'The Boarding-House' (No.2)
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"Well," said little Mrs. Tibbs to herself, as she sat in the front parlour of the Coram-street mansion one morning, mending a piece of stair-carpet off the first landing;—"well! things have not turned out so badly either, and if I only get a favourable answer to the advertisement, we shall be full again."
Mrs. Tibbs resumed her occupation of making worsted lattice-work in the carpet, anxiously listening to the twopenny postman, who was hammering his way down the street at the rate of a penny a knock. The house was as quiet as possible. There was only one low sound to be heard—it was the unhappy Tibbs cleaning the gentlemen’s boots in the back kitchen, and accompanying himself with a buzzing noise, in wretched mockery of humming a tune.
The postman drew near the house. He paused—so did Mrs. Tibbs—a knock—a bustle—a letter—post-paid.
"T. I. presents compt. to I. T. and T. I. begs To say that i see the advertisement And she will Do Herself the pleasure of calling On you at 12 o’clock to-morrow morning.
"T. I. as To apoligise to I. T. for the shortness Of the notice But i hope it will not unconvenience you.
"I remain
"yours Truly
"Wednesday evening."
Little Mrs. Tibbs perused the document over and over again; and the more she read it, the more was she confused by the mixture of the first and third person; the substitution of the "I" for the "T. I," and the transition from the "I. T." to the you." The writing looked like a skein of thread in a tangle, and the note was ingeniously folded into a perfect square, with the direction squeezed up into the right-hand corner, as if it were ashamed of itself. The back of the epistle was pleasingly ornamented with a large red wafer, which, with the addition of divers ink-stains, bore a marvellous resemblance to a black-beetle trodden upon. One thing, however, was perfectly clear to the perplexed Mrs. Tibbs. Somebody was to call at twelve. The drawing-room was forthwith dusted for the third time that morning; three or four chairs were pulled out of their places, and a corresponding number of books carefully upset, in order that there might be a due absence of formality. Down went the piece of stair-carpet before noticed, and up ran Mrs. Tibbs "to make herself tidy."
The clock of New Saint Pancras Church struck twelve, and the Foundling, with laudable politeness, did the same ten minutes afterwards. Saint something else struck the quarter, and then there arrived a single lady with a double knock, in a pelisse the colour of the interior of a damson pie; a bonnet of the same, with a regular conservatory of artificial flowers; a white veil, and a green parasol, with a cobweb border.
The visitor (who was very fat and red-faced) was shown into the drawing-room; Mrs. Tibbs presented herself, and the negociation commenced.
"I called in consequence of an advertizement," said the stranger, in a voice like a man who had been playing a set of Pan’s pipes for a fortnight without leaving off.
"Yes!" said Mrs. Tibbs, rubbing her hands very slowly, and looking the applicant full in the face—two things she always did on such occasions.
"Money isn’t no object whatever to me," said the lady, "so much as living in a state of retirement and obtrusion."
Mrs. Tibbs, as a matter of course, acquiesced in such an exceedingly natural desire.
"I am constantly attended by a medical man," resumed the pelisse wearer; "have been a shocking unitarian for some time—have had very little peace since the death of Mr. Bloss."
Mrs. Tibbs looked at the relict of the departed Bloss, and thought he must have had very little peace in his time. Of course she could not say so; so she looked very sympathising.
"I shall be a good deal of trouble to you," said Mrs. Bloss; "but, for that trouble I am willing to pay. I am going through a course of treatment which renders attention necessary. I have one mutton chop in bed at half-past eight, and another at ten, every morning."
Mrs. Tibbs, as in duty bound, expressed the pity she felt for any body placed in such a distressing situation; and the carnivorous Mrs. Bloss proceeded to arrange the various preliminaries with wonderful despatch. "Now mind," said that lady, after terms were arranged; "I am to have the second-floor front for my bedroom?"
"Yes, ma’am."
"And you’ll find room for my little servant Agnes?"
"Oh! certainly."
"And I can have one of the cellars in the area for my bottled porter."
"With the greatest pleasure;—James shall get it ready for you by Saturday."
"And I’ll join the company at the breakfast-table on Sunday morning," said Mrs. Bloss. "I shall get up on purpose."
"Very well," returned Mrs. Tibbs, in her most amiable tone; for satisfactory references had "been given and required," and it was quite certain that the new comer had plenty of money. "It’s rather singular," continued Mrs. Tibbs, with what was meant for a most bewitching smile, "that we have a gentleman now with us, who is in a very delicate state of health—a Mr. Gobler.—His apartment is the back drawing-room."
"The next room?" inquired Mrs. Bloss.
"The next room," repeated the hostess.
"How very promiscuous!" ejaculated the widow.
"He hardly ever gets up," said Mrs. Tibbs in a whisper.
"Lor!" cried Mrs. Bloss, in an equally low tone.
"And when he is up," said Mrs. Tibbs, "we never can persuade him to go to bed again."
"Dear me!" said the astonished Mrs. Bloss, drawing her chair nearer Mrs. Tibbs. "What is his complaint?"
