LIFE AT THE HOLLOW.
Although, in the course of his conversation with Arthur Dudley, Mr.
Black had intimated his intention of running up to town on the Monday
following, and probably remaining there, he did not carry that desirable
project into practice, but rather announced his intention of favouring
Hertfordshire with his presence for some time longer.
“That is to say, if Mrs. Dudley be not quite weary of us,” he added;
which, of course, left Heather no resource but to entreat a prolongation
of Mr. and Mrs. Black’s stay, which she did so kindly, that Mr. Black
thanked her for her invitation.
“Just as if you had given her a chance of not inviting you,” remarked
Miss Hope, with a sneer.
“True; I forgot I was not speaking to Miss Hope, whose frankness is
notorious,” retorted Mr. Black; having given the lady which tit, for her
tat, he strolled out, in excellent temper, on to the lawn.
Spite of his dislike to the country—a dislike that was, perhaps, as
genuine as anything about him (his vanity and selfishness excepted), he
liked Berrie Down Hollow. It was an establishment which, notwithstanding
some blemishes, in most respects met his views.
On an income of a few hundreds a year, which had to be dragged out of
the land, it is scarcely needful to say, Mr. Dudley, of Berrie Down,
could not “do things” in the same style as Mr. Black, of Stanley
Crescent, who reckoned his returns loosely by thousands.
From cellar to garret, the house in Stanley Crescent proclaimed the
existence either of unlimited means, or unlimited credit.
From the hall to the farthest bedchamber, Berrie Down Hollow told its
tale of shortness of money and of utter honesty.
No bills were run in that pleasant Hertfordshire home; no duns ever came
clamouring for payment through the gates flanked by pyracantha.
Let post-time bring what ill news it might, such ill news never arrived
in the shape of an intimation that any tradesman was weary of waiting
for a settlement of his “little account;” that, if a remittance for the
amount of his bill (inclosed) were not immediately forwarded, the writer
would place the matter forthwith in the hands of his solicitor.
Honest and honourable, as Lord Kemms had said, were these poor
incompetent Dudleys. Senselessly honest, Mr. Black decided.
To live beyond their means—to owe money, the payment of which was in the
least uncertain or problematical, would have seemed to them the depth of
humiliation.
A horror of debt, a dread of incurring expenses which their income did
not fully warrant, a proud spirit of independence, a resolute
determination to spend no more than they could well afford to pay—these
were the traits in his country relations which filled Mr. Black with a
vague amazement, with an almost contemptuous pity.
That any man—and, more especially, any woman—should hesitate about
refurnishing a house, when upholsterers existed ready to send in goods
on credit, was a want of courage which, though perhaps not unnatural,
was simply unintelligible to Mr. Black. That a family should refrain
from luxuries, remain quietly at home, dress plainly, and strive, by a
prudent economy, to make both ends meet, seemed to him the very acme of
folly.
To “cut a dash” on nothing—to take a house with no certain prospect of
ever paying rent for it—to furnish that house throughout on credit—to
run bills for every article under heaven for which bills could by
possibility be run—to trust to luck for meeting the Christmas
accounts—to look on every tradesman as a mere speculator, who took his
risk of ever receiving sixpence, to whom customers were as uncertain
forms of profit as Lim. Lia. Co.s to Mr. Black, or else as “knowing
cards,” who made the substantial householders carry them safe through
the midnight flittings of a dozen less honest neighbours—these were a
few of the articles to be found in the only confession of faith to which
Mr. Black heartily subscribed.
From his youth upward, no delicate scruples concerning wronging his
fellows had troubled the conscience of Mr. Black; and it seemed quite as
strange to him to witness the remarkable honesty which obtained at
Berrie Down, as it would to a pickpocket to behold a purse found in the
street restored forthwith to its rightful owner.
No doubt the theory of honesty was an excellent, a beautiful science;
but to carry that theory into every-day practice, appeared to Mr. Black
absurd. According to his gospel, it was foolish to do without anything
which could be procured for the ordering.
