General Bounce; Or, The Lady and the Locusts. G. J. Whyte-Melville
meals a day, not to mention strong tea and hot buttered toast at odd times, the presumption is, that her health will suffer from the effects of such combined hardships. With patients of Gingham’s class, the attack generally flies to the nerves, and the system becomes wrought up to such a pitch that nothing appears to afford the sufferer relief, except piercing screams and violent demonstrations of alarm upon slight and often imaginary occasions. Gingham would shriek as loudly to encounter a live mouse as Mrs. Kettering would have done to face a raging lion; and an unexpected meeting with any individual, even residing in the same house, was apt to produce a flutter of spirits and prostration of intellect, truly surprising to those who are unacquainted with the delicate organisation of a real lady’s-maid not on board wages. In this critical condition, Mrs. Gingham, on the first evening of her arrival at St. Swithin’s, “got a start,” as she expressed it, which influenced the whole destiny of her after life. Coming down from dressing her lady, she wended her way, as usual, to “the room,” that sanctum in which the etiquette of society is far more rigidly enforced than up-stairs, and to which “plush and powder” would find it far more difficult to obtain the entrée than into master’s study or “missus’s” boudoir. Expecting to see nothing more formidable than the butler, Gingham’s alarm can be more easily imagined than described, when on entering this privileged apartment, she found its only occupant a goodish-looking, flashily-dressed young man, “taking a glass of sherry and a biscuit,” and making himself very much at home.
A suppressed scream and sudden accession of faintness made it imperative on the new arrival to exert himself, and by the time they had got to “Goodness! how you frightened me, sir,” and “Dear Miss, I beg a thousand pardings!” they became very good friends, and the timid fair one was prevailed on to sit down and partake of the refreshments hospitably provided by the butler at his mistress’s expense.
Tom Blacke very soon informed the lady that “he was assistant to a professional gentleman” (in plain English an attorney’s clerk), and had merely looked in to see if the house was let, to inform his employer. “I am very unhappy, miss, to have been the cause of alarming of you so, and I trust you will look over it, and may feel no ill effects from the haccident.” To which Gingham, who was a lady of elaborate politeness, as became her station, and, moreover, much mollified by the constant use of the juvenile title “Miss,” courteously replied that, “Indeed, it had given her quite a turn, but she could not regret a meeting that had introduced her to such a polite acquaintance.” So they parted with many “good evenings,” and an openly expressed hope that they should meet again.
Tom Blacke was a scamp of the first water, but not deficient in shrewdness, to which his professional pursuits added a certain amount of acquired cunning. He naturally reflected that the sensitive, middle-aged dame whom he had thus alarmed and soothed was probably an old and esteemed servant of the family at No. 9. The whole arrangements looked like being “well-to-do.” The butler poured out sherry as if it was small beer, and probably in such an establishment the confidential maid might have saved a pretty bit of money, to which, even encumbered with the lady in question, Tom Blacke would have had no earthly objection. He was, as he said himself, “open to a match,” and being a rosy, dark-whiskered fellow, with good teeth and consummate assurance, though he never looked at you till you had done looking at him, he resolved to lay siege forthwith to the heart of Mrs. Gingham. A nervous temperament is usually susceptible; and though her fingers are occupied in folding Blanche’s handkerchiefs, and “putting away” her gloves, shoes, and etceteras, the Abigail’s thoughts are even now far away round the corner, up two pair of stairs, in the office with Tom Blacke.
“Goodness gracious! Missus’s bell!” exclaims Gingham, with a start, as if she had not expected that summons at its usual time—viz. when Mrs. Kettering came in to shake her feathers before luncheon—and she runs down, palpitating as if the house were on fire. Though we must not stay to see Blanche take her bonnet off and smooth those sunny ringlets, we may go and wait for her in the luncheon-room, to which she is soon heard tripping merrily down, with even brighter eyes than usual, perhaps from the excitement of meeting Cousin Charles’s friend, Mr. Hardingstone, whom sly Blanche knows but very little, and with whom she is consequently extremely diffident, notwithstanding the deference of his manner, and the respectful, almost admiring tone in which he always addresses the young girl.