"Why, the fact is," replied Mrs. Tibbs, with a most communicative air, "he has no stomach whatever."
"No what?" inquired Mrs. Bloss, with a look of the most indescribable alarm.
"No stomach," repeated Mrs. Tibbs, with a shake of the head.
"Lord bless us! what an extraordinary case!" gasped Mrs. Bloss, as if she understood the communication in its literal sense, and was astonished at a gentleman without a stomach finding it necessary to board anywhere.
"When I say he has no stomach," explained the chatty little Mrs. Tibbs, "I mean that his digestion is so much impaired, and his interior so deranged, that his stomach is not of the least use to him;—in fact, it’s rather an inconvenience than otherwise."
"Never heard such a case in my life!" exclaimed Mrs. Bloss. "Why, he’s worse than I am."
"Oh, yes!" replied Mrs. Tibbs;—"certainly." She said this with great confidence, for the set of the damson pelisse satisfactorily proved that Mrs. Bloss, at all events, was not suffering under Mr. Gobler’s complaint.
"You have quite incited my curiosity," said Mrs. Bloss, as she rose to depart. "How I long to see him!"
"He generally comes down once a week," replied Mrs. Tibbs; "I dare say you’ll see him on Sunday." And with this consolatory promise Mrs. Bloss was obliged to be contented. She accordingly walked slowly down the stairs, detailing her complaints all the way; and Mrs. Tibbs followed her, uttering an exclamation of compassion at every step. James (who looked very gritty, for he was cleaning the knives) fell up the kitchen-stairs, and opened the street-door; and, after mutual farewells, Mrs. Bloss slowly departed down the shady side of the street.
It is almost superfluous to say, that the lady whom we have just shown out at the street-door (and whom the two female servants are now inspecting from the second-floor windows) was exceedingly vulgar, ignorant, and selfish. Her deceased better-half had been an eminent cork-cutter, in which capacity he had amassed a decent fortune. He had no relative but his nephew, and no friend but his cook. The former had the insolence one morning to ask for the loan of fifteen pounds, and by way of retaliation he married the latter next day; he made a will immediately afterwards, containing a burst of honest indignation against his nephew (who supported himself and two sisters on 100l. a year), and a bequest of his whole property to his wife. He felt ill after breakfast, and died after dinner. There is a mantelpiece-looking tablet in a civic parish church, setting forth his virtues, and deploring his loss. He never dishonoured a bill, or gave away a halfpenny!
The relict and sole executrix of this noble-minded man was an odd mixture of shrewdness and simplicity, liberality and meanness. Bred up as she had been, she knew no mode of living so agreeable as a boarding-house; and having nothing to do, and nothing to wish for, she naturally imagined she must be very ill—an impression which was most assiduously promoted by her medical attendant, Dr. Wosky, and her handmaid, Agnes, both of whom, doubtless for excellent reasons, encouraged all her extravagant notions.
Since the catastrophe recorded in our last, Mrs. Tibbs had been very shy of young lady boarders. Her present inmates were all lords of the creation, and she availed herself of the opportunity of their assemblage at the dinner table, to announce the expected arrival of Mrs. Bloss. The gentlemen received the communication with stoical indifference, and Mrs. Tibbs devoted all her energies to prepare for the reception of the valetudinarian. The second-floor front was scrubbed, and washed, and flannelled, till the wet went through to the drawing-room ceiling. Clean white counterpanes, and curtains, and napkins; water-bottles as clear as crystal, blue jugs, and mahogany furniture, added to the splendour and increased the comfort of the apartment. The warming-pan was in constant requisition, and a fire lighted in the room every day. The chattels of Mrs. Bloss were forwarded by instalments. First there came a large hamper of Guinness’s stout and an umbrella; then a train of trunks; then a pair of clogs and a bandbox; then an easy chair with an air cushion; then a variety of suspicious-looking packages; and—"though last not least"—Mrs. Bloss and Agnes, the latter in a cherry-coloured merino dress, open-work stockings, and shoes with sandals; looking like a disguised Columbine.
The installation of the Duke of Wellington, as Chancellor of the University of Oxford, was nothing in point of bustle and turmoil to the installation of Mrs. Bloss in her new quarters. True, there was no bright doctor of civil law to deliver a classical address on the occasion; but there were several other old women present, who spoke quite as much to the purpose, and understood themselves equally well. The chop-eater was so fatigued with the process of removal that she declined leaving her room until the following morning; so a mutton-chop, pickle, a two-grain calomel pill, a pint-bottle of stout, and other medicines, were carried up stairs for her consumption.
"Why, what do you think, ma’am?" inquired the inquisitive Agnes of her mistress, after they had been in the house some three hours; "what do you think, ma’am? the lady of the house is married."
"Married!" said Mrs. Bloss, taking the pill and a draught of Guinness—"married! Unpossible!"
"She is indeed, ma’am," returned the Columbine; "and her husband, ma’am, lives—he—he—he—lives in the kitchen, ma’am."
"In the kitchen!"