“Any fool,” he opined, “could buy with money; but it required some
cleverness to buy without money. If I had been one of that sort, afraid
of this, and that, and ’tother, I should have stayed on servant to
somebody all my life. Success is just like a woman—faint heart won’t win
her; and see what I have done—just look at me.”
This was the fashion in which he addressed Alick Dudley, or any other
individual on whom he hoped the sight of his exalted position might
produce a beneficial effect. From the way in which he talked of his
successes, it was only fair to presume his achievements had astonished
no one more than himself. Perpetually he seemed trying to lay his hand
on his good fortune, in order to realise it; failing in this attempt, he
desired to see his neighbour’s hand touch the glittering heap, so as to
make sure it was no deception—no sham.
All his life he had been used to making believe. In the days when he
lodged at Hoxton, he was wont to entertain his landlady with accounts of
the great people he knew, who were going to do something for him; and
shabby, out at elbows, patchy about the feet, and much dinged as
regarded his head-gear, he still, meeting former acquaintances in the
street, would ignore Hoxton, and ask them, the first time they were out
Clapham way, to give him a call.
He had been a liar from the beginning, and even in prosperity lying
forsook him not; but like as the wicked, of whom King David makes
mention, were clothed with cursing, so falsehood was to Mr. Black as the
garment which covered him, and as the girdle wherewith he was girded
continually.
His life had been a shifting scene of unfair dealing; of false
pretences; of uncertain climbing; of incessant struggle either to
retain, or to regain, a desirable position; and because his memory
retained nothing but a confused recollection of excusing, inventing,
distorting, misrepresenting, scheming, cheating, planning, the
atmosphere at Berrie Down almost took away his breath by its rarity.
To the advantage, however, of being associated with a man like Arthur
Dudley—against whose honour and integrity even slander could not make an
accusation—who really had broad acres and fair lands—something tangible
in the way of property—Mr. Black was by no means blind.
Society, he knew, had a foolish confidence in such individuals; and now,
when, perhaps, for the first time in his life he was striving to make
his fortune honestly and legitimately, he could not help feeling that
the accession of such an ally gave him greater confidence even in
himself.
Walking over the soft green turf at Berrie Down, he began to imagine he
had done with tacking and veering, and hoisting false colours for ever;
at last, it was going to pay him to be straightforward. If there were
some things concerning the Protector Bread and Flour Company, Limited,
which he deemed it wiser to keep in the background, still there was no
necessity for beating about the bush. There was the Company—a good
scheme, a tangible scheme, with no humbug about it; but rather, on the
contrary, containing in itself almost every element necessary to insure
success.
Very different was this venture to any with which he had ever previously
been associated. Hitherto, he had looked for nothing beyond what he
could make by merely promoting a company. He had assisted to usher
dozens of ill-conditioned, unhealthy, rickety commercial infants into
the world, and when he had pocketed his midwife’s fee for his services
there was an end of the matter. As a rule, these infants had either
scarcely survived their birth, or else had grown up into disreputable
swindles; and Mr. Black, having sense enough to know this kind of
practice could scarcely continue to pay him for ever, most earnestly
desired to get hold of something which really had, in its own nature,
some fair chance of existence; and working it up thoroughly, make that a
stepping-stone to future successes, up which he could safely climb to
the very summit of the hill of Fortune.
He was weary, not of the dishonesty of his previous career, but of its
anxieties, its uncertainties, its never-ending, always beginning work.
Though a strong and hearty man to look at, he felt the years spent in
planning and scheming—in “raising the wind,” in getting “paper melted,”
in running about praying for bills to be renewed, in staving off
bankruptcy, in softening the hearts of obdurate creditors—had told, and
were telling, on his constitution. He knew, if no one else did, how
often he had climbed and fallen; how often he had touched Fortune, and
been spurned by her; how continually luck had travelled with him to a
certain point, and then, suddenly taken herself off in a huff, leaving
her former favourite to retrace his steps, or fight his way onward, as
best he could. How he had lain through the long nights planning; how he
had thought in the darkness of ways and means; how he had racked his
brains, marvelling whence help was to be obtained; how he had walked the
City streets in rain, in snow, in frost, in the broiling summer weather,
in the winter, when the cruel east winds were careering up Cheapside;
how he had got soaked to the skin, and how his clothes had dried again
on him; how he had turned into taverns, and drank brandy till he felt
strong enough to go out again and face the worst,—all these miseries
were fresh in Mr. Black’s mind; to all of them, he hoped, with all his
heart and soul, he had said farewell for ever!
