And with this reflection he slowly entered the hotel, and repaired to his chamber.
CHAPTER XXI. A BIT OF B Y-P L A Y.
Reverses of fortune might be far more easily supported, if they did not entail, as their inevitable consequence, the association with those all of whose tastes, habits, and opinions run in a new and different channel. It is a terrible aggravation to the loss of those comforts which habit has rendered necessaries, to unlearn the usages of a certain condition, and adopt those of a class beneath us,—or, what is still worse, engage in the daily, hourly conflict between our means and our requirements.
Perhaps Lady Eleanor Darcy and her daughter never really felt the meaning of their changed condition, nor understood its poignancy, till they saw themselves as residents of Mrs. Fumbally's boarding-house, whither Mr. Dempsey's polite attentions had conducted them. It was to no want of respect on that lady's part that any portion of this feeling could be traced. “The Panther” had really behaved with the most dignified consideration; and while her new guests were presented as Mrs. and Miss Gwynne, intimated, by a hundred little adroit devices of manner, that their real rank and title were regarded by her as inviolable secrets,—not the less likely to be respected that she was herself ignorant of both. Heaven knows what secret anguish the retention of these facts cost poor Paul! secrecy being with him a quality something like Acres' courage, which “oozed out of his fingers' ends.” Mr. Dempsey hated those miserly souls that can treasure up a fact for their own personal enjoyment, and yet never invite a neighbor to partake of it; and it was a very inefficient consolation to him, in this instance, to throw a mysterious cloak over the strangers, and, by an air of profound consciousness, seek to impose on the other boarders. He made less scruple about what he deemed his own share of the mystery; and scarcely had Mrs. Fumbally performed the honors of the two small chambers destined for Lady Eleanor and Helen, than Paul followed her to the little apartment familiarly termed her “den,” and shutting the door, with an appearance of deep caution, took his place opposite to her at the fire.
“Well, Mr. Dempsey,” said Mrs. Fumbally, “now that all is done and settled,—now that I have taken these ladies into the 'Establishment,'”—a very favorite designation of Mrs. Fum's when she meant to be imposing,—“I hope I am not unreasonable iu expecting a full and complete account from you of who they are, whence they came, and, in fact, every particular necessary to satisfy me concerning them.”
“Mrs. Gwynne! Miss Gwynne! mother and daughter—Captain Gwynne, the father, on the recruiting staff in the Isle of Skye, or, if you like it better, with his regiment at St. John's. Mrs. G———, a Miss Rickaby, one of the Rickabys of Pwhlmdlwmm, North Wales—ancient family—small estate—all spent—obliged to live retired—till—till—no matter what—a son comes of age—to sign something—or anything that way—”
“This is all fiddle-faddle, Mr. Dempsey,” said Mrs. Fum, with an expression that seemed to say, “Take care how you trifle with me.”
“To be sure it is,” rejoined Paul; “all lies, every word of it. What do you say, then, if we have her the Widow Gwynne—husband shot at Bergen-op-Zoom—”
“I say, Mr. Dempsey, that if you wish me to keep your secret before the other boarders—”