A New Lodger in Paradise Row.
The sun was drawing towards the west, and the summer's afternoon was
waning, for the days were not so long as they had been a month or two
ago, when a gentleman, slight and rather short, with light eyes, fair
curly hair, and about thirty years of age, alighted from the London
train at Foxwood station. He had a black bag in his hand and a
portmanteau in the van, and enquired of the porter the way to Foxwood.
"Do you mean Foxwood proper, sir; or Foxwood, Sir Karl Andinnian's
place?" returned the porter.
"Foxwood proper, I suppose. It is a village, is it not?"
"Yes, sir. Go down the road to the left, sir, then take the first
turning on your right, and it will bring you into Foxwood."
"Thank you," said the gentleman, and slipped a small silver coin into
the porter's hand. He knew, nobody better, the value of a silver key:
and the chances were that he might shortly get gossiping with this
station porter about the neighbourhood and its politics.
Bag in hand, and leaving his portmanteau at the station, he speedily
found himself in the heart of Foxwood. Casting about his eyes on this
side and that, they settled on Paradise Row, on which the sun was
shining, and on a white embossed card hanging in the first-floor
window of the middle house, which card had on it, in large letters,
"Apartments furnished."
At the open entrance-door of the same house stood a widow woman in a
clean cap and smart black silk apron. Mrs. Jinks was en grande
toilette that afternoon.
"It looks likely," said the stranger to himself. "Madame there will
talk her tongue sore, I see, once prompted." And going up to the door,
he politely took off his hat as he might to a duchess.
"You have apartments to let, I think, madam?"
"Good gracious!" cried the Widow Jinks, taken by surprise--for she was
only looking out for the muffin-boy, and the slanting rays of the sun
were dazzling her eyes, so that she had not observed the traveller. "I
beg pardon, sir; apartments, did you say? Yes, sir, I've got my
drawing-room just emptied."
It happened that an elderly lady from Basham and her grand-daughters
had been lodging there for a month, the young ladies being ardent
disciples of Mr. Cattacomb; but they had now left, and the
drawing-room was ready to be let again. Mrs. Jinks went on to explain
this, rather volubly.
"I will go up and look at it, if you please," said the stranger.
The widow ushered him along the passage towards the stairs, treading
softly as she passed the parlour door.
"I've got a Reverend Gent lodging in there," she said, "minister of
the new church, St. Jerome's. He has a meeting every Thursday evening,
for Scripture reading, or something of that--exercises, I think they
call it. This is Thursday, and they be all expected. But he wants his
tea first, and that there dratted muffin-boy's not round yet. The
Reverend Gent have dropped asleep on three chairs in his shirt
sleeves, while he waits for it.----This is the drawing-room, sir."
The stranger liked the drawing-room very much; the sun made it
cheerful, he said; and he liked the bedroom behind it. Mrs. Jinks
rather hesitated at letting the two rooms alone. She generally let the
bedrooms at the top of the house with them.
"How long shall you be likely to stay, sir?" questioned she.
"I do not know. It may be a week, it may be a month, it may be more. I
am seeking country air and rest to re-establish my health, ma'am, and
want a quiet place to read in. I shall not give you much trouble."
Mrs. Jinks agreed to let him have the rooms at last, demanding a few
shillings over the usual terms for the two: a bird in the hand, she
thought, was worth two in the bush. Next she asked for references.
"I cannot refer you to any one here," he said, "for I don't know a
soul in the place, and not a soul in it knows me. I will pay you every
week in advance; and that I presume will do as well as references."
He laid down the sum agreed upon and a sovereign beside it. "You will
be so good as to get in for me a few things to eat and drink, Mrs.
Jinks. I should like to have some tea first of all, if convenient, and
one of those muffins you spoke of. Well buttered, if you please."
"Yes, sir; certainly, sir. We get muffins at Foxwood all the year
round, sir, on account of there being company in the place at summer
time: in other towns, Basham, for instance, they are only made in
winter. Buttered muffins and cress, sir, is uncommonly good together."
"Are they? I'll have some cress too."
Telling her, as well as he could remember, what articles he should
want besides butter and muffins, and bidding her to add anything else
that she thought he might require, he picked up his black bag to take
it into the bedroom. Mrs. Jinks in her politeness begged him to let
her take it, but he said certainly not.
"Is it all the luggage you've got, sir, this?"
"My portmanteau is at the station. I could not order it on until I
knew where I should be or, in fact, whether I should stay at Foxwood
at all. Had I not found lodgings to my mind, ma'am, I might have gone
on somewhere else."
"Foxwood's the loveliest, healthiest spot you can find, sir," cried
the widow, eagerly. "Sweet walks about it, there is."
"So I was told by my medical man. One wants nice rural walks, Mrs.
Jinks, after reading hard."
"So one does, sir. You are reading up for college, I suppose? I had a
young gent here once from Oxford. He got plucked, too, afterwards.
There's the muffin-boy!" added Mrs. Jinks, in delight, as the fierce
ring of a bell and the muffin-call was heard beneath. "Oh, I beg
pardon, sir, what name?"