The pace at which he had been travelling, he felt, must tell at last;
over the stones, over the stones! backward and forward, in all weathers,
with all sorts of anxieties dogging his steps; up and down hundreds of
thousands of stairs; across the thresh-holds of scores and scores of
offices;—how all this had wearied his mind and worn his body, he fully
understood only when he stood under the trees at Berrie Down, resting
idly at last.
There was no sham about Mr. Black’s affection for London; but there was
equally no question that he felt a short stay in the country might do
his health much good; might clear his head, as he expressed it, and
enable him on his return to town to resume work with greater energy than
ever.
“Talk about a change to Hastings or Brighton,” he said to Arthur Dudley,
“why, it’s nothing to this. To walk along the shore in either place, is
simply walking down Regent Street, nothing else! Upon my soul, I would
quite as soon take a day’s holiday in one as the other; and as for
quiet, could the traffic in the City make more noise any time than that
precious old sea? No; give me this solitude, this stillness, this
perfect freedom, and I am content to leave watering-places to fast young
women and idle men.”
And no doubt Mr. Black was sincere in this statement. Though the
appointments at Berrie Down were not on that scale of magnificence which
Mr. Black would have liked to see his kinsman affect, still the very
absence of this magnificence tended to make the house a comfortable one
at which to visit.
The furniture might be old-fashioned and the draperies faded; yet to Mr.
Black there was a certain novelty in sitting down on a chair which was
undoubtedly paid for, that counterbalanced, to some extent, the effect
of well-worn carpets, ancient sofas, spider-legged tables, and a square
six-octave piano.
Besides, the mere fact of seeing people able to do without luxuries,
able to resist the lust of the eye and the pride of life, produced a
salutary though vague impression on the mind of a man who had been
brought up amongst a class which believes almost exclusively in
externals, and pins its faith to goods and chattels, to fine feathers,
to unlimited gilding, to many servants, and big houses filled with much
French polish and varnish in profusion, with silk curtains and soft
carpets, and pictures in heavy, costly frames.
If Arthur Dudley could afford to live in such poor style without losing
caste, then what might Arthur Dudley not achieve if he were able to live
in better style? A desirable connection certainly Mr. Black held that
man to be, who, without any adventitious aid whatsoever, could remain a
gentleman amid surroundings that “would settle me,” mentally finished
the promoter.
That there was something in birth, beyond a father leaving personal and
freehold property to his son—that there was something also in rank over
and above houses and lands—money and more money—Mr. Black began to
believe; and in the pleasant summer-time, amongst the green
Hertfordshire fields, under the drooping trees, the promoter came
gradually to understand something else, namely, that a woman who, like
Heather, could manage to make herself and others happy, on an utterly
inadequate income, might, mated to a different husband, have proved a
treasure beyond all price.
Even Mrs. Ormson, he knew, could never have shed so sweet a content over
any home as Heather Dudley. “I believe,” thought Mr. Black, “she would
even have made that dog-kennel in Hoxton something worth looking forward
to coming home to at night. She is not clever—that is, she could never
fight her way in the world, nor go out into it like many women—but she
is worth a barge-load of any I ever knew, for all that. By Jove! married
to a clever man, would not she have made a home for him?” And then Mr.
Black went on to consider, in a mournful kind of way, that let him climb
to what worldly height he would, domestic comfort was a thing the future
could not hold for him; that, though he might have servants and
carriages, a house as fine as Lord Kemms, money at his banker’s, and an
income large enough to satisfy even his most extravagant desires, he
could never expect to pass through any door which might afford him
admission to such a paradise as that, in and out of which Arthur Dudley
passed at his own sweet pleasure, all unconscious of the blessings he
enjoyed.
