It is indeed a sweet little retreat, with its chintz hangings and muslin curtains, its open windows looking upon the shining Channel, and all its etceteras of girlish luxury and refinement, that to us poor old bachelors seem the very essence of ladylike comfort. In one corner stands the book-case, by which we may discover the pretty proprietor’s taste, at least in literature. Divers stiffish volumes on the sciences repose comfortably enough, as if they had not often been disturbed, and although scrupulously dusted, were but seldom opened; but on the sofa, near that full-length glass, a new novel lies upon its face, with a paper-cutter inserted at that critical page where the heroine refuses her lover (in blank verse), on the high-minded principle that he is not sufficiently poor to test her sincerity, or sufficiently sensible to know his own mind, or some equally valid and uncomplimentary reason—a consideration for the male sex, we may remark en passant, that is more common in works of fiction than in real life—while on the table a drawing-room scrap-book opens of itself at some thrilling lines addressed “To a Débutante,” and commencing, “Fair girl, the priceless gems upon thy brow,” by an anonymous nobleman, who betrays in the composition a wide range of fancy and a novel application of several English words. Flowers are disposed in one or two common glass vases, with a womanly taste that makes the apartment in that hired house like a home; and loose music, of the double-action pianoforte school, scatters itself about every time the door opens, in a system of fluttering disorder, which provokes Gingham to express audibly her abhorrence of a place that is “all of a litter.” “She can’t a-bear it—can you, Bully?” smirks the Abigail; and Blanche’s pet bullfinch, the darling of her very heart, makes an enormous chest, and whistles his reply in the opening notes of “Haste to the wedding!” breaking off abruptly in the middle of the second bar. Gingham is very busy, for she is putting Blanche’s “things to rights,” which means that she is looking over the young lady’s wardrobe with a view to discovering those colours and garments most becoming to her own rather bilious complexion, and losing no opportunity of acquainting herself with Blanche’s likes, dislikes, feelings, and disposition, by reading her books, opening her letters, and peeping into her album.
Now, Gingham had been with Mrs. Kettering for many years, and was a most trustworthy person; so her mistress affirmed and thought. Certainly, with all her weaknesses and faults, she was devotedly attached to Miss Blanche; and it is our firm belief that she loved her young lady, in her heart of hearts, better than her perquisites, her tea, or even a certain Tom Blacke, whose dashing appearance and assured vulgarity had made no slight impression on her too susceptible feelings. “Every Jack has his Gill,” if he and she can only find each other out at the propitious moment; and although the Gill in question owned to two-and-thirty, was by no means transparent in complexion, and had projecting teeth, and a saffron-coloured front, yet she was no exception to the beautiful law of nature, which provides for every variety of our species a mate of fitting degree.
When a lady confines herself studiously to the house, avoids active exercise, and partakes heartily of five meals a day, not to mention strong tea and hot buttered toast at odd times, the presumption is, that her health will suffer from the effects of such combined hardships. With patients of Gingham’s class, the attack generally flies to the nerves, and the system becomes wrought up to such a pitch that nothing appears to afford the sufferer relief, except piercing screams and violent demonstrations of alarm upon slight and often imaginary occasions. Gingham would shriek as loudly to encounter a live mouse as Mrs. Kettering would have done to face a raging lion; and an unexpected meeting with any individual, even residing in the same house, was apt to produce a flutter of spirits and prostration of intellect, truly surprising to those who are unacquainted with the delicate organisation of a real lady’s-maid not on board wages. In this critical condition, Mrs. Gingham, on the first evening of her arrival at St. Swithin’s, “got a start,” as she expressed it, which influenced the whole destiny of her after life. Coming down from dressing her lady, she wended her way, as usual, to “the room,” that sanctum in which the etiquette of society is far more rigidly enforced than up-stairs, and to which “plush and powder” would find it far more difficult to obtain the entrée than into master’s study or “missus’s” boudoir. Expecting to see nothing more formidable than the butler, Gingham’s alarm can be more easily imagined than described, when on entering this privileged apartment, she found its only occupant a goodish-looking, flashily-dressed young man, “taking a glass of sherry and a biscuit,” and making himself very much at home.
A suppressed scream and sudden accession of faintness made it imperative on the new arrival to exert himself, and by the time they had got to “Goodness! how you frightened me, sir,” and “Dear Miss, I beg a thousand pardings!” they became very good friends, and the timid fair one was prevailed on to sit down and partake of the refreshments hospitably provided by the butler at his mistress’s expense.
Tom Blacke very soon informed the lady that “he was assistant to a professional gentleman” (in plain English an attorney’s clerk), and had merely looked in to see if the house was let, to inform his employer. “I am very unhappy, miss, to have been the cause of alarming of you so, and I trust you will look over it, and may feel no ill effects from the haccident.” To which Gingham, who was a lady of elaborate politeness, as became her station, and, moreover, much mollified by the constant use of the juvenile title “Miss,” courteously replied that, “Indeed, it had given her quite a turn, but she could not regret a meeting that had introduced her to such a polite acquaintance.” So they parted with many “good evenings,” and an openly expressed hope that they should meet again.
Tom Blacke was a scamp of the first water, but not deficient in shrewdness, to which his professional pursuits added a certain amount of acquired cunning. He naturally reflected that the sensitive, middle-aged dame whom he had thus alarmed and soothed was probably an old and esteemed servant of the family at No. 9. The whole arrangements looked like being “well-to-do.” The butler poured out sherry as if it was small beer, and probably in such an establishment the confidential maid might have saved a pretty bit of money, to which, even encumbered with the lady in question, Tom Blacke would have had no earthly objection. He was, as he said himself, “open to a match,” and being a rosy, dark-whiskered fellow, with good teeth and consummate assurance, though he never looked at you till you had done looking at him, he resolved to lay siege forthwith to the heart of Mrs. Gingham. A nervous temperament is usually susceptible; and though her fingers are occupied in folding Blanche’s handkerchiefs, and “putting away” her gloves, shoes, and etceteras, the Abigail’s thoughts are even now far away round the corner, up two pair of stairs, in the office with Tom Blacke.
“Goodness gracious! Missus’s bell!” exclaims Gingham, with a start, as if she had not expected that summons at its usual time—viz. when Mrs. Kettering came in to shake her feathers before luncheon—and she runs down, palpitating as if the house were on fire. Though we must not stay to see Blanche take her bonnet off and smooth those sunny ringlets, we may go and wait for her in the luncheon-room, to which she is soon heard tripping merrily down, with even brighter eyes than usual, perhaps from the excitement of meeting Cousin Charles’s friend, Mr. Hardingstone, whom sly Blanche knows but very little, and with whom she is consequently extremely diffident, notwithstanding the deference of his manner, and the respectful, almost admiring tone in which he always addresses the young girl.
“Blanche, have you fed Bully? and practised your music? and read your history? Women should never neglect history. And looked for the name of that weed, whilst we think of it? and shall I give you some chicken?” said Mrs. Kettering, without waiting for an answer, as she sat down to a very comfortable repast about three o’clock in the afternoon, which she called luncheon, but which was by no means a bad imitation of a good dinner.
“No, dear mamma,” said Blanche; “besides, it’s too hot for lessons; but tell me, mamma, what did Mr. Hardingstone mean about a mermaid, when he whispered to ‘Cousin Charlie,’ and Charlie laughed?”
“A mermaid, Blanche? pooh! nonsense; there’s no such animal. But that reminds me—don’t forget to look over that beautiful thing of Tennyson’s; girls should always be ‘up’ in modern literature. Do you know, Blanche, I don’t quite like Mr. Hardingstone.”