Volume Three—Chapter Eight.
Gertrude Takes Sanctuary.
Valentine Vidler and Salome his wife chirped about the gloomy house in Wimpole Street like a pair of exceedingly happy crickets. Vidler used to kiss Mrs V. and say she was a “dear little woman,” and Mrs V. would always, when they were downstairs amongst the shining coppers and tins, call Vidler “love.” They were quaint to look at, but their blood circulated just as did that of other specimens of humanity; their nerves grew tense or slack in the same way; and in their fashion they thoroughly enjoyed life.
Certainly no children were born unto them, a fact due, perhaps, to the absence of light; but somehow the little couple were very happy without, and so their life glided on as they placidly thought of other people’s troubles, talked of how the Captain took this or that, wondered when Sir Humphrey would come and see him again; if Lady Millet would ever get over the snubbing she had had, for wanting to interfere during a visit, and let in light, which she declared she could not exist without, and Captain Millet had told her she could get plenty out of doors.
Dull as the house seemed, it was never dull to Salome, with her dusting, cleaning, cooking, and cutting-up little squares and diamonds of cotton print for her master’s needle, and afterwards lining and quilting the counterpanes, which were in great request for charitable affairs and fancy bazaars.
The kitchen at Wimpole Street was very cosy in its way—a good fire always burned in the glistening grate, a cricket or two chirped in warm corners; there was a very white hearthstone, a very bright steel fender, and a very thick warm hearthrug, composed of cloth shreds, in front of the little round table drawn up pretty close; for absence of light meant apparently absence of heat.
The tea-things were out, it being eight o’clock; the Captain’s dinner over, Renée seated by the panel reading to him in a low voice, and the Vidlers’ duties done for the day. Hence, then, they had their tea punctually at eight o’clock, making it their supper as well.
Vidler was busy, with a white napkin spread over his knees, making toast, which Mrs V. buttered liberally, and then placed round after round upon the plate, which just fitted the steel disc in the fender.
The kettle was sending out its column of steam, the hot toast looked buttery and brown, and a fragrant scent arose from the teapot, the infusion being strong and good, consequent upon the Captain’s having one cup directly after his dinner, and the pot being kept afterwards to draw.
The meal over and the tea-things washed up—Salome doing the washing, finishing off with that special rinse round of the tray with hot water and the pouring out of the rinsings at one corner, just as a photographer used to cover his plate with collodion—the table was cleared, aprons folded and put away by Vidler in the dresser drawer, while his wife brushed up the hearth, and then came the event of the day—that is to say, the work being done, came the play.