Never before had Mr. Black remained long enough at Berne Down to
appreciate the quiet beauty of that calm home life. A hurried visit from
Saturday till Monday, a scramble for trains, a hot walk to church,
pressing anxieties which made the still monotony of the country almost
maddening to a man whose brain was in a constant whirl of excitement; a
day or two, perhaps occasionally, through the week—when picnics were
planned and excursions undertaken—had formerly been Mr. Black’s
experience of Berrie Down.
Most people know how wearisome and unendurable the stillness of night is
when sleep refuses to close the tired eyelids, when either from pain of
body, or distress of mind, the hours are passed in restlessness instead
of rest. The silence of the country, its inaction, its dead-aliveness
had been hitherto to Mr. Black precisely what sleepless nights prove to
many a sufferer. He could not take repose out of it; and as day, with
its work and its turmoil, seems preferable to the long, drawn-out
darkness, through every hour of which ascends the moaning prayer, “Would
to God it were morning!” so even the noise and tumult of town appeared
to Mr. Black sounds to be desired in preference to the awful and fearful
quiet of that still life at Berrie Down.
But now the Hollow was to him as a calm summer’s night, when refreshing
sleep steals down upon the worn and the weary, giving them rest after
toil, strength to rise and meet the trouble of the coming day.
The silence did not irritate him now, the utter repose of the life did
not chafe his temper. He wanted to think, and he found time to do it.
There was nothing pressing which required his return to town. He could
let the express from Palinsbridge speed away to London, and leave him
still behind at Berrie Down; he could lounge about the fields and build
castles in the air at his leisure; he could stand and listen to the
rustling of the wind among the trees without a thought of how time was
going; he could lie on the grass, and plan his plans, and scheme his
schemes, without ever a passing footfall to disturb him.
Further, he liked the liberty of the house. He could go and come, he
could be alone or with the family, just as pleased him best.
There was no fuss about dress, no strict adherence to hours. If he went
out for a quiet walk, dinner did not wait for him, and still he was not
expected to starve the whole day, in consequence.
Mrs. Dudley had no black looks for guests who lounged in late to
breakfast. There was always sunshine at Berrie Down; there was always
some one to give that soft answer that turneth away wrath; there was no
squabbling, no jealousy, no selfishness. In that house, it was not who
should retain, but who should give up. Boys and girls alike, it was the
same, who could do most for each other; and, beyond all, who could do
most for Heather.
Naturally a shrewd man, Mr. Black could not choose but notice all these
peculiarities of the household at Berrie Down; and as he began to take a
personal interest in the members composing that household, so, in the
ordinary course of, things, he necessarily looked deeper than he had
ever done before, only to see more and more in Heather to admire.
She was his antagonist, he felt, and yet he would have given much to
have had her on his side. She would be averse to leaving Berrie Down,
and yet it was she, more than any other member of the family, he desired
to have in town.
“By Jove! she is a woman,” he remarked in confidence to Mrs. Ormson; but
finding his enthusiasm failed to kindle a corresponding flame in that
lady’s bosom, he pursued the subject no further.
Even the very animals about Berrie Down seemed to Mr. Black different to
the animals he had seen elsewhere: chickens that flew on Agnes’ shoulder
the moment she appeared in the poultry-yard; dogs that relieved each
other at the gate, and sat looking up and down Berrie Down Lane the
whole day long, like sentries on duty; a terrier that let Lally’s pet
kitten make a pillow of him; a cat which was turned into the
pigeon-house every night to prevent the rats doing mischief, and allowed
the pigeons to roost on her back without entering the slightest protest
against such a proceeding; horses that ate apples and plums in any
quantity—that would search Alick’s pockets for bread, and pick the
flowers out of Agnes’ belt daintily and lightly; a goat which ruled
supreme in yard and paddock, which reduced even a huge Newfoundland to a
state of abject terror, which played such antics as Mr. Black had never
previously imagined could be gone through by an animal—which would get
into the dog-kennel and keep its rightful occupant at bay—which would
stand guard over the kennel and prevent Nero coming out—which would then
be off chasing the smaller dogs about—butting at the colts, and causing
them to rear and paw, and then scamper off round the fields, followed
full flight by Jinny, who was fleeter of foot than any of them. She was
a disreputable goat, of low tastes; who drank ale and ate tobacco; who
preferred sour apples to wholesome grass; who had an objection to
letting herself be milked, and who, when she became the mother of a kid,
seemed to think the creature had been sent into the world to be rolled
over and butted, and hunted and teazed, from morning till night.
