In Steyne Gardens, Brighton, the lodging1-houses are among the most frequented in that city of lodging-houses. These mansions2 have bow-windows in front, bulging4 out with gentle prominences5, and ornamented6 with neat verandahs, from which you can behold7 the tide of humankind as it flows up and down the Steyne, and that blue ocean over which Britannia is said to rule, stretching brightly away eastward8 and westward9. The chain-pier10, as every body knows, runs intrepidly11 into the sea, which sometimes, in fine weather, bathes its feet with laughing wavelets, and anon, on stormy days, dashes over its sides with roaring foam12. Here, for the sum of twopence, you can go out to sea and pace this vast deck without need of a steward13 with a basin. You can watch the sun setting in splendour over Worthing, or illuminating14 with its rising glories the ups and downs of Rottingdean. You see the citizen with his family inveigled15 into the shallops of the mercenary native mariner16, and fancy that the motion cannot be pleasant; and how the hirer of the boat, otium et oppidi laudat rura sui, haply sighs for ease, and prefers Richmond or Hampstead. You behold a hundred bathing-machines put to sea; and your naughty fancy depicts18 the beauties splashing under their white awnings19. Along the rippled20 sands (stay, are they rippled sands or shingly21 beach?) the prawn-boy seeks the delicious material of your breakfast. Breakfast-meal in London almost unknown, greedily devoured22 in Brighton! In yon vessels23 now nearing the shore the sleepless24 mariner has ventured forth25 to seize the delicate whiting, the greedy and foolish mackerel, and the homely26 sole. Hark to the twanging horn! it is the early coach going out to London. Your eye follows it, and rests on the pinnacles27 built by the beloved GEORGE. See the worn-out London roue pacing the pier, inhaling28 the sea air, and casting furtive29 glances under the bonnets30 of the pretty girls who trot32 here before lessons! Mark the bilious33 lawyer, escaped for a day from Pump Court, and sniffing34 the fresh breezes before he goes back to breakfast and a bag full of briefs at the Albion! See that pretty string of prattling35 schoolgirls, from the chubby-cheeked, flaxen-headed little maiden36 just toddling37 by the side of the second teacher, to the arch damsel of fifteen, giggling38 and conscious of her beauty, whom Miss Griffin, the stern head-governess, awfully39 reproves! See Tomkins with a telescope and marine17 jacket; young Nathan and young Abrams, already bedizened in jewellery, and rivalling the sun in oriental splendour; yonder poor invalid40 crawling along in her chair; yonder jolly fat lady examining the Brighton pebbles41 (I actually once saw a lady buy one), and her children wondering at the sticking-plaister portraits with gold hair, and gold stocks, and prodigious42 high-heeled boots, miracles of art, and cheap at seven-and-sixpence! It is the fashion to run down George IV., but what myriads43 of Londoners ought to thank him for inventing Brighton! One of the best of physicians our city has ever known, is kind, cheerful, merry Doctor Brighton. Hail, thou purveyor44 of shrimps45 and honest prescriber of Southdown mutton! There is no mutton so good as Brighton mutton; no flys so pleasant as Brighton flys; nor any cliff so pleasant to ride on; no shops so beautiful to look at as the Brighton gimcrack shops, and the fruit shops, and the market. I fancy myself in Mrs. Honeyman’s lodgings46 in Steyne Gardens, and in enjoyment47 of all these things.
If the gracious reader has had losses in life, losses not so bad as to cause absolute want, or inflict48 upon him or her the bodily injury of starvation, let him confess that the evils of this poverty are by no means so great as his timorous49 fancy depicted50. Say your money has been invested in West Diddlesex bonds, or other luckless speculations51 — the news of the smash comes; you pay your outlying bills with the balance at the banker’s; you assemble your family and make them a fine speech; the wife of your bosom52 goes round and embraces the sons and daughters seriatim; nestling in your own waistcoat finally, in possession of which, she says (with tender tears and fond quotations53 from Holy Writ54, God bless her!), and of the darlings round about, lies all her worldly treasure: the weeping servants are dismissed, their wages paid in full, and with a present of prayer — and hymn-books from their mistress; your elegant house in Harley Street is to let, and you subside55 into lodgings in Pentonville, or Kensington, or Brompton. How unlike the mansion3 where you paid taxes and distributed elegant hospitality for so many years!