The gentleman, who had his head and hands just then in his bag, merely
responded that he was a stranger. Mrs. Jinks, in the hurry to be gone,
and confused with the ringing and the calling below, caught up the
answer as "Strange."
"A Mr. Strange," she said to herself, going down with the money in her
hand. "And one of the nicest gents I've ever come across. 'Put plenty
o' butter,' says he. _He_ ain't one as'll look sharp after every crumb
and odd and end, as too many of 'em does, and say where's the rest of
this, that it don't come up, and where's the remainder of that."
Mrs. Jinks had a young help-mate when she was what she considered in
"full let;" a young damsel of fourteen, who wore her hair in a pink
net. Sending the girl flying to the general shop for various things,
she set on to toast the muffins; and tea was speedily served in both
rooms. She took in the clergyman's first. Mr. Cattacomb was asleep on
the three chairs, in his shirt sleeves. He was beginning to find his
work somewhat hard. What with the duties in the church, the services,
and sermons, and confessions, and the duties out of church connected
with little boys and girls, and with those anxious Christians who
never left him alone, the young ladies, Mr. Cattacomb was often
considerably fatigued; and it was under consideration whether his
former coadjutor, the Reverend Damon Puff, should not be summoned to
assist him.
"Here's your tea, sir," said Mrs. Jinks, "and a beautiful hot muffin.
I couldn't get it up afore, for the muffin-boy was late."
"My tea, is it, Mrs. Jinks?" replied Mr. Cattacomb, slowly rising.
"Thank you, I am dead tired."
And, perhaps in consequence of the fatigue, or that Mrs. Jinks was not
worth any display, it might have been observed that the affectation,
so characteristic of the reverend gentleman when in society, had
entirely disappeared now. Indeed, it seemed at this undress moment
that Mr. Cattacomb was a simple-mannered, pleasant man.
"I've been in luck this afternoon, sir, and have let my drawing-room
floor," continued the widow, as she settled the tea-tray before him.
"It's a Mr. Strange, sir, that's took it; a gent reading for Oxford,
and out of health. His doctor have ordered him into the country for
change, and told him he'd find quiet air and nice walks at Foxwood.
You may hear his boots walking about overhead, sir. He seems to be as
nice and liberal a gent as ever I had to do with."
"Glad to hear it," said Mr. Cattacomb, beginning upon his muffin
vigorously. "We shall want more chairs here presently, you know, Mrs.
Jinks."
The tea-tray had scarcely disappeared, and Mr. Cattacomb put on his
coat and his fascinating company manners, before the company began to
arrive. On these Thursday evenings Mr. Cattacomb gave at his own home
a private lecture, descriptive of some of the places mentioned in holy
Scripture. The lectures were attended by all his flock at St. Jerome's
and by several young ladies from Basham. Of course it necessitated a
great many seats; and the new lodger above was yet at his tea, when
Mrs. Jinks appeared, her face redder than usual with running about,
and begged the loan of "Mr. Strange's" chairs, explaining what they
were wanted for.
"Oh, certainly: take them all, Mrs. Jinks," replied he, in the most
accommodating manner possible. "I can sit upon the table."
Mrs. Jinks considerately left him one, however, and went down with the
rest. He found out she had taken up the notion that his name was
"Strange," and laughed a little.
"Some misunderstanding, I suppose, on her part when I said I was a
stranger," thought he. "All right; I'll not contradict it."
While the bumping and thumping went on, caused by the progress of
chairs down from the chambers and up from the kitchen, and the knocker
and the bell kept up a perpetual duet, Mr. Strange (we will call him
so at present ourselves) put on his hat to go round and order his
portmanteau to be sent from the station. As he passed the parlour door
it stood open; no one was looking his way; he had a good view of the
interior, and took in the scene and the details with his observant
eyes. A comfortable room, containing a dozen or two charming and
chattering ladies, surrounded by a perfect epitome of tasty and
luxurious objects that had been worked by fair fingers. Cushions,
anti-macassars, slippers, scrolls, drawings enshrined in leather
frames, ornamental mats by the dozen, cosies for tea-pots, lamp tops
and stands, flowers in wax under shades, sweet flowers from hothouses
in water, and other things too numerous to mention.
"A man beset, that clergyman," thought Mr. Strange, with a silent
laugh, as he bent his steps towards the railway. "He should get
married and stop it. Perhaps he likes it, though: some of them do who
have more vanity than brains."
So he ordered his portmanteau to No. 5, Paradise Row, contriving to
leave the same impression at the station that he had given Mrs.
Jinks--a reading man in search of quiet and health.
Mrs. Jinks presided at the arrival of the portmanteau, and saw some
books taken out of it in the drawing-room. While her lodger's back was
turned, she took the liberty of peeping into one or two of them; and
finding their language was what she could not read, supposed it to be
Greek or Latin. Before the night was over, all Paradise Row, upwards
and downwards, had been regaled with the news of her new lodger, and
the particulars concerning his affairs.
"A scholar-gent, by name of Strange, who had come down to read and get
up his health, and had brought his Greek and Latin books with him."