A shocking thief was Jinny also, who would make her way into the larder
and eat up bread and pies with an appreciative appetite which ought to
have proved eminently gratifying to Mrs. Piggott; who might be found
standing on her hind legs, sharing the horses’ corn; who was discovered
one day, on the top of a little rustic summer-house, munching with
infinite relish the earliest pears that grew on the sunniest wall of the
garden. Every day Arthur vowed vengeance against that goat; and yet
every succeeding morrow discovered Jinny at fresh tricks, engaged in
carrying out some new mischief.
Then the pigeons! the ridiculous fantails and the consequential
pouters,—the pouters so irresistibly like a parish clerk, the fantails
so vain that, in walking backwards to exhibit their outspread feathers,
they often fell head over heels, to the intense delight of Lally. Lovely
pigeons! that would flutter down at sound of Heather’s voice, and settle
on head and hand, soft balls of white, smooth feathers, waiting to be
fed.
It might, according to Mr. Black’s idea, be a useless life; but, for all
that, it was very tranquil and very sweet, and pleasant also from
sunrise to sunset—a succession of summer days without a cloud.
Further, if, in the midst of so many romantic and countrified sights and
sounds, it be not prosaic to make mention of such common matters as
eating and drinking, I may add that the edible arrangements at Berrie
Down met with Mr. Black’s unqualified approval.
To a man who had been content for years and years with chops and steaks,
a pennyworth, daily, of potatoes, and a like value of bread, partaken of
after the manner of those modern Israelites, City people in haste, and
washed down by a pint or half a pint of bitter, it may readily be
believed that the orthodox dinners which he deemed it the correct thing
to partake of in Stanley Crescent were rather unappreciated luxuries.
What did he care for white soups and lobster patties—for entrées and
Italian creams? The human being who had ever thought himself lucky to
sit down to a pound of thinly-sliced beef or ham which he brought in
with him wrapped up in a piece of newspaper; who had purchased American
cheese, and supped on that delicacy in his Hoxton retirement; who had
eaten shrimps at Gravesend, and partaken of Delafield and Co.’s entire
as supplied after due adulteration by the landlord of the “Jolly
Sandboys,” was not likely to contract a passion in his later years for
Anglo-Gallic cookery, for réchauffés and made dishes, for disguised
vegetables and non-comprehensible meats; for sour wines and fashionable
sweets. On such subjects he and Miss Hope stood at opposite poles; and
it was the funniest thing imaginable to hear the two wrangling over the
different opinions which they held. To have heard them talk, any
outsider might have supposed a new religion had been introduced, and
that while the one held there was no safety out of the old faith, the
other believed that to like a good-sized joint was a remnant of
barbarism, a superstition only prevalent amongst the very lowest classes
in the community.
For Miss Hope likewise, Berrie Down was liberty hall; and therefore,
while Mr. Black breakfasted off ham and fowl, eggs, and sirloins of
beef, thick slices of bread and butter, and tea in quantity, the
spinster, seated opposite to him, regaled herself with claret, fruits,
and what Mr. Black vaguely called “green meat”—which meant lettuces,
mustard and cress, and other delicacies of the same primitive nature.
Often Mr. Black openly declared his wonder that “all the trash she eat
did not kill her;” while Miss Hope was eloquent on the subject of
English gluttony, and declared with more candour and politeness that she
had never eaten a dinner in England fit for a civilized human being to
partake of.
