It was in the middle house of these favoured dwellings, No. 5, kept by Mrs. Jinks, that the ladies had secured apartments for the Reverend Guy Cattacomb. The bow-windowed front parlour, and the bedroom behind it. Mrs. Jinks, familiarly called by her neighbours and friends the Widow Jinks, was beyond the middle age--to speak politely--with a huge widow's cap nearly as black as the chimney, and a huge black bonnet generally tilted on the top of it. She had deemed herself very lucky to find her rooms taken by the ladies for the new clergyman, boasting to her neighbours that it was of course a "permanent let:" but before the clergyman arrived, she had grown somewhat out of conceit of the "let," so worried was she by the young ladies. Parties of them were always calling, bringing this, that, and the other for the comfort of their expected pastor, and calling the Widow Jinks to the door a dozen times in a day.
Upon leaving St. Jerome's this afternoon, the ladies went in a body to Paradise Row, intending to await the advent of the Reverend Guy, and to see that butter and other essentials had been got in for him. Miss Blake could have dispensed with so large a party--but what was she to do?--There they were, and stuck to her. All the way to the house they had been talking of Mr. Smith; wondering who he was and why he had come to live at Foxwood. Miss St. Henry at length remembered to have heard he was a friend of the Andinnian family, and had been looking after things as agent during the absence of Sir Karl.
"An agent!" exclaimed Miss Blake, drawing herself up.
"Not a common agent, of course. Does what he does out of friendship. Here we are."
"Oh, that's very different," returned Miss Blake, giving a loud, long, important knock at the Widow Jinks's door.
"Well, that is a shame of old Jinks!" cried Jemima Moore, in an undertone to the rest as they got admittance and went into the parlour.
For the Widow Jinks had not deemed it necessary to smarten herself up to receive her new lodger. She answered the door in her ordinary working costume: rusty black gown, huge cap, and bonnet. Her face and hands were black too, as if she had been disturbed in cleaning the pots and kettles.
"She ought to be told of it. And did you see how sour she looked?"
Miss Blake put the beautiful bouquet of hothouse flowers--which she had been guarding carefully--into a vase of water, for it was for Mr. Cattacomb they had been destined. Some light refreshment in the shape of wine and cake stood ready on the table; and Mrs. Jinks was examined as to other preparations. All was in readiness, and the ladies waited with impatience.
An impatience that at length subsided into doubt, and that into disappointment. The clock had gone ticking on; the train must have been in long ago, and it became evident Mr. Cattacomb had not come. Miss Blake walked home slightly vexed: and there she found Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian.