The Newcomes

"Had you not better take off your hat?" asks the Duchess, pointing out of

  one of her little mittens to "the foring cove's" beaver, 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 descends 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 eldest, 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 jingle (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 Rev. 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 agile 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; Brazen 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 brass 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 syrup,

  labelled "Master A. Newcome. A teaspoonful 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 maritime song from which she

  quoted was just written at this time.) "How much better this is than

  going home and seeing those horrid 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

  luxurious 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

  subsides into a novel, with many of which kind of works, and with other

  volumes, and with workboxes, and with wonderful inkstands, portfolios,

  portable days of the month, scent-bottles, scissor-cases, gilt miniature

  easels displaying portraits, and countless gimcracks of travel, the rapid

  Kuhn has covered the tables in the twinkling of an eye.

  The person supposed to be the landlady enters the room at this juncture,

  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 bristling with ribbons,

  with her best chestnut front, and her best black silk gown, on which her

  gold watch shines very splendidly, little Miss Honeyman makes her

  appearance, and a dignified curtsey to her lodger.

  That lady vouchsafes a very slight inclination 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 precisely, if you please. It is

  now near one."

  "Am I to understand----" interposed Miss Honeyman.

  "Oh! I have no doubt we shall underst
and 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, awed by a peculiar 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 descending at this moment, and little Mrs.

  Honeyman looking at her lodger, who had sate down and taken up her book,

  said, "Have your ladyship's servants unpacked 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--Hush,

  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 enveloped 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 repelled

  with infantine kicks, plunged madly at the bells, rang them all four

  vehemently, 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 penetrate that chaste 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 frantic 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 fowl. 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 reconciliation 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 droll 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 smacked his lips

  and held out the glass again. The honest rogue knew good wine.

  CHAPTER X

  Ethel and her Relations

  For four-and-twenty successive hours Lady Anne Newcome was perfectly in

  raptures with her new lodgings, and every person and thing which they

  contained. The drawing-rooms were fitted with the greatest taste; the

  dinner was exquisite. Were there ever such delicious veal-cutlets, such

  verdant French beans? "Why do we have those odious French cooks, my dear,
/>
  with their shocking principles--the principles of all Frenchmen are

  shocking--and the dreadful bills they bring us in; and their

  consequential airs and graces? I am determined to part with Brignol. I

  have written to your father this evening to give Brignol warning. When

  did he ever give us veal-cutlets? What can be nicer?"

  "Indeed they were very good," said Miss Ethel, who had mutton five times

  a week at one o'clock. "I am so glad you like the house, and Clive, and

  Mrs. Honeyman."

  "Like her! the dear little old woman. I feel as if she had been my friend

  all my life! I feel quite drawn towards her. What a wonderful coincidence

  that Dr. Goodenough should direct us to this very house! I have written

  to your father about it. And to think that I should have written to Clive

  at this very house, and quite forgotten Mrs. Honeyman's name--and such an

  odd name too. I forget everything, everything! You know I forgot your

  Aunt Louisa's husband's name; and when I was godmother to her baby, and

  the clergyman said, 'What is the infant's name?' I said, 'Really I

  forget.' And so I did. He was a London clergyman, but I forget at what

  church. Suppose it should be this very Mr. Honeyman! It may have been,

  you know, and then the coincidence would be still more droll. That tall,

  old, nice-looking, respectable person, with a mark on her nose, the

  housekeeper--what is her name?--seems a most invaluable person. I think I

  shall ask her to come to us. I am sure she would save me I don't know how

  much money every week; and I am certain Mrs. Trotter is making a fortune

  by us. I shall write to your papa, and ask him permission to ask this

  person." Ethel's mother was constantly falling in love with her new

  acquaintances; their man-servants and their maid-servants, their horses

  and ponies, and the visitor within their gates. She would ask strangers

  to Newcome, hug and embrace them on Sunday; not speak to them on Monday;

  and on Tuesday behave so rudely to them, that they were gone before

  Wednesday. Her daughter had had so many governesses--all darlings during

  the first week, and monsters afterwards--that the poor child possessed

  none of the accomplishments of her age. She could not play on the piano;

  she could not speak French well; she could not tell you when gunpowder

  was invented: she had not the faintest idea of the date of the Norman

  Conquest, or whether the earth went round the sun, or vice versa. She did

  not know the number of counties in England, Scotland, and Wales, let

  alone Ireland; she did not know the difference between latitude and

  longitude. She had had so many governesses: their accounts differed: poor

  Ethel was bewildered by a multiplicity of teachers, and thought herself a

  monster of ignorance. They gave her a book at a Sunday School, and little

  girls of eight years old answered questions of which she knew nothing.

  The place swam before her. She could not see the sun shining on their

  fair flaxen heads and pretty faces. The rosy little children holding up

  their eager hands, and crying the answer to this question and that,

  seemed mocking her. She seemed to read in the book, "O Ethel, you dunce,

  dunce, dunce!" She went home silent in the carriage, and burst into

  bitter tears on her bed. Naturally a haughty girl of the highest spirit,

  resolute and imperious, this little visit to the parish school taught

  Ethel lessons more valuable than ever so much arithmetic and geography.

  Clive has told me a story of her in her youth, which, perhaps, may apply

  to some others of the youthful female aristocracy. She used to walk, with

  other select young ladies and gentlemen, their nurses and governesses, in

  a certain reserved plot of ground railed off from Hyde Park, whereof some

  of the lucky dwellers in the neighbourhood of Apsley House have a key. In

  this garden, at the age of nine or thereabout, she had contracted an