“Blanche, have you fed Bully? and practised your music? and read your history? Women should never neglect history. And looked for the name of that weed, whilst we think of it? and shall I give you some chicken?” said Mrs. Kettering, without waiting for an answer, as she sat down to a very comfortable repast about three o’clock in the afternoon, which she called luncheon, but which was by no means a bad imitation of a good dinner.
“No, dear mamma,” said Blanche; “besides, it’s too hot for lessons; but tell me, mamma, what did Mr. Hardingstone mean about a mermaid, when he whispered to ‘Cousin Charlie,’ and Charlie laughed?”
“A mermaid, Blanche? pooh! nonsense; there’s no such animal. But that reminds me—don’t forget to look over that beautiful thing of Tennyson’s; girls should always be ‘up’ in modern literature. Do you know, Blanche, I don’t quite like Mr. Hardingstone.”
“O mamma,” said Blanche, “such a friend of Charlie’s—I’m sure we ought to like him; and I’m sure he likes us; what a way he came down through that horrid shingle to help you out of the boat; and did you see, mamma, what nice thin boots he had on? I think I should like him very much if we knew him better. Not so much as ‘Cousin Charlie,’ ” added the young girl, reflectively, “or dear darling Hairblower. How shocking it was when his partner went down, mamma. Did you hear that story? But I am sure Mr. Hardingstone is very good-natured.”
“That reminds me, my dear,” said Mrs. Kettering, who was getting rather flushed towards the end of the chicken; “I do hope that boy has not gone to bathe: I am always afraid about water. Blanche, hand me the sherry; and, my dear, I must order some bottled porter for you—you are very pale in this hot weather; but I am always fidgety about Charlie when he is bathing.”
From the conversation recorded above, we may gather that Mrs. Kettering, who, as we have said, was inclined to be nervous, was rapidly becoming so upon one or two important points. In the first place, with all a mother’s pride in her daughter’s beauty, she could not be blind to the general admiration excited thereby, nor could she divest herself of certain misgivings that Blanche would not long remain to be the solace of her widowhood, but that, to use her own expression, she was “sure to be snapped up before she was old enough to know her own mind.” The consequence was, that Mrs. Kettering much mistrusted all her male acquaintance under the age of old-fellow-hood—a period of life which, in these days of “wonderfully young-looking men,” seems indefinitely postponed; and regarded every well-dressed, well-whiskered biped as a possible subverter of her schemes, and a probable rival to “Cousin Charlie”; she kept him at bay, accordingly, with a coldness and reserve quite foreign to her own cordial and demonstrative nature. Frank Hardingstone she could not dislike, do what she would. And we are bound to confess that she was less guarded in her encouragement of that gentleman than of any other male visitor who appeared in the afternoons at No. 9, to leave a small bit of glazed paste-board, with an inward thanksgiving for his escape from a morning visit, or to utter incontrovertible platitudes while he smoothed his hat on his coat-sleeve, and glanced ever and anon at the clock on the chimney-piece, for the earliest moment at which, with common decency, he might take his departure.
Then the safety and soundness of Blanche’s heart was scarcely more a matter of anxiety than that of Charlie’s body; and the boy seemed to take a ghastly delight in placing himself constantly in situations of imminent bodily peril. Active and high-spirited, he was perpetually climbing inaccessible places, shooting with dangerous guns, riding wild hacks, overheating himself in matches against time, and, greatest anxiety of all, performing aquatic feats—the principal result of his Eton education—out of his depth, as his aunt observed with emphasis, which were totally inexcusable as manifest temptations of fate.
He was now gone off on an expedition with his friend and senior, Hardingstone; but well did Mrs. Kettering know that yonder blue, cool-looking sea would be