Sybil, Or, The Two Nations, Earl of Beaconsfield Benjamin Disraeli [chrysanthemum read aloud TXT] 📗

with grizzled hair and a red nose, entered the coffee-room from the interior. “Tanner, here’s a lady wants you.”

“And a very pretty girl too,” whispered one to another.

“What’s your pleasure?” said Mr Tanner abruptly.

“I wish to speak to you alone,” said Sybil: and advancing towards him she said in a low voice, “‘Tis about Walter Gerard I would speak to you.”

“Well, you can step in here if you like,” said Tanner very discourteously; “there’s only my wife:” and he led the way to the inner room, a small close parlour adorned with portraits of Tom Paine, Cobbett, Thistlewood, and General Jackson; with a fire, though it was a hot July, and a very fat woman affording still more heat, and who was drinking shrub and water and reading the police reports. She stared rudely at Sybil as she entered following Tanner, who himself when the door was closed said, “Well, now what have you got to say?”

“I wish to see Walter Gerard.”

“Do you indeed!”

“And,” continued Sybil notwithstanding his sneering remark, “I come here that you may tell me where I may find him.”

“I believe he lives somewhere in Westminster,” said Tanner, “that’s all I know about him; and if this be all you had to say it might have been said in the coffee-room.”

“It is not all that I have to say,” said Sybil; “and I beseech you, sir, listen to me. I know where Gerard lives: I am his daughter, and the same roof covers our heads. But I wish to know where they meet to-night—you understand me;” and she looked at his wife, who had resumed her police reports; “‘tis urgent.

“I don’t know nothing about Gerard,” said Tanner, “except that he comes here and goes away again.”

“The matter on which I would see him,” said Sybil, “is as urgent as the imagination can conceive, and it concerns you as well as himself; but if you know not where I can find him”—and she moved as if about to retire—“‘tis of no use.”

“Stop.” said Tanner, “you can tell it to me.”

“Why so? You know not where he is; you cannot tell it to him.”

“I don’t know that,” said Tanner. “Come, let’s have it out; and if it will do him any good. I’ll see if we can’t manage to find him.”

“I can impart my news to him and no one else,” said Sybil. “I am solemnly bound.”

“You can’t have a better counseller than Tanner,” urged his wife, getting curious; “you had better tell us.”

“I want no counsel; I want that which you can give me if you choose—information. My father instructed me that if certain circumstances occurred it was a matter of the last urgency that I should see him this evening and before nine o’clock, I was to call here and obtain from you the direction where to find him; the direction,” she added in a lowered tone, and looking Tanner full in the face, “where they hold their secret council to-night.”

“Hem!” said Tanner: “I see you’re on the free-list. And pray how am I to know you are Gerard’s daughter?”

“You do not doubt I am his daughter!” said Sybil proudly.

“Hem!” said Tanner: “I do not know that I do very much,” and he whispered to his wife. Sybil removed from them as far as she was able.

“And this news is very urgent,” resumed Tanner; “and concerns me you say?”

“Concerns you all,” said Sybil; “and every minute is of the last importance.”

“I should like to have gone with you myself, and then there could have been no mistake,” said Tanner; “but that can’t be; we have a meeting here at half-past eight in our great room. I don’t much like breaking rules, especially in such a business; and yet, concerning all of us, as you say, and so very urgent, I don’t see how it could do harm; and I might—I wish I was quite sure you were the party.

“How can I satisfy you?” said Sybil, distressed.

“Perhaps the young person have got her mark on her linen,” suggested the wife. “Have you got a handkerchief Ma’am?” and she took Sybil’s handkerchief and looked at it, and examined it at every corner. It had no mark. And this unforeseen circumstance of great suspicion might have destroyed everything, had not the production of the handkerchief by Sybil also brought forth a letter addressed to her from Hatton.

“It seems to be the party,” said the wife.

“Well,” said Tanner, “you know St Martin’s Lane I suppose? Well, you go up St Martin’s Lane to a certain point, and then you will get into Seven Dials; and then you’ll go on. However it is impossible to direct you; you must find your way. Hunt Street, going out of Silver Street, No. 22. ‘Tis what you call a blind street, with no thoroughfare, and then you go down an alley. Can you recollect that?”

“Fear not.”

“No. 22 Hunt Street, going out of Silver Street. Remember the alley. It’s an ugly neighbourhood; but you go of your own accord.”

“Yes, yes. Good night.”