General Bounce Part 7

When you do, you will enjoy yourself all the more, and be respected none the less. You will be equally efficient as a chaperon, though the trident be not always pointed on the defensive; and the lion may be an excellent watch-dog, without being trained to growl at every fellow-creature who does not happen to keep a carriage. His lordship's business, however, lies chiefly with those, so to speak, below the salt. Voters are they, or, more important still, voters' wives and daughters, and, as such, must be propitiated; for Mount Helicon, we need scarcely inform our readers, is not an English peerage, and my lord may probably require to sit again for the same incorruptible borough.

So he bows to _this_ lady, and flirts with _that_, and submits to be patted on the shoulder and twaddled to by a fat little man, primed with port, but who, when not thus bemused, is an influential member of his committee, and a staunch supporter on the hustings. Nay more, with an effort that he deserves infinite credit for concealing with such good grace, he offers his arm to the red-haired daughter of his literally _warm_ supporter, and leads the well-pleased damsel, blushing much, and mindful "to keep her head up," right away to the county families' quadrille at the top of the room, where she dances _vis-a-vis_--actually _vis-a-vis_--to Miss Kettering and Captain Lacquers.

That gentleman is considerably brightened up by his dinner and his potations. He has besides got his favourite boots on, and feels equal to almost any social emergency, so he is making the agreeable to the heiress with that degree of originality so peculiarly his own, and getting on, as he thinks, "like a house on fire."

"Very _wawm_, Miss Kettering," observes the dandy, holding steadily by his starboard moustache. "Guyville people always make it so hot.

Charming _bouquet_!"

"Your _vis-a-vis_ is dancing alone," says Blanche, cutting short her partner's interesting remarks, and sending him sprawling and swaggering across the room, only to hasten back again and proceed with his conversation.

"You know the man opposite--man with red whiskers? That's Mount Helicon. Good fellow--aw--if he could but dye his whiskers. Asked to be introduced to _you_ to-day on the course. Told him--aw--I couldn't take such a liberty." Lacquers wishes to say he would like to keep her society all to himself, but, as usual, he cannot express clearly what he means, so he twirls his moustaches instead, and is presently lost in the intricacies of "La Poule." We need hardly observe that manuvring is not our friend's forte. Blanche's eyes meanwhile are turned steadily towards the lower end of the room, and her partner's following their direction, he discovers, as he thinks, a fresh topic of conversation. "Ah! there's Hardingstone just come in--aw. Why don't he bring his wife with him, I wonder!"

"His wife!" repeated Blanche, with a start that sent the blood from her heart; "why, he's not married, is he?" she added, with more animation than she had hitherto exhibited.

"Don't know, I'm sure," replied the dandy, glancing down at his own faultless _chaussure_; "thought he was--aw--looks like a married man--aw."

"Why should you think so?" inquired Blanche, half amused in spite of herself.

"Why--aw," replied the observant reasoner, "got the married _look_, you know. Wears wide family boots--aw. Do to ride the children on, you know."

Blanche could not repress a laugh; and the quadrille being concluded, off she went with Cousin Charlie, to stagger through a breathless polka, just at the moment the "family boots" bore their owner to the upper end of the room in search of her.

Frank was out of his element, and thoroughly uncomfortable. Generally speaking, he could adapt himself to any society into which he happened to be thrown, but to-night he was restless and out of spirits; dissatisfied with Blanche, with himself for being so, and with the world in general. "What a parcel of fools these people are," thought he, as with folded arms he leant against the wall and gazed vacantly on the shifting throng; "jigging away to bad music in a hot room, and calling it pleasure. What a waste of time, and energy, and everything.

Now, there's little Blanche Kettering. I _did_ think that girl was superior to the common run of women. I fancied she had a heart, and a mind, and 'brains,' and was above all the petty vanities of flirting, and fiddling, and dressing, which a posse of idiots dignify with the name of society. But no; they are all alike, giddy, vain, and frivolous. There she is, dancing away with as light a heart as if 'Cousin Charlie' were not under orders for the Cape, and to start to-morrow morning. She don't care--not she! I wonder if she _will_ marry him, should he ever come back. I have never liked to ask him, but everybody seems to say it's a settled thing. How changed she must be since we used to go out in the boat at St. Swithin's; and yet how little altered she is in features from the child I was so fond of.