You subside into lodgings, I say, and you find yourself very tolerably comfortable. I am not sure that in her heart your wife is not happier than in what she calls her happy days. She will be somebody hereafter: she was nobody in Harley Street: that is, everybody else in her visiting-book, take the names all round, was as good as she. They had the very same entrees56, plated ware57, men to wait, etc., at all the houses where you visited in the street. Your candlesticks might be handsomer (and indeed they had a very fine effect upon the dinner-table), but then Mr. Jones’s silver (or electro-plated) dishes were much finer. You had more carriages at your door on the evening of your delightful58 soirees than Mrs. Brown (there is no phrase more elegant, and to my taste, than that in which people are described as “seeing a great deal of carriage company”); but yet Mrs. Brown, from the circumstance of her being a baronet’s niece, took precedence of your dear wife at most tables. Hence the latter charming woman’s scorn at the British baronetcy, and her many jokes at the order. In a word, and in the height of your social prosperity, there was always a lurking59 dissatisfaction, and a something bitter, in the midst of the fountain of delights at which you were permitted to drink.
There is no good (unless your taste is that way) in living in a society where you are merely the equal of everybody else. Many people give themselves extreme pains to frequent company where all around them are their superiors, and where, do what you will, you must be subject to continual mortification60 —(as, for instance, when Marchioness X. forgets you, and you can’t help thinking that she cuts you on purpose; when Duchess Z. passes by in her diamonds, etc.). The true pleasure of life is to live with your inferiors. Be the cock of your village; the queen of your coterie61; and, besides very great persons, the people whom Fate has specially62 endowed with this kindly63 consolation64 are those who have seen what are called better days — those who have had losses. I am like Caesar, and of a noble mind: if I cannot be first in Piccadilly, let me try Hatton Garden, and see whether I cannot lead the ton there. If I cannot take the lead at White’s or the Travellers’, let me be president of the Jolly Bandboys at the Bag of Nails, and blackball everybody who does not pay me honour. If my darling Bessy cannot go out of a drawing-room until a baronet’s niece (ha! ha! a baronet’s niece, forsooth!) has walked before her, let us frequent company where we shall be the first; and how can we be the first unless we select our inferiors for our associates? This kind of pleasure is to be had by almost everybody, and at scarce any cost. With a shilling’s-worth of tea and muffins you can get as much adulation and respect as many people cannot purchase with a thousand pounds’ worth of plate and profusion65, hired footmen, turning their houses topsy-turvy, and suppers from Gunter’s. Adulation! — why, the people who come to you give as good parties as you do. Respect! — the very menials, who wait behind your supper-table, waited at a duke’s yesterday, and actually patronise you! O you silly spendthrift! you can buy flattery for twopence, and you spend ever so much money in entertaining your equals and betters, and nobody admires you!
Now Aunt Honeyman was a woman of a thousand virtues66; cheerful, frugal67, honest, laborious68, charitable, good-humoured, truth-telling, devoted69 to her family, capable of any sacrifice for those she loved; and when she came to have losses of money, Fortune straightway compensated70 her by many kindnesses which no income can supply. The good old lady admired the word gentlewoman of all others in the English vocabulary, and made all around her feel that such was her rank. Her mother’s father was a naval72 captain; her father had taken pupils, got a living, sent his son to college, dined with the squire73, published his volume of sermons, was liked in his parish, where Miss Honeyman kept house for him, was respected for his kindness and famous for his port wine; and so died, leaving about two hundred pounds a year to his two children, nothing to Clive Newcome’s mother who had displeased74 him by her first marriage (an elopement with Ensign Casey) and subsequent light courses. Charles Honeyman spent his money elegantly in wine-parties at Oxford75, and afterwards in foreign travel; — spent his money and as much of Miss Honeyman’s as that worthy76 soul would give him. She was a woman of spirit and resolution. She brought her furniture to Brighton (believing that the whole place still fondly remembered her grandfather, Captain Nokes, who had resided there and his gallantry in Lord Rodney’s action with the Count de Grasse), took a house, and let the upper floors to lodgers78.