“Not,” she added, turning apologetically to Mrs. Dudley, “but that I
consider Mrs. Piggott for England an admirable cook, and if she would
only allow me to give her a few hints, I think you would find a change
for the better, both in your expenditure and in your table.”
Ever ready to meet the views of her husband’s relations, Heather
requested Miss Hope to extend to Mrs. Piggott the benefit of her
experience; only to find, however, that such benefit had been previously
offered and unceremoniously declined in words following—
“If I cooked well enough for your sister, Mr. Arthur’s mamma—Miss Hope,
mum—and if I please Mrs. Dudley, mum, I don’t want no instructions from
you, mum. No offence, I hope; if offence, I humbly beg pardon. I’m too
old to learn new tricks.”
To the truth of which last clause Miss Hope assented with such
unnecessary readiness, that Mrs. Piggott’s temper was excited instead of
mollified; and when the lady in the kindest manner possible subsequently
suggested “going into the kitchen to prepare a few dishes,” Mrs. Piggott
locked herself up in the store-room with a huge Bible and her
spectacles, and sat there till Bessie came to say the performances were
over, and the messes ready for sending to table.
“And messes they be, miss,” declared Mrs. Piggott, after due inspection.
“If Mr. Arthur or Mrs. Dudley either likes that trash, I shall be
greatly astonished; but lor, miss! them old maids is all alike. If it’s
not cats, it’s dogs; and if it’s not dogs, it’s meddling in other
folkses business, and going about from house to house carrying their
nasty prying ways about with them among their luggage. Who ever heard of
boiling lettuce-leaves afore, or of putting onions, and sugar, and eggs
among green pease, spiling the flavour of them? It’s not Christian,
that’s what I say; and you tell me she fried them potatoes in oil; and
that soup—why, it is thick with grease—butter, is it, miss? I wonder how
much she has used! And a quart of cream, do you tell me? Well, if that
is ’conomical cooking, I don’t know what ’conomy is. I hope master will
like his dinner, that is all—I only hope he may.”
Which was about as great a fib as Mrs. Piggott ever uttered; for most
devoutly did she hope the good things Miss Hope had prepared might come
out untasted.
“Poking about, indeed!—messing in the kitchen. I wonder how she would
like me to go into the drawing-room this evening, and offer to play the
pianner to her? Talk about servants knowing their places! It would be
well if ladies learnt theirs, I’m thinking. Her sister would never have
dreamt of doing such a thing; and as for Mr. Arthur’s wife, she is too
soft and easy; she ought to know better than allow such goings on.”
Thus Mrs. Piggott—who, after refusing to take service with the second
Mrs. Dudley, or in the republic which succeeded that lady’s marriage to
Dr. Marsden—had come over to Berrie Down some twelve months after
Heather’s arrival there, and stated that, “having heard a good report of
Mr. Arthur’s wife, she had no objection to serve her, if she were in
want of a cook.”
With which offer Heather closing, Mrs. Piggott a week later entered the
gates of Berrie Down, and virtually resumed possession of all her old
authority. Amongst her goods and chattels were a Bible, a cookery book,
a tea-caddy (with a key), a pair of spectacles, a work-box, and her
marriage lines—all articles without which Mrs. Piggott never travelled.
A staunch Protestant, Mrs. Piggott read her Bible diligently on Sundays,
and on what she called particular occasions—such, for instance, as the
death of a relative, the news of some frightful railway accident,
shipwreck, or colliery explosion, the sickness of any member of the
Berrie Down household, the birth of a child, or in times of special
aggravation.
But if she perused the sacred volume occasionally, she pored over her
cookery book daily. From the valuable receipts it contained she had
culled fragrant flowers in the shape of savoury dishes, curious
puddings, wonderful sweetmeats, and a method of making puff-paste, in
which even the housekeeper at Moorlands had not disdained to request
instruction.
