Probably no London street ever rejoiced in a more expressive name than
Dull Street. It was not a specially dirty street, or a specially
disreputable street, or a specially dark street. The neighbourhood
might a hundred years ago have been considered "genteel," and the houses
even fashionable, and some audacious antiquarians went so far as to
assert that the street took its name not from its general appearance at
all, but from a worthy London alderman, who in the reign of George the
First had owned most of the neighbouring property.
Be that as it may, Dull Street was--and for all I know may still be--one
of the dullest streets in London. A universal seediness pervaded its
houses from roof to cellar; nothing was as it should be anywhere. The
window sashes had to be made air-tight by wedges of wood or paper stuck
into the frames; a bell in Dull Street rarely sounded after less than
six pulls; there was scarcely a sitting-room but had a crack in its
grimy ceiling, or a handle off its ill-hung door, or a strip of wall-
paper peeling off its walls. There were more chairs in the furnished
apartments of Dull Street with three legs than there were with four, and
there was scarcely horsehair enough in the twenty-four sofas of its
twenty-four parlours to suffice for an equal quantity of bolsters.
In short, Dull Street was the shabbiest genteel street in the
metropolis, and nothing could make it otherwise.
A well-built, tastefully-furnished house in the middle of it would have
been as incongruous as a new patch in an old garment, and no one dreamt
of disturbing the traditional aspect of the place by any attempt to
repair or beautify it.
Indeed, the people who lived in Dull Street were as much a part of its
dulness as the houses they inhabited. They were for the most part
retired tradesmen, or decayed milliners, or broken-down Government
clerks, most of whom tried to eke out their little pensions by letting
part of their lodgings to others as decayed and broken-down as
themselves.
These interesting colonists, whose one bond of sympathy was a mutual
seediness, amused themselves, for the most part, by doing nothing all
day long, except perhaps staring out of the window, in the remote hope
of catching sight of a distant cab passing the street corner, or
watching to see how much milk their opposite neighbour took in, or
reading the news of the week before last in a borrowed newspaper, or
talking scandal of one neighbour to another.
"Jemima, my dear," said a middle-aged lady, who, with her son and
daughter, was the proud occupant of Number 4, Dull Street--"Jemima, my
dear, I see to-day the bill is hout of the winder of number six."
"Never!" replied Jemima, a sharp-looking young woman of twenty, who had
once in her life spent a month at a ladies' boarding-school, and was
therefore decidedly genteel. "I wonder who's coming."
"A party of three, so I hear from Miss Moulden's maid, which is niece to
Mrs Grimley: a widow,"--here the speaker snuffled slightly--"and two
childer--like me."
"Go on!" said Jemima. "Any more about them, ma?"
"Well, my dear, I do hear as they 'ave come down a bit."
"Oh, ah! lag!" put in the speaker's son, a lawyer's clerk in the receipt
of two pounds a week, to whom this intelligence appeared particularly
amusing; "we know all about that--never heard that sort of tale before,
have we, ma? Oh no!" and the speaker emphasised the question by giving
his widowed mother a smart dig in the ribs.
"For shame, Sam! don't be vulgar!" cried the worthy lady; "how many
times have I told you?"
"All right, ma," replied the legal young gentleman; "but it is rather a
wonner, you know. What were they before they came down?"
"Gentlefolk, so I'm told," replied the lady, drawing herself up at the
very mention of the name; "and I hintend, and I 'ope my children will do
the same, to treat them as fellow-creatures with hevery consideration."
"And how old is the babies, ma?" inquired Miss Jemima, whose gentility
sometimes had the advantage of her grammar.
"The babies!" said the mother; "why, they're young gentlemen, both of
'em--old enough to be your sweethearts!"
Sam laughed profusely.
"Then what did you say they was babies for?" demanded Jemima, pettishly.
"I never!"
"You did, ma, I heard you! Didn't she, Sam?"
"So you did, ma. Come now, no crackers!" said Sam.
"I never; I said `childer,'" pleaded the mother.