The little brisk old lady brought a maid-servant out of the country with her, who was daughter to her father’s clerk, and had learned her letters and worked her first sampler under Miss Honeyman’s own eye, whom she adored all through her life. No Indian begum rolling in wealth, no countess mistress of castles and townhouses, ever had such a faithful toady79 as Hannah Hicks was to her mistress. Under Hannah was a young lady from the workhouse, who called Hannah “Mrs. Hicks, mum,” and who bowed in awe80 as much before that domestic as Hannah did before Miss Honeyman. At five o’clock in summer, at seven in winter (for Miss Honeyman, a good economist81, was chary82 of candlelight), Hannah woke up little Sally, and these three women rose. I leave you to imagine what a row there was in the establishment if Sally appeared with flowers under her bonnet31, gave signs of levity83 or insubordination, prolonged her absence when sent forth for the beer, or was discovered in flirtation85 with the baker’s boy or the grocer’s young man. Sally was frequently renewed. Miss Honeyman called all her young persons Sally; and a great number of Sallies were consumed in her house. The qualities of the Sally for the time-being formed a constant and delightful subject of conversation between Hannah and her mistress. The few friends who visited Miss Honeyman in her back-parlour had their Sallies, in discussing whose peculiarities87 of disposition88 these good ladies passed the hours agreeably over their tea.
Many persons who let lodgings in Brighton have been servants themselves — are retired89 housekeepers90, tradesfolk, and the like. With these surrounding individuals Hannah treated on a footing of equality, bringing to her mistress accounts of their various goings on; “how No. 6 was let; how No. 9 had not paid his rent again; how the first floor at 27 had game almost every day, and made-dishes from Mutton’s; how the family who had taken Mrs. Bugsby’s had left as usual after the very first night, the poor little infant blistered92 all over with bites on its little dear face; how the Miss Learys was going on shameful93 with the two young men, actially in their setting-room, mum, where one of them offered Miss Laura Leary a cigar; how Mrs. Cribb still went cuttin’ pounds and pounds of meat off the lodgers’ jints, emptying their tea-caddies, actially reading their letters. Sally had been told so by Polly the Cribb’s maid, who was kep, how that poor child was kep, hearing language perfectly94 hawful!” These tales and anecdotes95, not altogether redounding96 to their neighbours’ credit, Hannah copiously97 collected and brought to her mistress’s tea-table, or served at her frugal little supper when Miss Honeyman, the labours of the day over, partook of that cheerful meal. I need not say that such horrors as occurred at Mrs. Bugsby’s never befell in Mrs. Honeyman’s establishment. Every room was fiercely swept and sprinkled, and watched by cunning eyes which nothing could escape; curtains were taken down, mattresses98 explored, every bone in bed dislocated and washed as soon as a lodger77 took his departure. And as for cribbing meat or sugar, Sally might occasionally abstract a lump or two, or pop a veal99-cutlet into her mouth while bringing the dishes downstairs:— Sallies would — giddy creatures bred in workhouses; but Hannah might be entrusted100 with untold101 gold and uncorked brandy; and Miss Honeyman would as soon think of cutting a slice off Hannah’s nose and devouring102 it, as of poaching on her lodgers’ mutton. The best mutton-broth, the best veal-cutlets, the best necks of mutton and French beans, the best fried fish and plumpest partridges, in all Brighton, were to be had at Miss Honeyman’s — and for her favourites the best Indian curry103 and rice, coming from a distinguished104 relative, at present an officer in Bengal. But very few were admitted to this mark of Miss Honeyman’s confidence. If a family did not go to church they were not in favour: if they went to a Dissenting105 meeting she had no opinion of them at all. Once there came to her house a quiet Staffordshire family who ate no meat on Fridays, and whom Miss Honeyman pitied as belonging to the Romish superstition106; but when they were visited by two corpulent gentlemen in black, one of whom wore a purple underwaistcoat, before whom the Staffordshire lady absolutely sank down on her knees as he went into the drawing-room — Miss Honeyman sternly gave warning to these idolaters. She would have no Jesuits in her premises107. She showed Hannah the picture in Howell’s Medulla of the martyrs108 burning at Smithfield: who said, “Lord bless you, mum,” and hoped it was a long time ago. She called on the curate: and many and many a time, for years after, pointed109 out to her friends, and sometimes to her lodgers, the spot on the carpet where the poor benighted110 creature had knelt down. So she went on, respected by all her friends, by all her tradesmen, by herself not a little, talking of her previous “misfortunes” with amusing equanimity112; as if her father’s parsonage-house had been a palace of splendour, and the one-horse chaise (with the lamps for evenings) from which she had descended113, a noble equipage. “But I know it is for the best, Clive,” she would say to her nephew in describing those grandeurs, “and, thank heaven, can be resigned in that station in life to which it has pleased God to call me.”