"Yes, ma’am: and he—he—he—the housemaid says, he never goes into the parlour except on Sundays; and that Ms. Tibbs makes him clean the gentlemen’s boots; and that he cleans the windows, too, sometimes; and that one morning early, when he was in the front balcony cleaning the drawing-room windows, he called out to a gentleman on the opposite side of the way, who used to live here—'Ah! Mr. Calton, Sir, how are you?'" Here the attendant laughed till Mrs. Bloss was in serious apprehension of her chuckling herself into a fit.
"Well, I never!" said Mrs. Bloss.
"Yes, and please, ma’am, the servants give him gin-and-water sometimes; and then he cries, and says he hates his wife and the boarders, and wants to tickle them."
"Tickle the boarders!" exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, seriously alarmed.
"No, ma’am, not the boarders, the servants."
"Oh, is that all!" said Mrs. Bloss, quite satisfied.
"He wanted to kiss me as I came up the kitchen-stairs, just now," said Agnes, indignantly; "but I gave it him—a little wretch!"
This intelligence was but too true. A long course of snubbing and neglect; his days spent in the kitchen, and his nights in the turn-up bedstead; had completely broken the little spirit that the unfortunate volunteer had ever possessed. He had no one to whom he could detail his injuries but the servants, and they were almost of necessity his chosen confidants. It is no less strange than true, however, that the little weaknesses which he had incurred, most probably, during his military career, seemed to increase as his comforts diminished. He was actually a sort of journeyman Giovanni in the basement story.
The next morning, being Sunday, breakfast was laid in the front parlour at ten o’clock. Nine was the usual time, but the family always breakfasted an hour later on Sabbath. Tibbs enrobed himself in his Sunday costume—a black coat, and exceedingly short thin trowsers, with a very large white waistcoat, white stockings and cravat, and Blucher boots—and mounted to the parlour aforesaid. Nobody had come down, and he amused himself by drinking the contents of the milk-pot with a tea-spoon.
A pair of slippers were heard descending the stairs; Tibbs flew to a chair, and a stern-looking man of about fifty, with very little hair on his head, and "The Examiner" in his hand, entered the room.
"Good morning, Mr. Evenson," said Tibbs, very humbly, with something between a nod and a bow.
"How do you do, Mr. Tibbs?" replied he of the slippers, as he sat himself down, and began to read his paper without saying another word.
"Is Mr. Wisbottle in town to-day do you know, Sir?" inquired Tibbs, just for the sake of saying something.
"I should think he was," replied the stern gentleman. "He was whistling 'The Light Guitar,' in the next room to mine, at five o’clock this morning."
"He’s very fond of whistling," said Tibbs, with a slight smirk.
"Yes—I an’t," was the laconic reply.
Mr. John Evenson was in the receipt of an independent income, arising chiefly from various houses he owned in the different suburbs. He was very morose and discontented. He was a thorough radical, and used to attend a great variety of public meetings for the express purpose of finding fault with everything that was proposed. Mr. Wisbottle, on the other hand, was a high Tory. He was a clerk in the Woods and Forests office, which he considered rather an aristocratic employment; he knew the peerage by heart, and could tell you off-hand where any illustrious personage lived. He had a good set of teeth, and a capital tailor. Mr. Evenson looked on all these qualifications with profound contempt; and the consequence was that the two were always disputing, much to the edification of the rest of the house. It should be added, that, in addition to his partiality for whistling, Mr. Wisbottle had a great idea of his singing powers. There were two other boarders, besides the gentleman in the back drawing-room—Mr. Alfred Tomkins, and Mr. Frederick O’Bleary. Mr. Tomkins was a clerk in a wine-house; he was a connoisseur in paintings, and had a wonderful eye for the picturesque. Mr. O’Bleary was an Irishman, recently imported; he was in a perfectly wild state, and had come over to England to be an apothecary, a clerk in a government office, an actor, a reporter, or anything else that turned up—he was not particular. He was on familiar terms with two small Irish members, and got franks for everybody in the house. Like all Irishmen when they first come to England, he felt convinced that his intrinsic merits must procure him a high destiny. He wore shepherds'-plaid inexpressibles, and used to look under all the ladies’ bonnets as he walked along the streets. His manners and appearance always forcibly reminded one of Orson.
"Here comes Mr. Wisbottle," said Tibbs; and Mr. Wisbottle forthwith appeared in blue slippers, and a shawl dressing-gown, whistling "Di piacer."
"Good morning, Sir," said Tibbs again. It was about the only thing he ever said to any body.
"How are you, Tibbs?" condescendingly replied the amateur; and he walked to the window, and whistled louder than ever.
"Pretty air, that!" said Evenson with a snarl, and without taking his eyes off the paper.
"Glad you like it," replied Wisbottle, highly gratified.
"Don’t you think it would sound better, if you whistled it a little louder?" inquired the mastiff.
"No; I don’t think it would," rejoined the unconscious Wisbottle.
"I’ll tell you what, Wisbottle," said Evenson, who had been bottling up his anger for some hours,"the next time you feel disposed to whistle 'The Light Guitar,' at five o’clock in the morning, I’ll trouble you to whistle it with your head out o’ window. If you don’t, I’ll learn the triangle—I will, by—."