It's disappointing!" And Frank ground his teeth with subdued ferocity.

"It's disgusting! She's not half good enough for Charlie. I'll never believe in one of them again!"

Well, if not "half good enough for Charlie," we mistake much whether, even at the very moment of condemnation, our philosopher did not consider her quite "good enough for Frank"; and could he but have known the young girl's thoughts while he judged her so harshly, he would have been much more in charity with the world in general, and looked upon the rational amus.e.m.e.nt of dancing in a light more becoming a sensible man--which, to do him justice, he generally was.

Blanche, even as she wound and threaded through the mazes of a crowded polka, skilfully steered by Cousin Charlie, who was a beautiful dancer, and one of whose little feet would scarcely have served to "ride a fairy," was wondering in her own mind why Mr. Hardingstone had not asked her to dance, and why he had been so distant at the steeple-chase, and speculating whether it was possible he could be married. How she hoped Mrs. Hardingstone, if there should be one, was _a nice person_, and how fond she would be of her, and yet few people were worthy of _him_. How n.o.ble and manly he looked to-night amongst all the dandies. She would rather see Mr. Hardingstone frown than any one else smile--there was n.o.body like him, except, perhaps, Major D'Orville; he had the same quiet voice, the same self-reliant manner; but then the Major was much older. Oh no--there was nothing equal to Frank--and how she _liked_ him, he was _such_ a friend of Charlie; and just as Blanche arrived at this conclusion, the skirt of her dress got entangled in Cornet Capon's spur, and Charlie laughed so (the provoking boy!) that he could not set her free, and the Cornet's apologies were so absurd, and everybody stared so, it was quite disagreeable! But a tall, manly figure interposed between her and the crowd, and Major D'Orville released her in an instant; and that deep, winning voice engaged her for the next dance, and she could not but comply, though she had rather it had been some one else. Frank saw it all, still with his arms folded, and misjudged her again, as men do those of whom they are fondest. "How well she does it, the little coquette," he thought; "it's a good piece of acting all through--now she'll flirt with D'Orville because he happens to be a great man here, and then she'll throw him over for some one else; and so they 'keep the game alive.'" Frank! Frank! you ought to be ashamed of yourself!

In the meantime, Lord Mount Helicon must not neglect a very important part of the business which has brought him to Guyville. In the pocket of his lordship's morning coat is a letter which Straps, who has taken that garment down to brush, in the natural course of things, is even now perusing. As its contents may somewhat enlighten us as well as the valet, we will take the liberty of peeping over that trusty domestic's shoulder, and joining him in his pursuit of knowledge, premising that the epistle is dated Brook Street, and is a fair specimen of maternal advice to a son. After the usual gossip regarding Mrs. Bolter's elopement, and Lady Susan Stiffneck's marriage, with the indispensable conjectures about "ministers," a body in whose precarious position ladies of a certain age take an unaccountable interest, the letter goes on to demonstrate that

"it is needless to point out, my dear Mount, the advantages you would obtain under your peculiar circ.u.mstances by settling early in life. When I was at Bubbleton last autumn (and Globus says I have never been so well since he attended me when you were born--in fact, the spasms left me altogether), I made the acquaintance of a General Bounce, an odious, vulgar man, who had been all his life somewhere in India, but who had a niece, a quiet, amiable girl, by name Kettering, with whom I was much pleased. They have a nice place, though damp, somewhere in the neighbourhood of your borough, and I dined there once or twice before I left Bubbleton. Everything looked like _maison montee_; and from information I can rely on, I understand the girl is a great heiress. Between ourselves, Lady Champfront told me she would have from three to four hundred thousand pounds. Now, although I should be the last person to hint at your selling yourself for money, particularly with your talents and your position, yet if you should happen to see this young lady, and take a fancy to her, it would be a very nice thing, and would make you quite independent. She is prettyish in the 'Jeannette and Jeannot' style, and although her manner is not the least formed, she has no _p.r.o.nonce_ vulgarity, and would soon acquire our 'ways' when she came to live amongst us. Of course we should drop the General immediately; and, my dear boy, I trust you would give up that horrid racing--young Cubbington, who has hardly left school, is already nearly ruined by it, and Lady Looby is in despair--such a mother too as she has been to him! By the by, there is a cousin in our way, but he is young enough to be in love only with himself, and appeared to me to be rather making up to the governess!