The good lady was called the Duchess by her fellow-tradesfolk in the square in which she lived. (I don’t know what would have come to her had she been told she was a tradeswoman!) Her butchers, bakers114, and market-people paid her as much respect as though she had been a grandee’s housekeeper91 out of Kemp Town. Knowing her station, she yet was kind to those inferior beings. She held affable conversations with them, she patronised Mr. Rogers, who was said to be worth a hundred thousand — two-hundred-thousand pounds (or lbs. was it?), and who said, “Law bless the old Duchess, she do make as much of a pound of veal cutlet as some would of a score of bullocks, but you see she’s a lady born and a lady bred: she’d die before she’d owe a farden, and she’s seen better days, you know.” She went to see the grocer’s wife on an interesting occasion, and won the heart of the family by tasting their candle. Her fishmonger (it was fine to hear her talk of “my fishmonger”) would sell her a whiting as respectfully as if she had called for a dozen turbots and lobsters115. It was believed by those good folks that her father had been a Bishop116 at the very least; and the better days which she had known were supposed to signify some almost unearthly prosperity. “I have always found, Hannah,” the simple soul would say, “that people know their place, or can be very very easily made to find it if they lose it; and if a gentlewoman does not forget herself, her inferiors will not forget that she is a gentlewoman.” “No indeed, mum, and I’m sure they would do no such thing, mum,” says Hannah, who carries away the teapot for her own breakfast (to be transmitted to Sally for her subsequent refection), whilst her mistress washes her cup and saucer, as her mother had washed her own china many scores of years ago.
If some of the surrounding lodging-house keepers, as I have no doubt they did, disliked the little Duchess for the airs which she gave herself, as they averred117; they must have envied her too her superior prosperity, for there was scarcely ever a card in her window, whilst those ensigns in her neighbours’ houses would remain exposed to the flies and the weather, and disregarded by passers-by for months together. She had many regular customers, or what should be rather called constant friends. Deaf old Mr. Cricklade came every winter for fourteen years, and stopped until the hunting was over; an invaluable118 man, giving little trouble, passing all day on horseback, and all night over his rubber at the club. The Misses Barkham, Barkhambury, Tunbridge Wells, whose father had been at college with Mr. Honeyman, came regularly in June for sea air, letting Barkhambury for the summer season. Then, for many years, she had her nephew, as we have seen; and kind recommendations from the clergymen of Brighton, and a constant friend in the celebrated119 Dr. Goodenough of London. who had been her father’s private pupil, and of his college afterwards, who sent his patients from time to time down to her, and his fellow-physician, Dr. H— — who on his part would never take any fee from Miss Honeyman, except a packet of India curry-powder, a ham cured as she only knew how to cure them, and once a year, or so, a dish of her tea.
“Was there ever such luck as that confounded old Duchess’s?” says Mr. Gawler, coal-merchant and lodging-house keeper, next door but two, whose apartments were more odious120 in some respects than Mrs. Bugsby’s own. “Was there ever such devil’s own luck, Mrs. G.? It’s only a fortnight ago as I read in the Sussex Advertiser the death of Miss Barkham, of Barkhambury, Tunbridge Wells, and thinks I, there’s a spoke121 in your wheel, you stuck-up little old Duchess, with your cussed airs and impudence122. And she ain’t put her card up three days; and look yere, yere’s two carriages, two maids, three children, one of them wrapped up in a Hinjar shawl — man hout a livery — looks like a foring cove84 I think — lady in satin pelisse, and of course they go to the Duchess, be hanged to her! Of course it’s our luck, nothing ever was like our luck. I’m blowed if I don’t put a pistol to my ‘ead, and end it, Mrs. G. There they go in-three, four, six, seven on ’em, and the man. That’s the precious child’s physic I suppose he’s a-carryin’ in the basket. Just look at the luggage. I say! There’s a bloody123 hand on the first carriage. It’s a baronet, is it? I ‘ope your ladyship’s very well; and I ‘ope Sir John will soon be down yere to join his family.” Mr. Gawler makes sarcastic124 bows over the card in his bow-window whilst making this speech. The little Gawlers rush on to the drawing-room verandah themselves to examine the new arrivals.
