Those bordering on the canal have gardens sloping down to the water’s edge, and quite private on the side opposite to the tow-path—which is the southern.
Ornamental evergreens, with trees of the weeping kind, drooping over the water, render these back-gardens exceedingly attractive. Standing upon the bridge in Park Road, and looking west up the canal vista, you could scarce believe yourself to be in the city of London, and surrounded by closely packed buildings extending more than a mile beyond.
In one of the South Bank villas, with grounds running back to the canal, dwelt a Scotchman—of the name McTavish.
He was but a second-class clerk in a city banking-house; but being a Scotchman, he might count upon one day becoming chief of the concern.
Perhaps with some foreshadowing of such a fortune, he had leased the villa in question, and furnished it to the extent of his means.
It was one of the prettiest in the string—quite good enough for a joint-stock banker to live in, or die in. McTavish had determined to do the former; and the latter, if the event should occur within the limits of his lease, which extended to twenty-one years.
The Scotchman, prudent in other respects, had been rash in the selection of his residence. He had not been three days in occupation, when he discovered that a notorious courtesan lived on his right, another of less celebrity on his left, while the house directly fronting him, on the opposite side of the road, was occupied by a famed revolutionary leader, and frequented by political refugees from all parts of the disturbed world.
McTavish was dismayed. He had subscribed to a twenty-one years’ lease, at a full rack-rental; for he had acted under conjugal authority in taking the place.
Had he been a bachelor the thing might have signified less. But he was a benedict, with daughters nearly grown up. Besides he was a Presbyterian of the strictest sect—his wife being still tighter laced than himself. Both, moreover, were loyalists of the truest type.