A BOARDING-HOUSE EVENING, AND AN IMPORTANT LETTER.
Boarding-houses all the world over have certain features in common.
These are the result of haphazard association between people without
common interests.
No. 37, Beaconsfield Gardens, South Kensington, was no exception to the
rule. Its inmates were chiefly women, the widows and daughters of
professional men. A few childless married couples lived there, and a
sprinkling of unmarried men who were either old or extremely young. Some
of the people were well-connected, others well-off, all were dull, a few
pious. Several secretly considered themselves superior to the others.
They focussed the attributes of the British Philistine, and were an
object-lesson as to the low intellectual level of average respectable
humanity.
Lacking occupation and mutual outside interests, the boarders were led
to discuss each other freely. The men mostly herded together in the
smoking-room. The ladies gathered in the drawing-room. A sort of armed
neutrality was maintained between the sexes. He or she who ventured to
invade the headquarters of the other was looked on as daring or brazen
as the case might be. At meals alone did some thirty-five people
assemble. Even then, they were not expected to change their place at
table, so had to trust to chance for agreeable neighbours.
The few girls who lived in the house had not a gay time. Poor things!
They had no lovers, no interests, no society, no prospects, and incomes
that required management. Once they ceased to be new arrivals, the men,
all of whom were ineligible, took no notice of them. They were treated
with a nonchalance more galling than unkindness, and were subtly given
to understand that they could not expect the same consideration as young
women outside who lived in their own homes and had parents who
entertained. The elderly people, and especially Miss Semaphore, looked
rigidly after the proprieties.
Occasionally a dashing widow or an attractive and forward damsel
temporarily upset the dulness. Dances were organised, round games
started, heads turned. These brilliant meteors never lingered long on
the horizon. Their stay usually terminated in some episode that led to a
notice to quit. The succeeding flatness was the more marked.
There is no dulness in the quietest home like the dulness that falls at
intervals on a boarding-house. It may be that at home one does not
expect much, while living with a number of strangers one feels restless,
as if something really ought to happen.
There are blanks and periods of depression, extending sometimes to
months at a time, when life seems a waste. During these, efforts to get
up any amusement are useless. No one will help, and so much cold water
is thrown on every suggestion, that in despair the promoter abandons the
project.
Such an interval was now being put through at No. 37. Conversation, as
we have indicated, languished, being replaced by an occasional
interchange of platitudes, failing any private or public sensation. An
audacious flirtation on the part of one of the younger women, or a
thrilling murder trial, would have interested everybody, especially the
flirtation, on the progress of which the boarders would have taken turns
to watch and comment on.
Relieved of all household duties, the “ladies,” as Mrs. Wilcox never
failed to call them, passed the monotonous days in shopping,
novel-reading, and repose. They made up temporary friendships between
themselves and fell out with regularity. As usual, they were split into
two factions, those who abused the proprietress and those who did not.
The drawing-room in which they nightly assembled was a spacious
apartment. A Brussels carpet of pronounced pattern, red Utrecht velvet
chairs—solid, as befitted furniture destined to much wear and tear—and
gilt-framed mirrors, gave the apartment an early Victorian aspect. The
light and airy found no place in this salon, for in boarding-houses
everything breakable is broken, and nobody owns to the mischief.
Workbaskets, newspapers, and novels were brought out this evening as
usual, and nearly all the party became absorbed in one or other of these
excitements. They had exhausted each other, though one or two kept up a
dribble of civil enquiries for the sake of saying something.
“What pretty work. How do you do it?”
“Oh! it is a new stitch I have just learned.”
“Were you out this afternoon?”
“No; I lay down and took a nap. Were you?”
“Yes, I went down to High Street for some wool.”
The evening to which we refer, though as dull, was not destined to be as
peaceful as its fellows. The cause of the disturbance was Miss
Semaphore’s dog. Miss Semaphore’s dog was a mongrel, a snappish little
brute called Toutou. Its brown hair was flecked with grey, for it was
old, fat, and scant of breath. Toutou had been the cause of more
unpleasantness at 37, Beaconsfield Gardens, than any other inmate. If,
in the quarrels of men, _cherchez la femme_ holds good, in the quarrels
of idle women who live in boarding-houses one may not unfrequently look
for the dog. To-night, unfortunately for herself, Miss Belcher, one of
the younger women, trod on its tail. Frankly, it was difficult to avoid
treading on Toutou’s tail, for he had a trick of getting into the way
that was simply exasperating. Miss Belcher, a nice, harmless girl,
jumped as if she had been shot.