“This is Mrs. Honeyman’s?” asks the gentleman designated by Mr. Gawler as “the foring cove,” and hands in a card on which the words, “Miss Honeyman, 110, Steyne Gardens. J. Goodenough,” are written in that celebrated physician’s handwriting. “We want five bet-rooms, six bets, two or dree sitting-rooms. Have you got dese?”
“Will you speak to my mistress?” says Hannah. And if it is a fact that Miss Honeyman does happen to be in the front parlour looking at the carriages, what harm is there in the circumstance, pray? Is not Gawler looking, and the people next door? Are not half a dozen little boys already gathered in the street (as if they started up out of the trap-doors for the coals), and the nursery maids in the stunted125 little garden, are not they looking through the bars of the square? “Please to speak to mistress,” says Hannah, opening the parlour-door, and with a curtsey, “A gentleman about the apartments, mum.”
“Five bet-rooms,” says the man, entering. “Six bets, two or dree sitting-rooms? We gome from Dr. Goodenough.”
“Are the apartments for you, sir?” says the little Duchess, looking up at the large gentleman.
“For my lady,” answers the man.
“Had you not better take off your hat?” asks the Duchess, pointing out of one of her little mittens126 to “the foring cove’s” beaver127, which he has neglected to remove.
The man grins, and takes off the hat. “I beck your bardon, ma’am,” says he. “Have you fife bet-rooms?” etc. The doctor has cured the German of an illness, as well as his employers, and especially recommended Miss Honeyman to Mr. Kuhn.
“I have such a number of apartments. My servant will show them to you.” And she walks back with great state to her chair by the window, and resumes her station and work there.
Mr. Kuhn reports to his mistress, who descends128 to inspect the apartments, accompanied through them by Hannah. The rooms are pronounced to be exceedingly neat and pleasant, and exactly what are wanted for the family. The baggage is forthwith ordered to be brought from the carriages. The little invalid wrapped in his shawl is brought upstairs by the affectionate Mr. Kuhn, who carries him as gently as if he had been bred all his life to nurse babies. The smiling Sally (the Sally for the time-being happens to be a very fresh pink-cheeked pretty little Sally) emerges from the kitchen and introduces the young ladies, the governess, the maids, to their apartments. The eldest129, a slim black-haired young lass of thirteen, frisks about the rooms, looks at all the pictures, runs in and out of the verandah, tries the piano, and bursts out laughing at its wheezy jingle130 (it had been poor Emma’s piano, bought for her on her seventeenth birthday, three weeks before she ran away with the ensign; her music is still in the stand by it: the Rev111. Charles Honeyman has warbled sacred melodies over it, and Miss Honeyman considers it a delightful instrument), kisses her languid little brother laid on the sofa, and performs a hundred gay and agile131 motions suited to her age.
“Oh, what a piano! Why, it is as cracked as Miss Quigley’s voice!”
“My dear!” says mamma. The little languid boy bursts out into a jolly laugh.
“What funny pictures, mamma! Action with Count de Grasse; the death of General Wolfe; a portrait of an officer, an old officer in blue, like grandpapa; Brazen132 Nose College, Oxford: what a funny name!”
At the idea of Brazen Nose College, another laugh comes from the invalid. “I suppose they’ve all got brass133 noses there,” he says; and explodes at this joke. The poor little laugh ends in a cough, and mamma’s travelling-basket, which contains everything, produces a bottle of syrup134, labelled “Master A. Newcome. A teaspoonful135 to be taken when the cough is troublesome.”
