"Had you not better take off your hat?" asks the Duchess, pointing out of
one of her little mittens to "the foring cove's" beaver, which he has
neglected to remove.
The man grins, and takes off the hat. "I beck your bardon, ma'am," says
he. "Have you fife bet-rooms?" etc. The doctor has cured the German of an
illness, as well as his employers, and especially recommended Miss
Honeyman to Mr. Kuhn.
"I have such a number of apartments. My servant will show them to you."
And she walks back with great state to her chair by the window, and
resumes her station and work there.
Mr. Kuhn reports to his mistress, who descends to inspect the apartments,
accompanied through them by Hannah. The rooms are pronounced to be
exceedingly neat and pleasant, and exactly what are wanted for the
family. The baggage is forthwith ordered to be brought from the
carriages. The little invalid wrapped in his shawl is brought upstairs by
the affectionate Mr. Kuhn, who carries him as gently as if he had been
bred all his life to nurse babies. The smiling Sally (the Sally for the
time-being happens to be a very fresh pink-cheeked pretty little Sally)
emerges from the kitchen and introduces the young ladies, the governess,
the maids, to their apartments. The eldest, a slim black-haired young
lass of thirteen, frisks about the rooms, looks at all the pictures, runs
in and out of the verandah, tries the piano, and bursts out laughing at
its wheezy jingle (it had been poor Emma's piano, bought for her on her
seventeenth birthday, three weeks before she ran away with the ensign;
her music is still in the stand by it: the Rev. Charles Honeyman has
warbled sacred melodies over it, and Miss Honeyman considers it a
delightful instrument), kisses her languid little brother laid on the
sofa, and performs a hundred gay and agile motions suited to her age.
"Oh, what a piano! Why, it is as cracked as Miss Quigley's voice!"
"My dear!" says mamma. The little languid boy bursts out into a jolly
laugh.
"What funny pictures, mamma! Action with Count de Grasse; the death of
General Wolfe; a portrait of an officer, an old officer in blue, like
grandpapa; Brazen Nose College, Oxford: what a funny name!"
At the idea of Brazen Nose College, another laugh comes from the invalid.
"I suppose they've all got brass noses there," he says; and explodes at
this joke. The poor little laugh ends in a cough, and mamma's
travelling-basket, which contains everything, produces a bottle of syrup,
labelled "Master A. Newcome. A teaspoonful to be taken when the cough is
troublesome."
"'Oh, the delightful sea! the blue, the fresh, the ever free,'" sings the
young lady, with a shake. (I suppose the maritime song from which she
quoted was just written at this time.) "How much better this is than
going home and seeing those horrid factories and chimneys! I love Doctor
Goodenough for sending us here. What a sweet house it is! Everybody is
happy in it, even Miss Quigley is happy, mamma. What nice rooms! What
pretty chintz! What a--oh, what a--comfortable sofa!" and she falls down
on the sofa, which, truth to say, was the Rev. Charles Honeyman's
luxurious sofa from Oxford, presented to him by young Cibber Wright of
Christchurch, when that gentleman-commoner was eliminated from the
University.
"The person of the house," mamma says, "hardly comes up to Dr.
Goodenough's description of her. He says he remembers her a pretty little
woman when her father was his private tutor."
"She has grown very much since," says the girl. And an explosion takes
place from the sofa, where the little man is always ready to laugh at any
joke, or anything like a joke, uttered by himself or by any of his family
or friends. As for Doctor Goodenough, he says laughing has saved that
boy's life.
"She looks quite like a maid," continues the lady. "She has hard hands,
and she called me mum always. I was quite disappointed in her." And she
subsides into a novel, with many of which kind of works, and with other
volumes, and with workboxes, and with wonderful inkstands, portfolios,
portable days of the month, scent-bottles, scissor-cases, gilt miniature
easels displaying portraits, and countless gimcracks of travel, the rapid
Kuhn has covered the tables in the twinkling of an eye.