“Oh, I am so sorry!” she cried; “doggie, poor doggie, are you hurt?” and
kneeling down, she tried tenderly to soothe him. Toutou was not hurt,
but he howled desperately. Judging by his actions he rather enjoyed
getting people into trouble. In an instant Miss Semaphore swooped down,
red and angry, seized her favourite, and casting a withering glance at
the crestfallen Miss Belcher, carried him off to her own particular
corner.
Everyone at 37, Beaconsfield Gardens, had a special chair or a favourite
corner, and great was the indignation if anyone else took it.
“It was quite an accident,” stammered Miss Belcher. “I never saw
Toutou.”
“Some people,” replied Miss Semaphore, “have no eyes. They think it
rather amusing to torture dumb animals, don’t they, my precious?” As she
spoke, she bestowed a kiss like a peck on the top of Toutou’s ugly nose.
The boarders all ceased work and listened attentively.
“But indeed, Miss Semaphore,” cried poor Miss Belcher, almost crying,
“it was not my fault.”
“I suppose, of course, it was Toutou’s,” said Miss Semaphore with
sarcasm.
Miss Belcher was getting the worst of it, when her mother, a large, deaf
woman of majestic presence, interposed. She domineered over her daughter
and everyone else, and had been silent so far because she had been
having the state of the case explained in her ear by Mrs. Whitley.
“Don’t mind, Emma,” she said suddenly, “That ridiculous dog is in
everyone’s way, It should be got rid of.” Turning to the embarrassed
Mrs. Whitley, she made what appeared to be indignant comments on Miss
Semaphore, the obnoxious word “old maid” being distinctly audible.
At this awful crisis the boarders stared panic-stricken at Miss
Semaphore.
Miss Semaphore, under other circumstances, would have justified their
apprehensions. Even she, however, saw it was no use quarrelling with a
deaf woman endowed with a terrible tongue. Accordingly, she simply
muttered, “Disgraceful!—ill-bred!” and something about “the result of
association with such persons,” and relapsed into an oppressive silence.
The innocent little dribble of talk dried up before the sirocco of her
suppressed wrath. A silence that might be felt reigned in the
drawing-room. Though glances were interchanged, no one ventured to speak
except Mrs. Belcher. She, greatly daring, and with the evident intention
of flouting both Miss Semaphore and Toutou, addressed her daughter on
all manner of subjects, compelling that unhappy young person to reply at
the top of her voice. Miss Prudence, who always shrank from her sister’s
outbursts, buried herself timidly in the pages of the _Lady’s Pictorial_
and tried to look as if she had heard nothing.
When this painful state of things had lasted for some time, Mrs.
Dumaresq, by way of creating a diversion, said in her most fascinating
manner,
“That dreadful Mr. Morley has been making another speech. I’m sure it is
a wonder how anyone can be found to listen to him. Radicals and
Socialists and those sort of people really ought to be locked up.”
“Perhaps, on their side, they think Tories should be locked up,” said
Miss Stott, a thick-set young person with views.
“No doubt they do,” answered Mrs. Dumaresq with energy. “No doubt, if
they could, they would have all the aristocracy beheaded. As my dear
friend, the Baroness de la Veille Roche, once said to me, ‘My darling
Mimi, the _canaille_ would wade in our blood if they dared.’”
“I doubt it,” said Miss Stott stolidly; “people are not as bloodthirsty
as that, even if they are Radicals or Socialists. After all, human
beings are very much alike in the grain whatever their rank, and none of
us would care particularly to wade in blood.”
“Alike!” echoed Mrs. Dumaresq. “My dear Miss Stott, you are mistaken.
Between the upper and the lower classes there is the greatest possible
difference. They have not our sensitiveness, our refinement, our
delicacy.” Mrs. Dumaresq said “our” to show she knew her manners, and to
accentuate her diplomatic training.
“Do you think not?” queried Miss Stott. “Of course they have not
external refinement, nor the advantages of education. But do you really
think they are less sensitive, less delicate in their own way? Why,
every day there are cases in the paper that seem to show Belgravia and
Whitechapel are very much alike when their blood is up. The chief
difference to me appears to be that the one does things and does not
talk of them, while the other talks of them but does not do them.”
“My dear Miss Stott!” remonstrated Mrs. Dumaresq.
“Yes,” said Miss Stott, “why only to-day I read the account of an action
taken by a servant against her mistress, a wealthy woman, who broke her
fan on her maid’s shoulder.”
“How shocking!” said Mrs. Dumaresq. “But you must not judge the
aristocracy by such persons. The woman, though she may have been rich,
could not possibly have been a lady.”
“So I think,” replied Miss Stott; “no doubt, however, she considered
herself one, for she was an Earl’s daughter.”
“Oh—h!” said Mrs. Dumaresq, with great surprise. “Then the maid must
have been very provoking.”