The entrance of Mrs. Tibbs (with the keys in a little basket) interrupted the threat, and prevented its conclusion.
Mrs. Tibbs apologized for being down rather late; the bell was rung; James brought up the urn, and received an unlimited order for dry toast and bacon. Tibbs sat down at the bottom of the table and began eating water-cresses like a Nebuchadnezzar. Mr. O’Bleary appeared and Mr. Alfred Tomkins. The compliments of the morning were exchanged, and the tea was made.
"God bless me," exclaimed Tomkins, who had been looking out at window. "Here—Wisbottle—pray come here; make haste."
Mr. Wisbottle started from table, and every one looked up.
"Do you see," said the connoisseur, placing Wisbottle in the right position—"a little more this way: there—do you see how splendidly the light falls upon the left side of that broken chimney-pot at No. 48?"
"Dear me—I see," replied Wisbottle, in a tone of admiration.
"I never saw an object stand out so beautifully against the clear sky in my life," ejaculated Alfred. Every body (except John Evenson) echoed the sentiment, for Mr. Tomkins had a great character for finding out beauties which no one else could discover—he certainly deserved it.
"I have frequently observed a chimney-pot in College-green, Dublin, which has a much better effect," said the patriotic O’Bleary, who never allowed Ireland to be outdone on any point.
The assertion was received with obvious incredulity, for Mr. Tomkins declared that no other chimney-pot in the United Kingdom, broken or unbroken, could be so beautiful as the one at No. 48.
The room door was suddenly thrown open, and Agnes appeared leading in Mrs. Bloss, who was dressed in a geranium-coloured muslin gown, and displayed a gold watch of the dimensions of a breakfast-cup; a chain like a gilt street-door chain, and a splendid assortment of rings, with stones about the size of half-crowns. A general rush was made for a chair, and a regular introduction took place. Mr. John Evenson made a slight inclination of the head: Mr. Frederick O’Bleary, Mr. Alfred Tomkins, and Mr. Wisbottle bowed like the mandarins in a grocer’s shop; and Tibbs rubbed his hands, and went round in circles. He was observed to close one eye, and to assume a clock-work sort of expression with the other; this has been considered as a wink, and it has been reported that Agnes was its object. We repel the calumny, and challenge contradiction.
Mrs. Tibbs inquired after Mrs. Bloss’s health in a low tone. Mrs. Bloss, with a supreme contempt for the memory of Lindley Murray, answered the various questions in a most satisfactory manner; and a pause ensued, during which the eatables disappeared with awful rapidity.
"You must have been very much pleased with the appearance of the ladies going to the drawing-room the other day, Mr. O’Bleary?" said Mrs. Tibbs, hoping to start a topic.
"Yes;" replied Orson, with a mouthful of toast.
"Never saw any thing like it before, I suppose?" suggested Wisbottle.
"No—except the Lord Lieutenant’s levees," replied O’Bleary.
"Are they at all equal to our drawing-rooms?"
"Oh, infinitely superior."
"Gad I don’t know," said the aristocratic Wisbottle, "the Dowager Marchioness of Publiccash was most magnificently dressed, and so was the Baron Slappenbachenhausen."
"What was he presented on?" inquired Evenson.
"On his arrival in England."
"I thought so," growled the radical; "you never hear of these fellows being presented on their going away again. They know better than that."
"Unless somebody pervades them with an apintment," said Mrs. Bloss, joining in the conversation in a faint voice.
"Well," said Wisbottle, evading the point, "it’s a splendid sight."
"And did it never occur to you," inquired the radical, who never would be quiet, —"did it never occur to you, that you pay for these precious ornaments of society."
"It certainly has occurred to me," said Wisbottle, who thought this answer was a poser;" it has occurred to me, and I am willing to pay for them."
"Well, and it has occurred to me too," replied John Evenson, "and I an’t willing to pay for ’em. Then why should I?—I say, why should I?" continued the politician, laying down the paper, and knocking his knuckles on the table. "There are two great principles—demand—"
"A cup of tea if you please, dear," interrupted Tibbs.
"And supply—"
"May I trouble you to hand this tea to Mr. Tibbs?" said Mrs. Tibbs, interrupting the argument, and unconsciously illustrating it.
The thread of the orator’s discourse was broken. He drank his tea and resumed the paper.
"If it’s very fine," said Mr. Alfred Tomkins, addressing the company in general, "I shall ride down to Richmond to-day, and come back by the steamer. There are some splendid effects of light and shade on the Thames; the contrast between the blueness of the sky and the yellow water is frequently exceedingly beautiful." Mr. Wisbottle hummed, "Flow on, thy shining river."
"We have some splendid steam-vessels in Ireland," said O’Bleary.
"Certainly," said Mrs. Bloss, delighted to find a subject broached in which she could take part.
"The accommodations are extraordinary," said O’Bleary.