The person supposed to be the landlady enters the room at this juncture,
and the lady rises to receive her. The little wag on the sofa puts his
arm round his sister's neck, and whispers, "I say, Eth, isn't she a
pretty girl? I shall write to Doctor Goodenough and tell him how much
she's grown." Convulsions follow this sally, to the surprise of Hannah,
who says, "Pooty little dear!--what time will he have his dinner, mum?"
"Thank you, Mrs. Honeyman, at two o'clock," says the lady with a bow of
her head. "There is a clergyman of your name in London; is he a
relation?" The lady in her turn is astonished, for the tall person breaks
out into a grin, and says, "Law, mum, you're speakin' of Master Charles.
He's in London."
"Indeed!--of Master Charles?"
"And you take me for missis, mum. I beg your pardon, mum," cries Hannah.
The invalid hits his sister in the side with a weak little fist. If
laughter can cure, salva est res. Doctor Goodenough's patient is safe.
"Master Charles is missis's brother, mum. I've got no brother, mum--never
had no brother. Only one son, who's in the police, mum, thank you. And
law bless me, I was going to forget! If you please, mum, missis says, if
you are quite rested, she will pay her duty to you, mum."
"Oh, indeed," says the lady, rather stiffly; and, taking this for an
acceptance of her mistress's visit, Hannah retires.
"This Miss Honeyman seems to be a great personage," says the lady. "If
people let lodgings, why do they give themselves such airs?"
"We never saw Monsieur de Boigne at Boulogne, mamma," interposes the
girl.
"Monsieur de Boigne, my dear Ethel! Monsieur de Boigne is very well.
But--" here the door opens, and in a large cap bristling with ribbons,
with her best chestnut front, and her best black silk gown, on which her
gold watch shines very splendidly, little Miss Honeyman makes her
appearance, and a dignified curtsey to her lodger.
That lady vouchsafes a very slight inclination of the head indeed, which
she repeats when Miss Honeyman says, "I am glad to hear your ladyship is
pleased with the apartments."
"Yes, they will do very well, thank you," answers the latter person,
gravely.
"And they have such a beautiful view of the sea!" cries Ethel.
"As if all the houses hadn't a view of the sea, Ethel! The price has been
arranged, I think? My servants will require a comfortable room to dine
in--by themselves, ma'am, if you please. My governess and the younger
children will dine together. My daughter dines with me--and my little
boy's dinner will be ready at two o'clock precisely, if you please. It is
now near one."
"Am I to understand----" interposed Miss Honeyman.
"Oh! I have no doubt we shall underst
and each other, ma'am," cried Lady
Anne Newcome (whose noble presence the acute reader has no doubt ere this
divined and saluted). "Doctor Goodenough has given me a most satisfactory
account of you--more satisfactory perhaps than--than you are aware of."
Perhaps Lady Anne's sentence was not going to end in a very satisfactory
way for Miss Honeyman; but, awed by a peculiar look of resolution in the
little lady, her lodger of an hour paused in whatever offensive remark
she might have been about to make. "It is as well that I at last have the
pleasure of seeing you, that I may state what I want, and that we may, as
you say, understand each other. Breakfast and tea, if you please, will be
served in the same manner as dinner. And you will have the kindness to
order fresh milk every morning for my little boy--ass's milk--Doctor
Goodenough has ordered ass's milk. Anything further I want I will
communicate through the person who spoke to you--Kuhn, Mr. Kuhn; and that
will do."
A heavy shower of rain was descending at this moment, and little Mrs.
Honeyman looking at her lodger, who had sate down and taken up her book,
said, "Have your ladyship's servants unpacked your trunks?"
"What on earth, madam, have you--has that to do with the question?"
"They will be put to the trouble of packing again, I fear. I cannot
provide--three times five are fifteen--fifteen separate meals for seven
persons--besides those of my own family. If your servants cannot eat with
mine, or in my kitchen, they and their mistress must go elsewhere. And
the sooner the better, madam, the sooner the better!" says Mrs. Honeyman,
trembling with indignation, and sitting down in a chair spreading her
silks.
"Do you know who I am?" asks Lady Anne, rising.