Think of this, my dear Mount, and believe me,

"Your most affectionate mother,

"M. MT. HELICON.

"P.S.--Your book is much admired. Trifles _raves_ about it, and your old friend Mrs. Blacklamb a.s.sures me that _it made her quite ill_."

Primed with such sage counsel, his lordship determined to lose no time in "opening the trenches." After enacting sundry duty-dances, by which he had gained at least one prospective "plumper," he accordingly "completed the first parallel" by obtaining an introduction to General Bounce, which ceremony Captain Lacquers performed in his usual easy off-hand style--the introducer shouting into each man's ear his listener's _own_ name, and suppressing altogether that of his new acquaintance, an ingenious method of presenting people to each other without furthering their intimacy to any great extent. The General, however, and the member had known each other previously by sight as well as by name, the former having voted and spoken against the latter at the past election, with his peculiar abruptness and energy; but Mount Helicon was the last man in the world to owe an antagonist a grudge, and being keenly alive to the ridiculous, was prepared to be delighted with his political opponent, in whom he saw a fund of absurdity, out of which he promised himself much amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Glad to make your acquaintance, my Lud," said the General, standing well behind his orders and decorations, which showed to great advantage on a coat tightly b.u.t.toned across his somewhat corpulent frame--"Don't like your politics--what? never did--progress and all that, sir, not worth a row of gingerbread--don't tell _me_--why, what did Lord Hindostan say to me at Government House, when they threatened to report me at home for exceeding my orders? 'Bounce,' says his Excellency--'Bounce, _I'll see you through it_'--what? _nothing like a big stick for a n.i.g.g.e.r_. _Stick!_ how d'ye mean?"--and the speaker, who was beginning to foam at the mouth, suddenly changed his tone to one of the sweetest politeness, as he introduced 'My niece, Miss Kettering; Lord Mount Helicon.' A second time was Frank Hardingstone forestalled; he had just made up his mind that he would dance with Blanche only _once_, sun himself yet _once_ again in her sweet smile, and then think of her no more--a sensible resolution, but not very easy to carry out. Of course he laid the blame on her. "First she makes a fool of D'Orville," thought he, "a man old enough to be her father--and now she whisks away with this red-bearded radical--to make a fool of him too, unless she means to throw over Charlie; and who is the greatest fool of the three? Why, you, Frank Hardingstone, who ought to know better. I shall go home, smoke a cigar, and go to bed; the dream is over; I had no idea it would be so unpleasant to wake from it." So Frank selected his hat, pulled out his cigar-case, and trudged off, by no means in a philosophical or even a charitable frame of mind.

There was a light twinkling in the window of his lodgings over the Saddlers, some three hours afterwards, when a carriage drove rapidly by, bearing a freight of pleasure-seekers home from the ball. Inside were the General and Blanche, the former fast asleep, wrapped in the dreamless slumbers which those enjoy who have reached that time of life when the soundness of the stomach is far more attended to than that of the heart--when sentiment is of small account, but digestion of paramount importance. Age, as it widens the circle of our affections, weakens their intensity, and although proverbially "there is no fool like an old one," we question if in the present day there are many Anacreons who--

"When they behold the festive train Of dancing youth, are young again;"

or who, however little they might object to celebrating her charms "in the bowl," would, for "soft Bathylla's sake," wreathe vine-leaves round their grizzled heads. No: Age is loth to make itself ridiculous in _that_ way; and the General snored and grunted, heartwhole and comfortable, by the side of his pretty niece. How pretty she looked--a little pale from over-excitement and fatigue, but her violet eyes all the deeper and darker from the contrast, whilst none but her maid would have thought the long golden brown hair spoiled by hanging down in those rich, uncurling cl.u.s.ters. She was like the pale blush rose in her bouquet--more winning as it droops in half-faded loveliness than when first it bloomed, bright and crisp, in its native conservatory.

