, you will excuse us; we have matters of state to speak of; I wish you well.”
Harry murmured his thanks and bowed himself out. His nerves were a-tingle with his unexpected good fortune. To have seen and spoken with the greatest man in the kingdom was itself an unforeseen privilege; and the prospect of assistance from such a powerful and august personage filled him with elation. The earl had shown no great cordiality, it was true; but Harry was inclined to draw good augury from the few words he had uttered. They were probably more sincere than a warm volubility would have been. He left the house with a sparkling eye and a springy gait, and looked eagerly around to see if Sherebiah were near at hand to hear his news. But Sherebiah was nowhere to be seen. Having no particular business, now that his great errand was accomplished, Harry walked through Whitehall into St. James’s Park, in the hope that he might catch a glimpse of Queen Anne herself. The guard had just been changed at St. James’s Palace, and a stream of people met him as he strolled along the Mall. He was interested in watching them—the fine ladies with their hoops and patches, the beaux with their many-coloured coats, canes dangling at their buttons, toothpicks between their teeth, and snuff-boxes in frequent use. So absorbed was he that he was startled when all at once a hand struck him a hearty blow on the shoulder, and a voice exclaimed:
“Hey, Harry, what make you, ogling the ladies?”
He turned and saw his friend Godfrey Fanshawe, the captain of the cricket team to whose victory he had so much contributed. The two young fellows shook hands heartily.
“What brings you to London?” continued Fanshawe.
“I’ve come in search of fortune, like Dick Whittington. You heard of my father’s death?”
“Ay, but nothing since. They seldom write letters at home.”
Harry then explained the course of events which had brought him to London, concluding with his recent interview with Marlborough and Godolphin.
“Egad, man!” exclaimed Fanshawe, “you’re in luck’s way indeed. Would that I stood so well with the two greatest men in England. My lord Marlborough will gazette you an ensign of foot or a cornet of horse; and my cornetcy, I may tell you, cost my father a pretty penny. What luck, Harry, if we make the next campaign together! The earl will surely go back to Flanders when the winter is over.”
“I should like nothing better.”
“Where are you staying?”
“At the Angel and Crown, in Threadneedle Street.”
“You must leave that and come westward. Are you alone?”
“Sherry Minshull is with me at present; but he’ll get work for himself as soon as I am settled.”
“Sherry’s a handy fellow; egad, I know no better! He’ll tie a fly with any man, and is as good with sword or quarterstaff as he is with his fists. Well now, ’tis drawing towards dinner-time; come and dine with me; the people of fashion here dine at four, but I stick to country habits. We’ll go to Locket’s at Charing Cross; you’re my guest to-day. And we’ll go to the play this evening; the first time, I warrant you, you’ve seen a play. Come! I stand well with the people at Locket’s, and the sharp air this morning has given me an appetite.”
It was but five minutes’ walk to Locket’s tavern. Entering, Fanshawe bowed with elaborate courtesy to the fair dame in charge, and called for the card.
“There’s boiled beef and carrots, I see, and a goose, and look, a calf’s head. I adore calf’s head. What say you? Yes? Boy, bring calf’s head for two, and quickly.”
With calf’s head and cabbage and a wedge of Cheshire cheese, the two young fellows appeased their unjaded appetites. Fanshawe sat for some time finishing his bottle of wine, Harry contenting himself with small beer. Then, as there still remained a few hours to while away before theatre time, Fanshawe proposed a row on the river. Harry eagerly assented; they sallied forth, took boat at Westminster stairs and rowed up to Chelsea, returning to Westminster in time for the performance of Mr. Colley Cibber’s new play, “She would and she would not”, by Her Majesty’s Servants at Drury Lane. Harry was delighted with his first visit to the theatre. He was tickled at the unabashed impertinence of Trappanti the discarded servant, played by Mr. Penkethman, one of the best comedians in London, as Fanshawe informed him; and fell in love with Hypolita the heroine, a part which suited Mrs. Mountford to perfection. But he was perhaps most interested in Mr. Colley Cibber himself, who played the part of Don Manuel the irascible father. His pleasure was complete when, after the performance, Fanshawe took him to the Bull’s Head tavern, and showed him Mr. Cibber with his paint washed off, surrounded by a circle of actors, soldiers, lords, and even clergymen. He had never seen an author before. Mr. Cibber had no presence to boast of, with his thick legs, lean face, and sandy hair; but the liveliness of his conversation gave him a sort of pre-eminence among his coterie, and made a considerable impression on a youth ready to admire and wonder at anything.