"And ain't babies childer?" thundered Miss Jemima.
"'Ad 'er there, Jim!" chuckled the dutiful Samuel, this time favouring
his sister with a sympathetic nudge. "Better give in, and own you told
a cracker, ma!"
"Shan't!" said the lady, beginning to whimper. "Oh, I wish my poor
'Oward was here to protect me! He was a gentleman, and I'm glad he
didn't live to see what a pair of vulgar brats he'd left behind him,
that I am!"
"There you go!" said Sam; "taking on at nothing, as per usual! No one
was saying anything to hurt you, old girl. Simmer down, and you'll be
all the better for it. There now, dry your eyes; it's all that Jim,
she's got such a tongue! Next time I catch you using language to ma,
Jim, I'll turn you out of the house! Come, cheer up, ma."
"Yes, cheer up, ma," chimed in Jemima; "no one supposes you meant to
tell fibs; you couldn't help it."
Amid consolations such as these the poor flurried lady subsided, and
regained her former tranquillity of spirit.
The Shucklefords--such was the name of this amiable family--were
comparatively recent sojourners in Dull Street. They had come there six
years previously, on the death of Mr Shuckleford, a respectable
wharfinger, who had saved up money enough to leave his wife a small
annuity. Shortly before his death he had been promoted to the command
of one of the Thames steamboats plying between Chelsea and London
Bridge, in virtue of which office he had taken to himself--or rather his
wife had claimed for him--the title of "captain," and with this patent
of gentility had held up her head ever since. Her children, following
her good example, were not slow to hold up their heads too, and were
fully convinced of their own gentility. Samuel Shuckleford had, as his
mother termed it, been "entered for the law" shortly after his father's
death, and Miss Jemima Shuckleford, after the month's sojourn at a
ladies' boarding-school already referred to, had settled down to assist
her mother in the housework and maintain the dignity of the family by
living on her income.
Such were the new next-door neighbours of the Crudens when at last they
arrived, sadly, and with the new world before them, at Number 6, Dull
Street.
Mr Richmond, who, with all his unfortunate manner, had acted a friend's
part all along, had undertaken the task of clearing up affairs at Garden
Vale, superintending the payment of Mr Cruden's debts, the sale of his
furniture, and the removal to Dull Street of what little remained to the
family to remind them of their former comforts.
It might have been better if in this last respect the boys and their
mother had acted for themselves, for Mr Richmond appeared to have hazy
notions as to what the family would most value. The first sight which
met the boys' eyes as they arrived was their tennis-racquets in a corner
of the room. A very small case of trinkets was on Mrs Cruden's
dressing-table, and not one of the twenty or thirty books arranged on
the top of the sideboard was one which any member of the small household
cared anything about.
But Mr Richmond had done his best, and being left entirely to his own
devices, was not to be blamed for the few mistakes he had made. He was
there to receive Mrs Cruden when she arrived, and after conducting the
little party hurriedly through the three rooms destined for their
accommodation, considerately retired.
Until the moment when they were left to themselves in the shabby little
Dull Street parlour, not one of the Crudens had understood the change
which had come over their lot. All had been so sudden, so exciting, so
unlooked-for during the last few weeks, that all three of them had
seemed to go through it as through a dream. But the awakening came now,
and a rude and cruel one it was.
The little room, dignified by the name of a parlour, was a dingy, stuffy
apartment of the true Dull Street type. The paper was faded and torn,
the ceiling was discoloured, the furniture was decrepit, the carpet was
threadbare, and the cheap engraving on the wall, with its title, "As
Happy as a King," seemed to brood over the scene like some mocking
spirit.
They passed into Mrs Cruden's bedroom, and the thought of the
delightful snug little boudoir at Garden Vale sent a shiver through them
as they glanced at the bare walls, the dilapidated half-tester, the
chipped and oddly assorted crockery.
The boys' room was equally cheerless. One narrow bed, a chair, and a
small washstand, was all the furniture it boasted of, and a few old
cuttings of an antiquated illustrated paper pinned on to the wall
afforded its sole decoration.