The flower yields its fragrance all the sweeter from being shaken by the breeze. Who but a cousin or a brother would have gone on the box to smoke with such a girl as Blanche inside? Yet so it was. Master Charlie, who danced, as he did everything else, with his whole heart and soul, could not forego the luxury of a cigar in the cool night air, after the noise and heat and revelry of the ball. As he puffed volumes of smoke into the air, and watched the bright stars twinkling down through the clear, pure night, his thoughts wandered far--far into the future; and he, too, felt that the majesty of a sad, sweet face had impressed itself on his being--that she had been watching him to-day through his boyish exploits--and that her eye would kindle, her cheek would glow, when military honours and distinction were heaped upon him, as heaped he was resolved they should be, if ever an opportunity offered. To-morrow his career would begin! To-morrow, ay, even to-day (for it was already past midnight) he was to embark for the Cape; and scarce a thought of the bitterness of parting, perhaps for ever, shaded that bright, young imagination, as it sketched out for itself its impossible romance, worth all the material possibilities that have ever been accomplished. So Charlie smoked and pondered, and dreamed of beauty and valour. We do not think he was in very imminent danger of marrying his cousin.

Perhaps, were he inside, his flow of spirits would only disturb the quiet occupants. Blanche is not asleep, but she is dreaming nevertheless. With her large eyes fixed vacantly on the hedge-row trees and fences, that seem to be wheeling past her in the carriage lamp-light, she is living the last few hours of her life again, and seeing their past events more clearly, as she disentangles them from the excitement and confusion amongst which they actually occurred. Now she is dancing with Lacquers or Sir Ascot, and wondering, as she recalls their commonplace chatter and trite remarks, how men so insipid can belong to the same creation as "Cousin Charlie," or another gentleman, a friend of his, of whom, for the first time in her life, she feels a little afraid. Now she laughs to herself as she recollects Cornet Capon's agony of shyness, and the burning blushes with which that diffident young officer apologised for tearing her dress. Anon she sees Major D'Orville's commanding figure and handsome, manly face, while the low musical voice is still ringing in her ear, and the quiet deferential manner, softened by a protective air of kindness, has lost none of its charm. Blanche is not the first young lady, by a good many, who has gone home from a ball with a flattered consciousness that a certain gallant officer thinks her a "very superior person," and that the good opinion of such a man is indeed worth having. The Major was "a dangerous man"; he betrayed no c.o.xcombry to mar the effect of his warlike beauty and chivalrous bearing. He never "sank" the profession, but always spoke of himself as a "mere soldier," whilst his manner was that of a "finished gentleman." He had distinguished himself, too, on more than one occasion; and the men all had a great opinion of him. Woman is an imitative animal; and a high reputation, especially for courage, amongst the gentlemen, goes a long way in the good graces of the ladies. Add to these the crowning advantage, that the Major, except in one instance of which we know the facts, came into the unequal contest with a heart perfectly invulnerable and case-hardened by intercourse with the world, and a selfishness less the result of nature than education. When a man, himself untouched, makes up his mind that a woman _shall_ love him, the odds are fearfully in his favour. Blanche _liked_ him already; but if "in the mult.i.tude of counsellors there is safety," no less is there security in the mult.i.tude of admirers; and ere the Major's image had time to make more than a transient impression, that of Lord Mount Helicon chased it away in the mental magic-lantern of our fair young dreamer. He had taken her in to supper; and how pleasant he was! so odd, but so agreeable--such a command of language, and such a quaint, absurd way of saying commonplace things. Not so bad-looking either, in spite of his red whiskers; and such a beautiful t.i.tle! How well it would sound! and Blanche smiled at herself as the idea came across her. But a handsome, manly fellow leaning against the wall was looking at her with a stern, forbidding expression she had never seen before on that open brow, and Blanche's heart ached at the vision. Mr. Hardingstone was surely very much changed; he who used to be so frank, and kind, and good-humoured, and to lose no opportunity of petting and praising the girl he had known from a child; and to-night he had never so much as asked her to dance, and scarcely spoken to her. "What right had he to look so cross at me?" thought the girl, with the subdued irritation of wounded feelings; "what had I done to offend him, or why should I care whether I offend him or not? Poor fellow, perhaps he is in low spirits about Cousin Charlie's going away so soon." And Blanche's eyes filled with tears--tears that she persuaded herself were but due to her cousin's early departure.