"Extraordinary indeed," returned Mrs. Bloss. "When Mr. Bloss was alive, he was promiscuously obligated to go to Ireland on business. I went with him, and raly the manner in which the ladies and gentlemen were accommodated with births, is not creditable."
Tibbs, who had been listening to the dialogue, looked very aghast, and evinced a strong inclination to ask a question, but was checked by a look from his wife. Mr. Wisbottle laughed, and said Tomkins had made a pun; and Tomkins laughed too, and said he hadn't.
The remainder of the meal passed off as breakfasts usually do. Conversation flagged, and people played with their tea-spoons. The gentlemen looked out at the window; walked about the room, and when they got near the door, dropped off one by one. Tibbs retired to the back parlour by his wife’s orders, to check the green-grocer’s weekly account; and ultimately Mrs. Tibbs and Mrs. Bloss were left alone together.
"Oh dear," said the latter, "I feel alarmingly faint; it’s very singular." (It certainly was, for she had eaten four pounds of solids that morning.) "By-the-bye," said Mrs. Bloss, "I have not seen Mr. what’s-his-name yet."
"Mr. Gobler?" suggested Mrs. Tibbs.
"Yes."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Tibbs, "he is a most mysterious person. He has his meals regularly sent up stairs, and sometimes don’t leave his room for weeks together."
"I haven’t seen or heard nothing of him," repeated Mrs. Bloss.
"I dare say you’ll hear him to-night," replied Mrs. Tibbs; "he generally groans a good deal on Sunday evenings."
"I never felt such an interest in any one in my life," ejaculated Mrs. Bloss. A finicking double-knock interrupted the conversation; Doctor Wosky was announced, and duly shown in. He was a little man with a red face, dressed of course in black, with a stiff white neckerchief. He had a very good practice, and plenty of money, which he had amassed by invariably humouring the worst fancies of all the females of all the families he had ever been introduced into. Mrs. Tibbs offered to retire, but was entreated to stay.
"Well, my dear ma’am, and how are we?" inquired Wosky in a soothing tone.
"Very ill, doctor—very ill," said Mrs. Bloss, in a whisper.
"Ah! we must take care of ourselves;—we must, indeed," said the obsequious Wosky, as he felt the pulse of his interesting patient.
"How is our appetite?"
Mrs. Bloss shook her head.
"Our friend requires great care," said Wosky, appealing to Mrs. Tibbs, who of course assented. "I hope, however, with the blessing of Providence, that we shall be enabled to make her quite stout again." Mrs. Tibbs wondered in her own mind what the patient would be when she had got quite stout; for she looked like a pincushion on eastors already.
"We must take stimulants," said the cunning Wosky—"plenty of nourishment, and, above all, we must keep our nerves quiet; we positively must not give way to our sensibilities. We must take all we can get," concluded the Doctor as he pocketed his fee, "and we must keep quiet."
"Dear man!" exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, as the Doctor stepped into the carriage.
"Charming creature indeed—quite a lady’s man!" said Mrs. Tibbs; and Dr. Wosky rattled away to make fresh gulls of delicate females, and pocket fresh fees.
As we had occasion in a former paper to describe a dinner at Mrs. Tibbs’s, and as one meal went off very like another on all ordinary occasions, we will not fatigue our readers by entering into any other detailed account of the domestic economy of the establishment. We will, therefore, proceed to events, merely premising that the mysterious tenant of the back drawing-room was a lazy, selfish hypochondriac; always complaining and never ill. As his character in many respects closely assimilated to that of Mrs. Bloss, a very warm friendship soon sprung up between them. He was tall, thin, and pale; he always fancied he had got a severe pain somewhere or other, and his face invariably wore a pinched, screwed-up expression; he looked like a man who had got his feet in a tub of exceedingly hot water against his will.
For two or three months after Mrs. Bloss’s first appearance in Coram-street, John Evenson was observed to become every day more sarcastic and more ill-natured, and there was a degree of additional importance in his manner, which clearly showed that he fancied he had discovered something, which he only wanted a proper opportunity of divulging. He found it at last.
One evening, the different inmates of the house were assembled in the drawing-room engaged in their ordinary occupations. Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss were sitting at a small card-table near the centre window, playing cribbage; Mr. Wisbottle was describing semi-circles on the music-stool, turning over the leaves of a book on the piano, and humming most melodiously; Alfred Tomkins was sitting at the round table, with his elbows duly squared, making a pencil sketch of a head considerably larger than his own; O’Bleary was reading Horace, and trying to look as if he understood it; and John Evenson had drawn his chair close to Mrs. Tibbs’s work-table, and was talking to her very earnestly in a low tone.
"I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs," said the radical, laying his forefinger on the muslin she was at work on; "I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs, that nothing but the interest I take in your welfare would induce me to make this communication. I repeat that I fear Wisbottle is endeavouring to gain the affections of that young woman Agnes, and that he is in the habit of meeting her in the store-room on the first floor, over the leads. From my bed-room I distinctly heard voices there last night. I opened my door immediately, and crept very softly on to the landing; there I saw Mr. Tibbs, who, it seems, had been disturbed also.—Bless me, Mrs. Tibbs, you change colour."