A low, dreary whistle escaped from Horace's lips as he surveyed his new
quarters, followed almost immediately by an equally dreary laugh.
"Why," gasped he, "there's no looking-glass! However is Reg to shave?"
It was an heroic effort, and it succeeded. Mrs Cruden's face lit up at
the sound of her son's voice with its old sunshine, and even Reginald
smiled grimly.
"I must let my beard grow," said he. "But, mother, I say," and his
voice quavered as he spoke, "what a miserable room yours is! I can't
bear to think of your being cooped up there."
"Oh, it's not so bad," said Mrs Cruden, cheerily. "The pink in the
chintz doesn't go well with the scarlet in the wall-paper, certainly,
but I dare say I shall sleep soundly in the bed all the same."
"But such a wretched look-out from the window, mother, and such a _vile_
jug and basin!"
Mrs Cruden laughed.
"Never mind about the jug and basin," said she, "as long as they hold
water; and as for the look-out--well, as long as I can see my two boys'
faces happy, that's the best view I covet."
"You never think about yourself," said Reginald, sadly.
"I say, mother," said Horace, "suppose we call up the spirits from the
vasty deep and ask them to get tea ready."
This practical suggestion met with general approbation, and the little
party returned more cheerily to the parlour, where Horace performed
marvellous exploits with the bell-handle, and succeeded, in the
incredible time of seven minutes, in bringing up a small slipshod girl,
who, after a good deal of staring about her, and a critical survey of
the pattern of Mrs Cruden's dress, contrived to gather a general idea
of what was required of her.
It was a queer meal, half ludicrous, half despairing, that first little
tea-party in Dull Street. They tried to be gay. Reginald declared that
the tea his mother poured out was far better than any the footman at
Garden Vale used to dispense. Horace tried to make fun of the
heterogeneous cups and saucers. Mrs Cruden tried hard to appear as
though she was taking a hearty meal, while she tasted nothing. But it
was a relief when the girl reappeared and cleared the table.
Then they unpacked their few belongings, and tried to enliven their
dreary lodgings with a few precious mementoes of happier days. Finally,
worn out in mind and body, they took shelter in bed, and for a blessed
season forgot all their misery and forebodings in sleep.
There is no magic equal to that which a night's sleep will sometimes
work. The little party assembled cheerfully at the breakfast-table next
morning, prepared to face the day bravely.
A large letter, in Mr Richmond's handwriting, lay on Mrs Cruden's
plate. It contained three letters--one from the lawyer himself, and one
for each of the boys from Wilderham. Mr Richmond's letter was brief
and business-like.
"Dear Madam,--Enclosed please find two letters, which I found lying at
Garden Vale yesterday. With regard to balance of your late husband's
assets in your favour, I have an opportunity of investing same at an
unusually good rate of interest in sound security. Shall be pleased to
wait on you with particulars. Am also in a position to introduce the
young gentlemen to a business opening, which, if not at first important,
may seem to you a favourable opportunity. On these points I shall have
the honour of waiting on you during to-morrow afternoon, and meanwhile
beg to remain,--
"Your obedient servant,--
"R. Richmond."
"We ought to make sure what the investment is," said Reginald, after
hearing the letter read, "before we hand over all our money to him."
"To be sure, dear," said Mrs Cruden, who hated the sound of the word
investment.
"I wonder what he proposes for us?" said Horace. "Some clerkship, I
suppose."
"Perhaps in his own office," said Reginald. "_What_ an opening that
would be!"
"Never you mind. The law's very respectable; but I know I'd be no good
for that. I might manage to serve tea and raisins behind a grocer's
counter, or run errands, or--"
"Or black boots," suggested Reginald.
"Black boots! I bet you neither you nor I could black a pair of boots
properly to save our lives."
"It seems to me we shall have to try it this very morning," said
Reginald, "for no one has touched mine since last night."
"But who are your letters from?" said Mrs Cruden. "Are they very
private?"
"Not mine," said Horace. "It's from old Harker. You may read it if you
like, mother."