“‘Oh, the delightful sea! the blue, the fresh, the ever free,’” sings the young lady, with a shake. (I suppose the maritime136 song from which she quoted was just written at this time.) “How much better this is than going home and seeing those horrid137 factories and chimneys! I love Doctor Goodenough for sending us here. What a sweet house it is! Everybody is happy in it, even Miss Quigley is happy, mamma. What nice rooms! What pretty chintz! What a — oh, what a — comfortable sofa!” and she falls down on the sofa, which, truth to say, was the Rev. Charles Honeyman’s luxurious138 sofa from Oxford, presented to him by young Cibber Wright of Christchurch, when that gentleman-commoner was eliminated from the University.
“The person of the house,” mamma says, “hardly comes up to Dr. Goodenough’s description of her. He says he remembers her a pretty little woman when her father was his private tutor.”
“She has grown very much since,” says the girl. And an explosion takes place from the sofa, where the little man is always ready to laugh at any joke, or anything like a joke, uttered by himself or by any of his family or friends. As for Doctor Goodenough, he says laughing has saved that boy’s life.
“She looks quite like a maid,” continues the lady. “She has hard hands, and she called me mum always. I was quite disappointed in her.” And she subsides139 into a novel, with many of which kind of works, and with other volumes, and with workboxes, and with wonderful inkstands, portfolios140, portable days of the month, scent-bottles, scissor-cases, gilt141 miniature easels displaying portraits, and countless142 gimcracks of travel, the rapid Kuhn has covered the tables in the twinkling of an eye.
The person supposed to be the landlady143 enters the room at this juncture144, and the lady rises to receive her. The little wag on the sofa puts his arm round his sister’s neck, and whispers, “I say, Eth, isn’t she a pretty girl? I shall write to Doctor Goodenough and tell him how much she’s grown.” Convulsions follow this sally, to the surprise of Hannah, who says, “Pooty little dear! — what time will he have his dinner, mum?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Honeyman, at two o’clock,” says the lady with a bow of her head. “There is a clergyman of your name in London; is he a relation?” The lady in her turn is astonished, for the tall person breaks out into a grin, and says, “Law, mum, you’re speakin’ of Master Charles. He’s in London.”
“Indeed! — of Master Charles?”
“And you take me for missis, mum. I beg your pardon, mum,” cries Hannah. The invalid hits his sister in the side with a weak little fist. If laughter can cure, salva est res. Doctor Goodenough’s patient is safe. “Master Charles is missis’s brother, mum. I’ve got no brother, mum — never had no brother. Only one son, who’s in the police, mum, thank you. And law bless me, I was going to forget! If you please, mum, missis says, if you are quite rested, she will pay her duty to you, mum.”
“Oh, indeed,” says the lady, rather stiffly; and, taking this for an acceptance of her mistress’s visit, Hannah retires.
“This Miss Honeyman seems to be a great personage,” says the lady. “If people let lodgings, why do they give themselves such airs?”
“We never saw Monsieur de Boigne at Boulogne, mamma,” interposes the girl.
“Monsieur de Boigne, my dear Ethel! Monsieur de Boigne is very well. But —” here the door opens, and in a large cap bristling145 with ribbons, with her best chestnut146 front, and her best black silk gown, on which her gold watch shines very splendidly, little Miss Honeyman makes her appearance, and a dignified147 curtsey to her lodger.
That lady vouchsafes148 a very slight inclination149 of the head indeed, which she repeats when Miss Honeyman says, “I am glad to hear your ladyship is pleased with the apartments.”
“Yes, they will do very well, thank you,” answers the latter person, gravely.
“And they have such a beautiful view of the sea!” cries Ethel.
“As if all the houses hadn’t a view of the sea, Ethel! The price has been arranged, I think? My servants will require a comfortable room to dine in-by themselves, ma’am, if you please. My governess and the younger children will dine together. My daughter dines with me — and my little boy’s dinner will be ready at two o’clock precisely150, if you please. It is now near one.”
“Am I to understand ——” interposed Miss Honeyman.
