London-Bridge Station, with its whirl of traffic, seems no bad emblem
of London itself: vast, confused, busy, orderly, more or less dirty;
implying enormous wealth in some quarter or other; providing luxuries
for the rich, necessaries for the poor; thronged by rich and poor
alike, idle and industrious, young and old, men and women.
London-Bridge Station at its cleanest is soiled by thousands of feet
passing to and fro: on a drizzling day each foot deposits mud in its
passage, takes and gives mud, leaves its impress in mud; on such a
day the Station is not attractive to persons fresh from the unfailing
cleanliness of sea coast and inland country; and on such a day, when,
by the late afternoon, the drizzle had done, and the platform had
suffered each its worst,—on such a day Miss Charlmont and her pretty
sister, fresh and fastidious from sea salt and country sweetness,
arrived at the Station.
Dr. Tyke’s carriage was there to meet the train. Dr. Tyke’s coachman,
footman, and horses were fat, as befitted a fat master, whose
circumstances and whose temperament might be defined as fat also; for
ease, good-nature, and fat have an obvious affinity.
‘Should the hood be up or down?’ The rain had ceased, and Miss
Charlmont, who always described London as stifling, answered, ‘Up.’
Jane, leaning back with an elegant ease, which nature had given and
art perfected, felt secretly ashamed of Catherine, who sat bolt
upright, according to her wont, and would no more have lolled in an
open carriage than on the high-backed, scant-seated chair of her
schooldays.
The City looked at once dingy and glaring; dingy with unconsumed
smoke, and glaring here and there with early-lighted gas. When
Waterloo Bridge had been crossed matters brightened somewhat, and
Oxford Street showed not amiss. Along the Edgware Road dirt and
dinginess re-asserted their sway; but when the carriage finally
turned into Notting Hill, and drove amongst the Crescents, Roads, and
Gardens of that cleanly suburb, a winding-up shower, brisk and brief,
not drizzly, cleared the way for the sun, and finished off the
afternoon with a rainbow.
Dr. Tyke’s abode was named Appletrees House, though the orchard
whence the name was derived had disappeared before the memory of the
oldest inhabitant. The carriage drew up, the door swung open: down
the staircase came flying a little, slim woman, with outstretched
hands and words of welcome; auburn-haired, though she had outlived
the last of the fifties, and cheerful, though the want of children
had not ceased to be felt as a hopeless disappointment: a
pale-complexioned, high-voiced, little woman, all that remained of
that fair cousin Lucy of bygone years and William Charlmont.
Behind her, and more deliberately, descended her husband, elastic of
step, rotund of figure, bright-eyed, rosy, white-headed, not
altogether unlike a robin redbreast that had been caught in the snow.
Mrs. Tyke had a habit of running on with long-winded, perfectly
harmless commonplaces; but notwithstanding her garrulity, she never
uttered an ill-natured word or a false one. Dr. Tyke, burdened with
an insatiable love of fun, and a ready, if not a witty, wit, was
addicted to venting jokes, repartees, and so-called anecdotes; the
last not always unimpeachably authentic.
Such were the hosts. The house was large and light, with a laboratory
for the Doctor, who dabbled in chemistry, and an aviary for his wife,
who doted on pets. The walls of the sitting-rooms were hung with
engravings, not with family portraits, real or sham: in fact, no sham
was admitted within doors, unless imaginary anecdotes and quotations
must be stigmatized as shams; and as to these, when taxed with
invention, the Doctor would only reply by his favourite Italian
phrase: ‘Se noti è vero è ben trovato.’
‘Jane,’ said Mrs. Tyke, as the three ladies sat over a late
breakfast, the Doctor having already retreated to the laboratory and
his newspaper:—‘Jane, I think you have made a conquest.’
Jane looked down in silence, with a conscious simper. Catherine spoke
rather anxiously: ‘Indeed, Cousin Lucy, I have noticed what you
allude to, and I have spoken to Jane about not encouraging Mr.
Durham. He is not at all a man she can really like, and she ought to
be most careful not to let herself be misunderstood. Jane, you ought
indeed.’
But Jane struck merrily in: ‘Mr. Durham is old enough and—ahem!—
handsome enough to take care of himself, sister. And, besides’, with
a touch of mimicry, which recalled his pompous manner,’ Orpingham
Place, my dear madam, Orpingham Place is a very fine place, a very
fine place indeed. Our pineapples can really hardly be got rid of,
and our prize pigs can’t see out of their eyes; they can’t indeed, my
dear young lady, though it’s not pretty talk for a pretty young lady
to listen to.—Very well, if the pines and the pigs are smitten, why
shouldn’t I marry the pigs and the pines?’
‘Why not?’ cried Mrs. Tyke with a laugh; but Miss Charlmont, looking
disturbed, rejoined: ‘Why not, certainly, if you like Mr. Durham; but
do you like Mr. Durham? And, whether or not, you ought not to laugh
at him.’
Jane pouted: ‘Really one would think I was a child still! As to Mr.
Durham, when he knows his own mind and speaks, you may be quite sure
I shall know my own mind and give him his answer.—Orpingham Place, my
dear Miss Catherine, the finest place in the county; the finest place
in three counties, whatever my friend the Duke may say. A charming
neighbourhood. Miss Catherine; her Grace the Duchess, the most
affable woman you can imagine, and my lady the Marchioness, a fine
woman—a very fine woman. But they can’t raise such pines as my pines;
they can’t do it, you know; they haven’t the means, you know.—Come
now, sister, don’t look cross; when I’m Mrs. Durham you shall have
your slice off the pigs and the pines.’