Like the rising generation in general, Charlie was a great smoker. His ideas of "campaigning" were considerably mixed up with tobacco, and he lost no opportunity of qualifying for the bivouac by a sedulous consumption of cigars. He dashed the last bit of "burning comfort"

from his lips as the carriage drove into the avenue at Newton-Hollows.

Protracted yawns prevented much conversation during the serving-out of hand-candlesticks. Good-nights were exchanged; "We shall all see you to-morrow before you go, dear," said Blanche, as she disappeared into her room; and soon the sighing of the night wind was the only sound to disturb the silence of that long range of buildings, where all were sunk in slumber and repose--all save one.

At an open window, looking steadfastly forth into the darkness, sat Mary Delaval. She had not stirred for hours, and she might have been asleep, so moveless was her att.i.tude, had it not been for the fixed, earnest expression of her dark grey eye. One round white arm rested on the window-ledge, and her long black hair fell in loose ma.s.ses over the snowy garments, which, const.i.tuting a lady's _deshabille_, reveal her beauties far less liberally than the costume she more inaptly terms "full dress." Mary is reasoning with herself--generally an unsatisfactory process, and one that seldom leads to any definite conclusion; sadly, soberly, and painfully, she is recalling her past life, her selfish father, her injured mother, the hardships and trials of her youth, and the ray of sunshine that has tinged the last few weeks with its golden light. She never thought to entertain folly, madness, such as this; yet would she not have had it otherwise for worlds. Bitter are the dregs, but verily the poison is more than sweet. And now he is going away, and she will never, never see him again; that fair young face will never more greet her with its thrilling smile, those kindly joyous tones never more make music for her ear. To-morrow he will be gone. Perhaps he may fall in action--the beautiful brow gashed--the too well-known features cold and fixed in death: not if prayers can avert such a fate. Perhaps he will return distinguished and triumphant; but in either case what more will the poor governess have to do with the young hero, save to love him still?

Yes, she may love him _now_--love him with all her heart and soul, without restraint, without self-reproach, for she will _never_ see him again. On that she is determined; their paths lie in different directions, like two ships that meet upon the waters and rejoice in each other's companionship, and part, and know each other no more. It was foolish to sit up for him to-night; but it is the last, _last_ time, and she could not resist the temptation to wait and watch even for the very wheels that bore him home; and now it is over--all over--he will never know it; but she will always think of him and pray for him, and watch over Blanche for _his_ sake, and love him, adore him dotingly--madly--to the last; and cold, haughty, pa.s.sionless Mary Delaval leant her head upon her two white arms, and sobbed like a broken-hearted child.

We wonder if any man that walks the earth is worthy of the whole idolatrous devotion of a woman's heart. Charlie was snoring sound asleep, whilst she who loved him wept and prayed and suffered. Go to sleep too, foolish Mary, and pleasant dreams to you: "Sorrow has your young days shaded;" it is but fair that your nights should glow in the rosy, fancy-brightened hues of joy.

CHAPTER IX

WANT

LODGINGS IN LONDON--A CONVIVIAL HUSBAND--THE WIFE GIVES HER OPINION--FAMILY PLEASURES--FAMILY CARES--DRESSING TO GO OUT--THE DRUNKARD'S VISITORS--CHEAP ENJOYMENT--WHO IS THE OWNER?--LONDON FOR THE POOR