“Oh! I have no doubt we shall understand each other, ma’am,” cried Lady Anne Newcome (whose noble presence the acute reader has no doubt ere this divined and saluted). “Doctor Goodenough has given me a most satisfactory account of you — more satisfactory perhaps than — than you are aware of.” Perhaps Lady Anne’s sentence was not going to end in a very satisfactory way for Miss Honeyman; but, awed151 by a peculiar86 look of resolution in the little lady, her lodger of an hour paused in whatever offensive remark she might have been about to make. “It is as well that I at last have the pleasure of seeing you, that I may state what I want, and that we may, as you say, understand each other. Breakfast and tea, if you please, will be served in the same manner as dinner. And you will have the kindness to order fresh milk every morning for my little boy — ass’s milk — Doctor Goodenough has ordered ass’s milk. Anything further I want I will communicate through the person who spoke to you — Kuhn, Mr. Kuhn; and that will do.”
A heavy shower of rain was descending152 at this moment, and little Mrs. Honeyman looking at her lodger, who had sate71 down and taken up her book, said, “Have your ladyship’s servants unpacked153 your trunks?”
“What on earth, madam, have you — has that to do with the question?”
“They will be put to the trouble of packing again, I fear. I cannot provide — three times five are fifteen — fifteen separate meals for seven persons — besides those of my own family. If your servants cannot eat with mine, or in my kitchen, they and their mistress must go elsewhere. And the sooner the better, madam, the sooner the better!” says Mrs. Honeyman, trembling with indignation, and sitting down in a chair spreading her silks.
“Do you know who I am?” asks Lady Anne, rising.
“Perfectly well, madam,” says the other. “And had I known, you should never have come into my house, that’s more.”
“Madam!” cries the lady, on which the poor little invalid, scared and nervous, and hungry for his dinner, began to cry from his sofa.
“It will be a pity that the dear little boy should be disturbed. Dear little child, I have often heard of him, and of you, miss,” says the little householder, rising. “I will get you some dinner, my dear, for Clive’s sake. And meanwhile your ladyship will have the kindness to seek for some other apartments — for not a bit shall my fire cook for any one else of your company.” And with this the indignant little landlady sailed out of the room.
“Gracious goodness! Who is the woman?” cries Lady Anne. “I never was so insulted in my life.”
“Oh, mamma, it was you began!” says downright Ethel. “That is — Hush154, Alfred dear! — Hush, my darling!”
“Oh, it was mamma began! I’m so hungry! I’m so hungry!” howled the little man on the sofa — or off it rather — for he was now down on the ground, kicking away the shawls which enveloped155 him.
“What is it, my boy? What is it, my blessed darling? You shall have your dinner! Give her all, Ethel. There are the keys of my desk — there’s my watch — there are my rings. Let her take my all. The monster! the child must live! It can’t go away in such a storm as this. Give me a cloak, a parasol, anything — I’ll go forth and get a lodging. I’ll beg my bread from house to house — if this fiend refuses me. Eat the biscuits, dear! A little of the syrup, Alfred darling; it’s very nice, love! and come to your old mother — your poor old mother.”
Alfred roared out, “No — it’s not n-ice: it’s n-a-a-asty! I won’t have syrup. I will have dinner.” The mother, whose embraces the child repelled156 with infantine kicks, plunged157 madly at the bells, rang them all four vehemently158, and ran downstairs towards the parlour, whence Miss Honeyman was issuing.
The good lady had not at first known the names of her lodgers, but had taken them in willingly enough on Dr. Goodenough’s recommendation. And it was not until one of the nurses entrusted with the care of Master Alfred’s dinner informed Miss Honeyman of the name of her guest, that she knew she was entertaining Lady Anne Newcome; and that the pretty girl was the fair Miss Ethel; the little sick boy, the little Alfred of whom his cousin spoke, and of whom Clive had made a hundred little drawings in his rude way, as he drew everybody. Then bidding Sally run off to St. James’s Street for a chicken — she saw it put on the spit, and prepared a bread sauce, and composed a batter-pudding as she only knew how to make batter-puddings. Then she went to array herself in her best clothes, as we have seen — as we have heard rather (Goodness forbid that we should see Miss Honeyman arraying herself, or penetrate159 that chaste160 mystery, her toilette!)— then she came to wait upon Lady Anne, not a little flurried as to the result of that queer interview; then she whisked out of the drawing-room as before has been shown; and, finding the chicken roasted to a turn, the napkin and tray ready spread by Hannah the neat-handed, she was bearing them up to the little patient when the frantic161 parent met her on the stair.
“Is it — is it for my child?” cried Lady Anne, reeling against the bannister.