"No, no—it’s nothing," returned Mrs. T. in a hurried manner; "it’s only the heat of the room."
"A flush!" ejaculated Mrs. Bloss from the card-table; "that’s good for four."
"If I thought it was Mr. Wisbottle," said Mrs. Tibbs, after a pause, "he should leave this house instantly."
"Go!" said Mrs. Bloss again.
"And if I thought," continued the hostess with a most threatening air, "if I thought he was assisted by Mr. Tibbs—"
"One for his nob!" said Gobler.
"Oh," said Evenson, in a most soothing tone;—he liked to make mischief—"I should hope Mr. Tibbs was not in any way implicated. He always appeared to me very harmless."
"I have generally found him so," sobbed poor little Mrs. Tibbs; crying like a watering-pot in full play.
"Hush! hush! pray—Mrs. Tibbs,—consider;—we shall be observed—pray, don’t!" said John Evenson, fearing his whole plan would be interrupted. "We will set the matter at rest with the utmost care, and I shall be most happy to assist you in doing so." Mrs. Tibbs murmured her thanks.
"When you think every one has retired to rest to-night," said Evenson very pompously, "if you’ll meet me without a light, just outside my bed-room door, by the staircase window, I think we can ascertain who the parties really are, and you will afterwards be enabled to proceed as you think proper."
Mrs. Tibbs was easily persuaded; her curiosity was excited, her jealousy was roused, and the arrangement was forthwith made. She resumed her work, and John Evenson walked up and down the room with his hands in his pockets, looking as if nothing had happened. The game of cribbage was over, and conversation began again.
"Well, Mr. O’Bleary," said the humming-top, turning round on his pivot, and facing the company, "what did you think of Vauxhall the other night?"
"Oh, it’s very fair," replied Orson, who had been euthusiastically lelighted with the whole exhibition.
"Never saw anything like that Captain Ross’s set-out—eh?"
"No," returned the patriot with his usual reservation—"except in Dublin."
"I saw the Count de Canky and Captain Fitzthompson in the Gardens," said Wisbottle; "they appeared much delighted."
"Then it must be beautiful!" snarled Evenson.
"I think the white bears is partickerlerly well done, suggested Mrs. Bloss. "In their shaggy white coats they look just like Polar bears—don’t you think they do, Mr. Evenson?"
"I think they look a great deal more like omnibus cads on all fours," replied the discontented one.
"Upon the whole, I should have liked our evening very well," gasped Gobler; "only I caught a desperate cold which increased my pain dreadfully; I was obliged to have several shower baths, before I could leave my room."
"Capital things those shower-baths!" ejaculated Wisbottle.
"Excellent!" said Tomkins.
"Delightful!" chimed in O’Bleary. (He had once seen one, outside a tinman’s.)
"Disgusting machines!" rejoined Evenson, who extended his dislike to almost every created object, masculine, feminine, or neuter.
"Disgusting, Mr. Evenson!" said Gobler, in a tone of strong indignation.—"Disgusting! Look at their utility—consider how many lives they've saved by promoting perspiration."
"Promoting perspiration, indeed," growled John Evenson, stopping short in his walk across the large squares in the pattern of the carpet—"I was ass enough to be persuaded some time ago to have one in my bedroom. 'Gad, I was in it once, and it effectually cured me, for the mere sight of it threw me into a profuse perspiration for six months afterwards."
A titter followed this announcement, and before it had subsided, James brought up "the tray," containing the remains of a leg of lamb which had made its début at dinner; bread, cheese; an atom of butter in a forest of parsley, one pickled walnut and the third of another, and so forth. The boy disappeared, and returned again with another tray, containing glasses and jugs of hot and cold water. The gentlemen brought in their spirit-bottles; the housemaid placed divers plated bedroom candlesticks under the card-table, and the servants retired for the night.
Chairs were drawn round the table, and the conversation proceeded in the customary manner. John Evenson, who never eat supper, lolled on the sofa, and amused himself by contradicting everybody. O’Bleary eat as much as he could conveniently carry, and Mrs. Tibbs felt a due degree of indignation thereat; Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss conversed most affectionately on the subject of pill-taking and other innocent amusements; and Tomkins and Wisbottle "got into an argument;" that is to say, they both talked very loudly and vehemently, each flattering himself that he had got some advantage about something, and neither of them having more than a very indistinct idea of what they were talking about. An hour or two passed away; and the boarders and the plated candlesticks retired in pairs to their respective bed-rooms. John Evenson pulled off his boots, locked his door, and determined to sit up until Mr. Gobler had retired. He always sat in the drawing-room an hour after everybody else had left it, taking medicine, and groaning.
Great Coram-street was hushed into a state of profound repose: it was nearly two o’clock. A hackney-coach now and then rumbled slowly by; and occasionally some stray lawyer’s clerk on his way home to Somers Town struck his iron heel on the top of the coal-cellar with a noise resembling the click of a smoke-Jack. A low, monotonous, gushing sound was heard, which added considerably to the romantic dreariness of the scene. It was the water "coming in" at No.11.