Fanshawe appeared quite at home among the company. He was indeed a frequent visitor at the Bull’s Head after the play, where all were welcome on condition of providing their quota towards the general hilarity. Fanshawe was the lucky possessor of a fine baritone voice, and his spirited singing of west-country songs had won him instant popularity. On this night, in response to the usual call, he began—
“Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me thy grey mare,
All along, down along, out along lee;
For I want for to go to Widdicombe Fair,
Wi’ Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
Dan Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
Old uncle Tom Cobleigh, and all”;
and by the time he reached the end of the third of the eight stanzas, the whole company were ready to join him in trolling the chorus,
“Old uncle Tom Cobleigh and all”.
It was late when Harry reached the Angel and Crown. Sherebiah was marching up and down before the tavern, blowing great clouds from his pipe.
“Hey now, Master Harry,” he said, with an expression of mingled wrath and relief; “’tis a mighty scurvy trick you have played me, i’ feck ’tis so. Here we are, your second day in London, and you must go off along by your lone self on who knows what errand o’ foolery. Ay, ’tis strong words for me, and a man o’ peace and all, but not too strong, seee’n as I knows the wicked ways o’ the town and you be unfledged. Zooks, sir, I’ve been in a terrible way, thinken all manner of awsome an’ gashly things, as how you med ha’ been trepanned, or slit by the Scourers, or trampled by some high lard’s horses, or rifled and beat by footpads, or ’ticed into a dicing den by sweetners always on the look-out for a country gudgeon, or——”
“Hold, Sherry, you forget yourself,” said Harry, who was, however, not displeased to find the honest fellow so solicitous about him. “In truth, I forgot all about you. I can take care of myself, I think. I dined with Mr. Godfrey Fanshawe, whom I chanced to meet, and we went to the play afterwards, and I never laughed so much in my life. Mrs. Mountford’s a beauty, Sherry, and Mr. Cibber—when he doesn’t squeak—has the pleasantest voice ever I heard—nay, not that, after all; ’tis not so pleasant as my lord Marlborough’s. What d’ye think, Sherry? I met the earl himself at Lord Godolphin’s, and he has my name on a scrap of paper, and to-morrow or next day I shall hold the queen’s commission, and then off with the troops to Flanders, and I shall make my fortune, man, and then——”
“Huh!” put in a voice from the doorway. “Haastige spoed is zelden goed.”
Harry’s excitement was dashed by the slow drawl of Mynheer Grootz, whose little eyes were twinkling as he puffed at his big pipe.
“Ay, a true word,” said Sherebiah. “‘More haste, less speed,’ as the Dutch words mean put into rightful language. ‘Counten chickens afore they be hatched,’ as ye med say.”
Though he was a little nettled, Harry had too much good sense not to see that his elation had carried him too far. He could laugh at himself—an excellent virtue in man or boy.
“I am an ass, Mr. Grootz,” he said; “but really I did not expect such good luck. My lord Godolphin was very kind, and so was the earl, and as he used but few words I do think he meant what he said. I am sorry my absence made you uneasy, Sherry; but I don’t understand why you should imagine all manner of harm.”
“An ye knew——” began Sherebiah; but he paused, hemmed, and changed his sentence. “All’s well as ends well, Master Harry; I axe your pardon for my free words; and here be a fine stout piece of ash I bought in Fleet Street for your hand. Feel un; ’twill crack a pate as quick as speaken, and I’ll be more easy in mind knowen you have such a good staff in company.”
“Thanks, Sherry!” said Harry with a laugh, weighing in his hand the stick with which the man presented him. “But I’m a man of peace, you know, eh?—at present. Now let’s to bed.”
As they went from the room Harry remarked, “By the way, Sherry, how is it that you know Dutch?”
“Me know Dutch? Why, sir, what makes ye think I know that outlandish tongue?”
“Why, didn’t you tell me just now the meaning of what Mynheer Grootz said to me?”
“Ay, so I did, now. It must ha’ been as a dog knows his master’s speech, or just as I knowed the meanen o’ the holy things your good feyther was used to speak in the high pulpit, for egad, word by word I knowed no more than the dead what a’ said, not I.”
The explanation struck Harry as rather lame, but he merely said, with a laugh:
“Well, you’ll make a very faithful watch-dog, Sherry. Good-night! I shall sleep well;—if I don’t dream too much of battle and glory.”