A rattle of teacups announced the arrival of coffee.
Miss Prudence Semaphore, who was seated in the centre of the room near
the lamp, looked round to see if any of the men had come up, and dropped
her _Pictorial_. As she recovered it, an advertisement caught her eye.
“TO LADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF MEANS.
“The widow of an eminent explorer, being in straitened circumstances,
is compelled to offer for sale a single bottle of water from the
Fountain of Youth, vainly sought in Florida by Ponce de Leon. Its
marvellous rejuvenating properties cannot be exaggerated. By its means
a person of seventy may regain, after six small doses, the age of
eighteen. This is genuine. No cosmetic. No imposture. No connection
with any preparation making similar claims. The greatest marvel of
this or any other century. Money willingly returned if above statement
is proved untrue. Please address offers, which must be liberal, as
this opportunity is unique, to X. Y. Z., Office of this Paper.”
Greatly struck by the announcement, which she read twice, Miss Prudence
passed the paper to her sister, saying, “Look at that!” She then pulled
out some knitting, and became absorbed in the mysteries of “slip one,
knit one, bring the thread forward, knit two together.”
Miss Semaphore adjusted her long-handled eye-glasses, sole concession to
failing sight. Spectacles were abhorrent to her, and even a _pince nez_
she considered too plain an acknowledgment of weakness. She was even
more impressed by the advertisement than Miss Prudence had been, and
considered it at intervals throughout the evening.
Coffee had been handed round. The men who sauntered upstairs for a cup
massed themselves together for company at one end of the room. If
separate from their kind, they seemed forlorn and uneasy, and watched an
opportunity to escape. One or two of the oldest, including Major Jones,
and a Mr. Batley, who was young, but a new-comer and unacquainted with
the ways of the house, advanced into what seemed to be looked on as the
women’s end.
Miss Prudence Semaphore moved her skirts slightly, so as to give a
chance to anyone wishing to sit beside her. No one came. Pretty Miss
Fastleigh and her sister, with an unconsciousness born of experience,
had thoughtfully taken places as near the men as possible. Soon they
were deep in conversation with the more courageous of the advanced
guard.
Coffee over, the greater number of the men made a stampede. Some were
studying for examinations and could not spare time. More sat in each
other’s rooms drinking whisky and soda, others again turned out for a
game of billiards.
A whist party was formed by Miss Semaphore, her sister, Major Jones and
Mr. Dumaresq. Mrs. Whitley, Mrs. Dumaresq, the medical woman, Miss
Belcher, Miss Fastleigh, Mr. Batley, and his sister, took part in a
round game. Miss Primsby, a timid girl, very proper, and easily shocked,
whose formidable mother went to bed early, after a time slipped gently
downstairs to the smoking-room. There she taught chess to Monsieur
Lemprière, a young Frenchman who had come over to learn the language.
The better to explain the moves, she held his hand in hers.
“In England the Garden of Beauty is kept
By a dragon of prudery placed within call,
But so oft this unamiable dragon hath slept,
That the garden’s but carelessly watched after all.”
The second Miss Fastleigh, who had a good voice, went to the piano
unasked and sang one or two songs. Finding no one took any particular
notice, she amused herself by running up the scale and sustaining the
high A, much to the exasperation of her hearers. The only woman who can
endure scales is the woman who is singing them. Mrs. Belcher perused the
paper. She did not take it herself, but borrowed it from Major Jones in
the evenings. From time to time she gave scraps of news to Mrs. Wilcox,
who had read it all before breakfast. Captain Wilcox sat downstairs in
his wife’s office, balancing the books.
About half-past ten Miss Semaphore rose. Having carried all before her
at the whist table, she was in high spirits, and bade good-night with
much affability to everyone except the Belchers. She carried with her
the copy of the _Lady’s Pictorial_. When her sister, having as usual sat
with her for twenty minutes, discussing the events of the day, had
retired to her own room, which adjoined, she sat down and wrote the
following letter:
“37, Beaconsfield Gardens,
“South Kensington.
“June —th, 189–.
“Madam,
“Having seen your advertisement in the current issue of the _Lady’s
Pictorial_, I am induced to reply I should like to become the
possessor of the ‘Water’ you offer for sale. While willing to offer
liberal terms, I do not of course know what you would consider such. I
should be glad, therefore, if you could arrange for an interview, when
we might discuss the matter. I take it for granted that the water is
as efficacious as you represent it to be, and shall expect proof
before purchase.
“I am, Madam,
“Yours faithfully,
“A. J. SEMAPHORE.”
This was enclosed in an envelope addressed to “X. Y. Z., Office of the
_Lady’s Pictorial_.” Next morning Miss Semaphore carried it herself to
the post.