"He must be asleep by this time," said John Evenson to himself, after waiting with exemplary patience for nearly an hour after Mr. Gobler had left the drawing-room. He listened for a few moments; the house was perfectly quiet; he extinguished his rushlight, and opened his bed-room door. The staircase was so dark that it was impossible to see anything.
"S-s-fit!" whispered the mischief-maker, making a noise like the first indication a catherine-wheel gives of the probability of its going off.
"Hush!" whispered somebody else.
"Is that you, Mrs. Tibbs?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Where?"
"Here;" and the misty outline of Mrs. Tibbs appeared at the staircase-window, like the ghost of Queen Anne in the tent-scene in Richard.
"This way, Mrs. Tibbs;" whispered the delighted busybody: "give me your hand—there. Whoever these people are, they are in the store-room now, for I have been looking down from my window, and I could see that they accidentally upset their candlestick, and are now in darkness. You have no shoes on, have you?"
"No," said little Mrs. Tibbs, who could hardly speak for trembling.
"Well; I have taken my boots off, so we can go down, close to the store-room door, and listen over the banisters," continued Evenson; and down stairs they both crept accordingly, every board creaking like a patent mangle on a Saturday afternoon.
"It’s Wisbottle and somebody I’ll swear," exclaimed the radical in an energetic whisper, when they had listened for a few moments.
"Hush—pray let’s hear what they say," exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs, the gratification of whose curiosity was now paramount to every other consideration.
"Ah! if I could but believe you," said a female voice coquettishly, "I’d be bound to settle my missis for life."
"What does she say?" inquired Mr. Evenson, who was not quite so well situated as his companion.
"She says she’ll settle her missis’s life," replied Mrs. Tibbs. "The wretch! they’re plotting murder."
"I know you want money," continued the voice, which belonged to Agnes; "and if you’d secure me the five hundred pound, I warrant she should take fire soon enough."
"What’s that?" inquired Evenson again. He could just hear enough to want to hear more.
"I think she says she’ll set the house on fire," replied the affrighted Mrs. Tibbs. "Thank God I’m insured in the Phoenix!"
"The moment I have secured your mistress, my dear," said a man’s voice in a strong Irish brogue, "you may depend on having the money."
"Bless my soul, it’s Mr. O’Bleary!" exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs in a parenthesis.
"The villain!" said the indignant Mr. Evenson.
"The first thing to be done," continued the Hibernian, "is to poison Mr. Gobler’s mind."
"Oh, certainly!" returned Agnes, with the utmost coolness.
"What’s that?" inquired Evenson again, in an agony of curiosity and a whisper.
"He says she’s to mind and poison Mr. Gobler," replied Mrs. Tibbs, aghast at this sacrifice of human life.
"And in regard of Mrs. Tibbs," continued O’Bleary.—Mrs. Tibbs shuddered.
"Hush!" exclaimed Agnes, in a tone of the greatest alarm, just as Mrs. Tibbs was on the extreme verge of a fainting fit. "Hush!"
"Hush!" exclaimed Evenson, at the same moment to Mrs. Tibbs.
"There’s somebody coming up stairs," said Agnes to O’Bleary.
"There’s somebody coming down stairs," whispered Evenson to Mrs. Tibbs.
"Go into the parlour, Sir," said Agnes to her companion. "You will get there, before whoever it is gets to the top of the kitchen stairs."
"The drawing-room, Mrs. Tibbs!" whispered the astonished Evenson to his equally astonished companion; and for the drawing-room they both made, plainly hearing the rustling of two persons coming down stairs, and one coming up.
"What can it be?" exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs. "It’s like a dream. I wouldn’t be found in this situation for the world!"
"Nor I," returned Evenson, who could never bear a joke at his own expense. "Hush! here they are at the door."
"What fun!" whispered one of the new comers.—It was Wisbottle.
"Glorious!" replied his companion, in an equally low tone.—This was Alfred Tomkins. "Who would have thought it?"
"I told you so," said Wisbottle, in a most knowing whisper. "Lord bless you, he has paid her most extraordinary attention for the last two months. I saw ’em when I was sitting at the piano to-night."
"Well, do you know I didn’t notice it?" interrupted Tomkins.
"Not notice it!" continued Wisbottle. "Bless you; I saw him whispering to her, and she crying; and then I’ll swear I heard him say something about to-night when we were all in bed."
"They’re talking of us!" exclaimed the agonized Mrs. Tibbs, as the painful suspicion, and a sense of their situation, flashed upon her mind.
"I know it—I know it," replied Evenson, with a melancholy consciousness that there was no mode of escape.
"What’s to be done?—we cannot both stop here," ejaculated Mrs. Tibbs in a state of partial derangement.
"I’ll get up the chimney," replied Evenson, who really meant what he said.
"You can’t," said Mrs. Tibbs, in despair. "You can’t—it’s a register stove."
"Hush!" repeated John Evenson.
"Hush—hush!" cried somebody down stairs.
"What a d-d hushing!" said Alfred Tomkins, who began to get rather bewildered.