As you walk jauntily along any of the great thoroughfares of London, you arrive, ever and anon, at one of those narrow offshoots of which you would scarcely discover the existence, were it not for the paved crossing over which you daintily pick your way on the points of your jetty boots. All the attention you can spare from pa.s.sing events is devoted to the preservation of your _chaussure_, and you do not probably think it worth while to bestow even a casual peep down that close, winding alley, in which love and hate, and hopes and fears, and human joys and miseries and sympathies, are all packed together, just as they are in your own house in Belgravia, Tyburnia, or Mayfair, only considerably more cramped for room, and a good deal worse off for fresh air. That n.o.ble animal, the horse, generally occupies the ground-floor of such tenements as compose these narrow streets, whilst the dirty children of those bipeds who look after his well-being, embryo coachmen, and helpers, and stablemen, play and fight and vociferate in the gutter, with considerable energy and no little noise, munching their dinners _al fresco_ the while, with an appet.i.te that makes dry bread a very palatable sustenance. A strong "smell of stables" pervades the atmosphere, attributable perhaps to the acc.u.mulation of that agricultural wealth which, in its _right_ place, produces golden harvests; and the ring of harness and stamp of steeds, varied by an occasional snort, nearly drown the plaintive street organ, grinding away, fainter and fainter, round the corner.

Shirts, stockings, and garments of which we neither know the names nor natures, hang, like Macbeth's banners, "on the outward walls." Washing appears to be the staple commerce, while porter seems the princ.i.p.al support, of these busy regions; and as the snowy water-lily rises from the stagnant marsh, so does the dazzling shirt-front, in which you will to-day appear at dinner, owe its purity to that stream of soapy starch-stained liquid now pouring its filthy volume down the gutter.

Dirty, drowsy-looking men clatter about with pails and other apparatus for the cleansing of carriages, whilst here and there an urchin is pounced upon and carried off by some maternal hawk, with bare arms and disordered tresses, either to return with a smeared mouth and a festive slice of bread and treacle, or to admonish its companions, by piercing cries, that it is undergoing summary punishment not undeserved. The shrill organ of female volubility, we need hardly say, is in the ascendant; and we may add that the faces generally met with, all dirty and careworn though they be, are gilded by an honest expression of contentment peculiar to those who fulfil their destiny by working for their daily bread.

In one of the worst lodgings in such a mews as we have faintly endeavoured to describe, in a dirty, comfortless room, bare of furniture, and to which laborious access is obtained by a dilapidated wooden staircase, sits our old acquaintance Gingham, now Mrs. Blacke, but who will never be known to "the families in which she lived" by any other than her maiden patronymic. Though in her best days a lady of no fascinating exterior, she is decidedly altered for the worse since we saw her at St. Swithin's, and is now, without question, a hard-featured and repulsive-looking woman. She has lost the "well-to-do" air, which sits more easily on those who live at "housekeeping" than on those "who find themselves," and everything about her betrays a degree of poverty, if not of actual want, sadly repugnant to the habits of an orderly upper-servant in a well-regulated establishment.

Of all those who sink to hardships after having "seen better days,"

none bear privation so ill as this particular rank. They have neither the determination and energy of "the gentle," nor the happy carelessness and bodily vigour of the labouring cla.s.s. It is lamentable to watch the gradual sinking of a once respectable man, who has been tempted, by the very natural desire of becoming independent, to leave "service" and set up on his own account. From his boyhood he has been fed, housed, and clothed, without a thought or care of his own, till he has spread into the portly, grave, ponderous official, whom not even his master's guests would think of addressing save by the respectful t.i.tle of "Mister." He has saved a "pretty bit o'

money"; and on giving warning, announces his long-concealed marriage to the housekeeper, who has perhaps saved a little more. Between them they muster a _very_ few hundred pounds; and on this inexhaustible capital they determine to set up for themselves. If he takes a public-house, it is needless to dwell on the almost inevitable catastrophe. But whatever the trade or speculation on which he embarks, he has everything to learn; education cannot be had without paying for it; business connections cannot be made--they must _grow_.

Those are positive hardships to _him_, which could scarcely be felt as wants by others of his own sphere, who had not always lived, as he has, on the fat of the land. Discontent and recrimination creep into the household. The wife makes home uncomfortable, and "the husband goes to the beer-shop." The money dwindles--the business fails--fortunate if the family do not increase. "Trade _never_ was so bad," and it soon becomes a question of a.s.signees and ten shillings in the pound. The man himself is honest, and it cuts him to the heart.