“Yes, it’s for the child,” says Miss Honeyman, tossing up her head. “But nobody else has anything in the house.”
“God bless you — God bless you! A mother’s bl-l-essings go with you,” gurgled the lady, who was not, it must be confessed, a woman of strong moral character.
It was good to see the little man eating the fowl162. Ethel, who had never cut anything in her young existence, except her fingers now and then with her brother’s and her governess’s penknives, bethought her of asking Miss Honeyman to carve the chicken. Lady Anne, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, sate looking on at the ravishing scene.
“Why did you not let us know you were Clive’s aunt?” Ethel asked, putting out her hand. The old lady took hers very kindly, and said, “Because you didn’t give me time. And do you love Clive, my dear?”
The reconciliation163 between Miss Honeyman and her lodger was perfect. Lady Anne wrote a quire of notepaper off to Sir Brian for that day’s post — only she was too late, as she always was. Mr. Kuhn perfectly delighted Miss Honeyman that evening by his droll164 sayings, jokes, and pronunciation, and by his praises of Master Glife, as he called him. He lived out of the house, did everything for everybody, was never out of the way when wanted, and never in the way when not wanted. Ere long Miss Honeyman got out a bottle of the famous Madeira which her Colonel sent her, and treated him to a glass in her own room. Kuhn smacked165 his lips and held out the glass again. The honest rogue166 knew good wine.
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1
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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prominences
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| n.织物中凸起的部分；声望( prominence的名词复数 )；突出；重要；要事 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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intrepidly
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| adv.无畏地，勇猛地 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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inveigled
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| v.诱骗，引诱( inveigle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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depicts
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| 描绘，描画( depict的第三人称单数 )； 描述 | |
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awnings
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| 篷帐布 | |
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rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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shingly
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| adj.小石子多的 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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23
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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27
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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32
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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34
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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35
prattling
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的现在分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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36
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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toddling
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的现在分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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38
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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41
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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42
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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44
purveyor
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| n.承办商，伙食承办商 | |
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shrimps
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| n.虾，小虾( shrimp的名词复数 )；矮小的人 | |
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46
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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47
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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48
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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49
timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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50
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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51
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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52
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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53
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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54
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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55
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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56
entrees
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| n.入场权( entree的名词复数 )；主菜 | |
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57
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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58
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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59
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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60
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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61
coterie
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| n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体，小圈子 | |
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62
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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63
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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66
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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67
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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69
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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71
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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72
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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73
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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74
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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75
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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76
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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toady
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| v.奉承；n.谄媚者，马屁精 | |
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80
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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economist
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| n.经济学家，经济专家，节俭的人 | |
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82
chary
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| adj.谨慎的，细心的 | |
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83
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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84
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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85
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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housekeepers
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| n.（女）管家( housekeeper的名词复数 ) | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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92
blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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93
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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redounding
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| v.有助益( redound的现在分词 )；及于；报偿；报应 | |
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copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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103
curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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104
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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105
dissenting
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| adj.不同意的 | |
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106
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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107
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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108
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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109
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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111
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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112
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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113
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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114
bakers
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| n.面包师( baker的名词复数 )；面包店；面包店店主；十三 | |
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115
lobsters
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| 龙虾( lobster的名词复数 )； 龙虾肉 | |
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116
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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117
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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118
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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119
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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120
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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121
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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122
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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123
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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124
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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125
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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126
mittens
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| 不分指手套 | |
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127
beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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128
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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129
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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130
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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131
agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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132
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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133
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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134
syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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135
teaspoonful
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| n.一茶匙的量；一茶匙容量 | |
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136
maritime
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| adj.海的，海事的，航海的，近海的，沿海的 | |
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137
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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138
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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139
subsides
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的第三人称单数 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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140
portfolios
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| n.投资组合( portfolio的名词复数 )；（保险）业务量；（公司或机构提供的）系列产品；纸夹 | |
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141
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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142
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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143
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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144
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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145
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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146
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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147
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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148
vouchsafes
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的第三人称单数 )；允诺 | |
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149
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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150
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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151
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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153
unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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154
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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155
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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157
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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158
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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159
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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160
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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161
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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162
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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163
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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164
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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165
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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