"There they are!" exclaimed the sapient Wisbottle, as a rustling noise was heard in the store-room.
"Hark!" whispered both the young men.
"Hark!" repeated Mrs. Tibbs and Evenson.
"Let me alone, Sir," said a female voice in the store-room.
"Oh, Hagnes!" cried another voice, which clearly belonged to Tibbs, for nobody else ever owned one like it, "Oh, Hagnes—lovely creature!"
"Be quiet, Sir!" (a bounce.)
"Hag—"
"Be quiet, Sir,—I am ashamed of you. Think of your wife, Mr. Tibbs.—Be quiet, Sir!"
"My wife!" exclaimed the valorous Tibbs, who was clearly under the influence of gin-and-water, and a misplaced attachment; "I ate her! Oh, Hagnes! when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and—"
"I declare I’ll scream. Be quiet, Sir, will you?" (Another bounce, and a scuffle.)
"What’s that?" exclaimed Tibbs with a start.
"What’s what?" said Agnes, stopping short.
"Why that!"
"Ah! you have done it nicely now, Sir," sobbed the frightened Agnes, as a tapping was heard at Mrs. Tibbs’ bed-room door, which would have beaten any twelve woodpeckers hollow.
"Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!" called out Mrs. Bloss. "Mrs. Tibbs, pray get up." (Here the imitation of a woodpecker was resumed with tenfold violence.)
"Oh, dear—dear!" exclaimed the wretched partner of the depraved Tibbs. "She’s knocking at my door. We must be discovered. What will they think?"
"Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!" screamed the woodpecker again.
"What’s the matter?" shouted Gobler, bursting out of the back drawing-room, like the dragon at Astley’s—only without the portable gas in his countenance.
"Oh, Mr. Gobler!" cried Mrs. Bloss, with a proper approximation to hysterics; "I think the house is on fire, or else there’s thieves in it. I have heard the most dreadful noises."
"The devil you have!" shouted Gobler again, bouncing back into his den, in happy imitation of the aforesaid dragon, and returning immediately with a lighted candle. "Why, what’s this? Wisbottle! Tomkins! O’Bleary! Agnes! What the deuce, all up and dressed?"
"Astonishing!" said Mrs. Bloss, who had run down stairs, and taken Mr. Gobler’s arm.
"Call Mrs. Tibbs directly, somebody," said Gobler, turning into the front drawing-room. "What! Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!!"
"Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!" repeated every body, as that unhappy pair were discovered, Mrs. Tibbs seated in an arm-chair by the fireplace, and Mr. Evenson standing by her side.
We must leave the scene that ensued to the reader’s imagination. We could tell how Mrs. Tibbs forthwith fainted away, and how it required the united strength of Mr. Wisbottle and Mr. Alfred Tomkins to hold her in her chair; how Mr. Evenson explained it; and how his explanation was evidently disbelieved;—how Agnes repelled the accusations of Mrs. Tibbs, by proving that she was negotiating with Mr. O’Bleary to influence her mistress’s affections in his behalf; and how Mr. Gobler threw a damp counterpane on the hopes of Mr. O’Bleary by avowing that he (Gobler) had already proposed to, and been accepted by, Mrs. Bloss; how Agnes was discharged from that lady’s service; how Mr. O’Bleary discharged himself from Mrs. Tibbs’ house, without going through the form of previously discharging his bill; and how that disappointed young gentleman rails against England and the English, and vows there is no virtue or fine feeling extant, "except in Ireland." We repeat that we could tell all this, but we love to exercise our self-denial, and we therefore prefer leaving it to be imagined.
The lady whom we have hitherto described as Mrs. Bloss, is no more. Mrs. Gobler exists: Mrs. Bloss has left us for ever. In a secluded retreat in Newington Butts, far—far removed from the noisy strife of that great boarding-house the world, the enviable Gobler, and his pleasing wife, revel in retirement; happy in their complaints, their table, and their medicine; wafted through life by the grateful prayers of all the purveyors of animal food within three miles round.
We would willingly stop here, but we have a painful duty imposed upon us, which we must discharge. Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs have separated by mutual consent, Mrs. Tibbs receiving one moiety of 43l. 15s. 10d., which we before stated to be the amount of her husband’s annual income, and Mr. Tibbs the other. He is spending the evening of his days in retirement; and he is spending also annually that small but honourable independence. He resides among the original settlers at Walworth, and it has been stated, on unquestionable authority, that the conclusion of the volunteer story has been heard in a small tavern in that respectable neighbourhood.
The unfortunate Mrs. Tibbs has determined to dispose of the whole of her furniture by public auction, and to retire from a residence in which she has suffered so much. Mr. Robins has been applied to, to conduct the sale, and the transcendent abilities of the literary gentlemen connected with his establishment, are now devoted to the task of drawing up the preliminary advertisement. It is to contain, among a variety of brilliant matter, seventy-eight words in large capitals, and six original quotations in inverted commas.
We fear Mrs. Tibb's determination is irrevocable. Should she, however, be induced to rescind it, we may become once again her faithful biographer.
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