"Perfectly well, madam," says the other. "And had I known, you should
never have come into my house, that's more."
nervous, and hungry for his dinner, began to cry from his sofa.
"It will be a pity that the dear little boy should be disturbed. Dear
little child, I have often heard of him, and of you, miss," says the
little householder, rising. "I will get you some dinner, my dear, for
Clive's sake. And meanwhile your ladyship will have the kindness to seek
for some other apartments--for not a bit shall my fire cook for any one
else of your company." And with this the indignant little landlady sailed
out of the room.
"Gracious goodness! Who is the woman?" cries Lady Anne. "I never was so
insulted in my life."
"Oh, mamma, it was you began!" says downright Ethel. "That is--Hush,
Alfred dear!--Hush, my darling!"
"Oh, it was mamma began! I'm so hungry! I'm so hungry!" howled the little
man on the sofa--or off it rather--for he was now down on the ground,
kicking away the shawls which enveloped him.
"What is it, my boy? What is it, my blessed darling? You shall have your
dinner! Give her all, Ethel. There are the keys of my desk--there's my
watch--there are my rings. Let her take my all. The monster! the child
must live! It can't go away in such a storm as this. Give me a cloak, a
parasol, anything--I'll go forth and get a lodging. I'll beg my bread
from house to house--if this fiend refuses me. Eat the biscuits, dear! A
little of the syrup, Alfred darling; it's very nice, love! and come to
your old mother--your poor old mother."
Alfred roared out, "No--it's not n-ice: it's n-a-a-asty! I won't have
syrup. I will have dinner." The mother, whose embraces the child repelled
with infantine kicks, plunged madly at the bells, rang them all four
vehemently, and ran downstairs towards the parlour, whence Miss Honeyman
was issuing.
The good lady had not at first known the names of her lodgers, but had
taken them in willingly enough on Dr. Goodenough's recommendation. And it
was not until one of the nurses entrusted with the care of Master
Alfred's dinner informed Miss Honeyman of the name of her guest, that she
knew she was entertaining Lady Anne Newcome; and that the pretty girl was
the fair Miss Ethel; the little sick boy, the little Alfred of whom his
cousin spoke, and of whom Clive had made a hundred little drawings in his
rude way, as he drew everybody. Then bidding Sally run off to St. James's
Street for a chicken--she saw it put on the spit, and prepared a bread
sauce, and composed a batter-pudding as she only knew how to make
batter-puddings. Then she went to array herself in her best clothes, as
we have seen,--as we have heard rather (Goodness forbid that we should
see Miss Honeyman arraying herself, or penetrate that chaste mystery, her
toilette!)--then she came to wait upon Lady Anne, not a little flurried
as to the result of that queer interview; then she whisked out of the
drawing-room as before has been shown; and, finding the chicken roasted
to a turn, the napkin and tray ready spread by Hannah the neat-handed,
she was bearing them up to the little patient when the frantic parent met
her on the stair.
"Is it--is it for my child?" cried Lady Anne, reeling against the
bannister.
"Yes, it's for the child," says Miss Honeyman, tossing up her head. "But
nobody else has anything in the house."
"God bless you--God bless you! A mother's bl-l-essings go with you,"
gurgled the lady, who was not, it must be confessed, a woman of strong
moral character.
It was good to see the little man eating the fowl. Ethel, who had never
cut anything in her young existence, except her fingers now and then with
her brother's and her governess's penknives, bethought her of asking Miss
Honeyman to carve the chicken. Lady Anne, with clasped hands and
streaming eyes, sate looking on at the ravishing scene.
"Why did you not let us know you were Clive's aunt?" Ethel asked, putting
out her hand. The old lady took hers very kindly, and said, "Because you
didn't give me time. And do you love Clive, my dear?"