Only great speculators can rise, like the Phoenix, in gaudier plumage after every fresh insolvency; and hunger begins to stare our once portly acquaintance in the face. At last he is completely "sold up," and if too old to go again into service, he will probably think himself well off to finish in the workhouse. And this is the career of two-thirds of those who leave comfortable homes for the vague future of a shadowy independence, and embark upon speculations of which they neither understand the nature nor count the cost.

But we must return to Gingham, bending her thin, worn figure over some dirty needlework, and rocking with her foot a wooden cradle, in which, covered by a scanty rug not over-clean, sleeps a little pinched-up atom of a child, contrasting sadly with those vigorous, brawling urchins out of doors. There is a scanty morsel of fire in the grate, though the day is hot and sultry, for a "bit of dinner" has to be kept warm for "father"; and very meagre fare it is, between its two delf plates. A thin-bladed knife and two-p.r.o.nged fork lie ready for him on the rough deal table, guiltless of a cloth; and Gingham wonders what is keeping him, for he promised faithfully to come back to dinner, and the poor woman sighs as she st.i.tches and rocks the child, and counts the quarters told out by the neighbouring clock, and ponders sadly on old times, than which there is no surer sign of a heart ill at ease.

Well-to-do, thriving people are continually looking forward, and scheming and living in the Future; it is only your worn, dejected, hopeless sufferer that recalls the long-faded sunshine of the Past.

Gingham's marriage took place at St. Swithin's as soon after Mrs.

Kettering's death as appearances would allow, and was conducted with the usual solemnities observed on such occasions in her rank of life.

There was a new shawl, and a gorgeous bonnet, and a cake, with a large consumption of tea, not to mention excisable commodities. Tom Blacke looked very smart in a white hat and trousers to match, whilst Hairblower signalised the event by the performance of an intricate and unparalleled hornpipe, such as is never seen now-a-days off the stage.

Blanche made the bride a handsome present, which was acknowledged with many blessings and a shower of tears. Gingham's great difficulty was, how ever she should part with Miss Blanche! and "all went merry as a marriage bell." But they had not long been man and wife ere Tom began to show the cloven foot. First he would take his blushing bride to tea-gardens and such places of convivial resort, where, whilst she partook of the "cup that cheers but not inebriates," he would sip consolatory measures of that which does both. After a time he preferred such expeditions as she could not well accompany him on, and would come home with glazed eyes, a pale face, and the tie of his neckcloth under his ear. The truth will out. Tom was a drunken dog.

There was no question about it. Then came dismissal from his employer, the attorney. Still, as long as Gingham's money lasted, all went on comparatively well. But a lady's-maid's savings are not inexhaustible, and people who live on their capital are apt to get through it wonderfully fast. So they came down from three well-furnished rooms to a kitchen and parlour, and from that to one miserable apartment, serving all purposes at once. Then they moved to London to look for employment; and Tom Blacke, a handy fellow enough when sober, obtained a series of situations, all of which he lost owing to his convivial failing. Now they paid two shillings a week for the wretched room in which we find them, and a hard matter it often was to raise money for the rent, and their own living, and Tom's score at "The Feathers,"

just round the corner. But Gingham worked for the whole family, as a woman will when put to it, and seemed to love her husband the better the worse he used her, as is constantly the case with that long-suffering s.e.x. "Poor fellow," she would say, when Tom reeled home to swear at her in drunken ferocity, or kiss her in maudlin kindness, "it's trouble that's drove him to it; but there's good in Tom yet--look how fond he is of baby." And with all his faults, there is no doubt little Miss Blacke possessed a considerable share of her father's heart, such as it was.

But even gentle woman's temper is not proof against being kept waiting, that most irritating of all trials; and Gingham, who in her more prosperous days had been a lady of considerable asperity, could "pluck up a spirit," as she called it, even now, when she was "_raised_,"--so, surmounting the coffee-coloured front with a dingy bonnet, and folding her bare arms in a faded shawl, she locked baby in, trusting devoutly the child might not wake during her absence, and marched stoutly off to "The Feathers," where she was sure to find her good-for-nothing husband.