The reconciliation between Miss Honeyman and her lodger was perfect. Lady
Anne wrote a quire of notepaper off to Sir Brian for that day's post--
only she was too late, as she always was. Mr. Kuhn perfectly delighted
Miss Honeyman that evening by his droll sayings, jokes, and
pronunciation, and by his praises of Master Glife, as he called him. He
lived out of the house, did everything for everybody, was never out of
Honeyman got out a bottle of the famous Madeira which her Colonel sent
her, and treated him to a glass in her own room. Kuhn smacked his lips
and held out the glass again. The honest rogue knew good wine.
CHAPTER X
Ethel and her Relations
For four-and-twenty successive hours Lady Anne Newcome was perfectly in
raptures with her new lodgings, and every person and thing which they
contained. The drawing-rooms were fitted with the greatest taste; the
dinner was exquisite. Were there ever such delicious veal-cutlets, such
verdant French beans? "Why do we have those odious French cooks, my dear,
with their shocking principles--the principles of all Frenchmen are
shocking--and the dreadful bills they bring us in; and their
consequential airs and graces? I am determined to part with Brignol. I
have written to your father this evening to give Brignol warning. When
did he ever give us veal-cutlets? What can be nicer?"
"Indeed they were very good," said Miss Ethel, who had mutton five times
a week at one o'clock. "I am so glad you like the house, and Clive, and
Mrs. Honeyman."
"Like her! the dear little old woman. I feel as if she had been my friend
all my life! I feel quite drawn towards her. What a wonderful coincidence
that Dr. Goodenough should direct us to this very house! I have written
to your father about it. And to think that I should have written to Clive
at this very house, and quite forgotten Mrs. Honeyman's name--and such an
odd name too. I forget everything, everything! You know I forgot your
Aunt Louisa's husband's name; and when I was godmother to her baby, and
the clergyman said, 'What is the infant's name?' I said, 'Really I
forget.' And so I did. He was a London clergyman, but I forget at what
church. Suppose it should be this very Mr. Honeyman! It may have been,
you know, and then the coincidence would be still more droll. That tall,
old, nice-looking, respectable person, with a mark on her nose, the
housekeeper--what is her name?--seems a most invaluable person. I think I
shall ask her to come to us. I am sure she would save me I don't know how
much money every week; and I am certain Mrs. Trotter is making a fortune
by us. I shall write to your papa, and ask him permission to ask this
person." Ethel's mother was constantly falling in love with her new
acquaintances; their man-servants and their maid-servants, their horses
and ponies, and the visitor within their gates. She would ask strangers
to Newcome, hug and embrace them on Sunday; not speak to them on Monday;
and on Tuesday behave so rudely to them, that they were gone before
Wednesday. Her daughter had had so many governesses--all darlings during
the first week, and monsters afterwards--that the poor child possessed
none of the accomplishments of her age. She could not play on the piano;
she could not speak French well; she could not tell you when gunpowder
was invented: she had not the faintest idea of the date of the Norman
Conquest, or whether the earth went round the sun, or vice versa. She did
not know the number of counties in England, Scotland, and Wales, let
alone Ireland; she did not know the difference between latitude and
longitude. She had had so many governesses: their accounts differed: poor
Ethel was bewildered by a multiplicity of teachers, and thought herself a
monster of ignorance. They gave her a book at a Sunday School, and little
girls of eight years old answered questions of which she knew nothing.
The place swam before her. She could not see the sun shining on their
fair flaxen heads and pretty faces. The rosy little children holding up
their eager hands, and crying the answer to this question and that,
seemed mocking her. She seemed to read in the book, "O Ethel, you dunce,
dunce, dunce!" She went home silent in the carriage, and burst into
bitter tears on her bed. Naturally a haughty girl of the highest spirit,
resolute and imperious, this little visit to the parish school taught
Ethel lessons more valuable than ever so much arithmetic and geography.
Clive has told me a story of her in her youth, which, perhaps, may apply
to some others of the youthful female aristocracy. She used to walk, with
other select young ladies and gentlemen, their nurses and governesses, in
a certain reserved plot of ground railed off from Hyde Park, whereof some
of the lucky dwellers in the neighbourhood of Apsley House have a key. In
this garden, at the age of nine or thereabout, she had contracted an