And after that, for Miss Hope to come with “her foreign notions, her
garlic, her shalots, her tarragon, her basil, her clear soups (like
dish-water), her meat done to rags, her vegetables cooked till all
flavour was boiled out of them; her fruit breakfasts, her messy salads,
her pinches of flavouring, her newfangled sauces, her endless dishes,
with not a good mouthful on each.”
If Mrs. Piggott had not, at this trying period, found a sympathizing
listener in Bessie Ormson, for want of vent her indignation must have
killed her; as it was, Bessie took the keen edge off the knife that
stabbed the cook, made fun of Miss Hope and Miss Hope’s stew-pans, and
told poor Mrs. Piggott that the result of the French dinner had been a
failure. “We all unaccountably lost our appetites,” said the young lady,
slyly; “the dishes were capital, no doubt, but then, if one be not
hungry, you know,” and then Miss Ormson looked archly at Mrs. Piggott,
and the pair laughed wickedly.
“I hope you have plenty of cold meat in the larder,” Bessie went on,
“for we shall all be starving by supper time;” and these words proving
prophetic, Mrs. Piggott’s anger was appeased; and next day she unbent so
far as to inform Miss Hope she would not mind watching how she made
“that there sauce,” for she thought it very good indeed.
The conqueror can always afford to be a little generous, and in this
instance Bessie held that Mrs. Piggott acquitted herself with
considerable credit.
“Far be it from me to say the things were in their own nature
detestable,” remarked Miss Ormson to her uncle; “under the
circumstances, I do not think we can tell anything about them. We don’t
jump to the conclusion that an air is unmusical because an utterly
incompetent person attempts to play it, and clearly, Miss Hope knows as
much concerning cookery as I do.”
“There may be something in that,” agreed Mr. Black; “talking about
music, why don’t you play and sing, like your cousins?”
“My brain never would bear the harass and excitement of the sharps and
flats,” answered Bessie, plaintively; and with that reply the promoter,
who had lately taken it into his head every member of the family ought
to do something well, and contribute to the success of the general
social “rising” about to take place, was fain to rest satisfied.
END OF VOL. I.
LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING
CROSS.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TINSLEY BROTHERS’ NEW NOVELS
AT ALL LIBRARIES.
_Black Sheep._
By EDMUND YATES, Author of “The Forlorn Hope,” “Kissing the Rod,”
etc. Reprinted from “All the Year Round.” 3 vols.
_Sowing the Wind._
By Mrs. E. LYNN LINTON, Author of “Lizzie Lorton of Greyrigg,” etc.
3 vols.
_Seventy-Five Brooke Street._
By PERCY FITZGERALD, Author of “The Second Mrs. Tillotson,” etc. 3
vols.
_The Forlorn Hope._
By EDMUND YATES, Author of “Black Sheep,” “Kissing the Rod,” etc. 3
vols.
_The Tallants of Barton._
By JOSEPH HATTON, Author of “Bitter Sweets,” etc. 3 vols.
_Captain Jack; or, The Great Van Broek Property._
By J. A. MAITLAND. 2 vols.
_Ada Moore’s Story._
3 vols.
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18 CATHERINE STREET.
_The Story of the Diamond Necklace_,
Told in detail for the first time, chiefly by the aid of Original
Letters, Official and other Documents, and Contemporary Memoirs
recently made Public; and comprising a Sketch of the Life of the
Countess de la Motte, pretended Confidant of Marie-Antoinette, and
Particulars of the Careers of the other Actors in this remarkable
Drama. By HENRY VIZETELLY. Illustrated with an exact representation
of the Diamond Necklace, and a Portrait of the Countess de la Motte,
engraved on steel. 2 vols. 25_s._
_SECOND EDITION._
MEMOIRS OF THE LIFE AND REIGN
OF
KING GEORGE THE THIRD;
WITH ORIGINAL LETTERS OF THE KING,
AND OTHER UNPUBLISHED MSS.
BY
=J. HENEAGE JESSE=,
_Author of “The Court of England under the Stuarts,” etc._
3 vols. 8vo. £2 2_s._
“Mr. Jesse’s volumes are brimful of amusement and
interest.”—_Spectator._
“Mr. Jesse’s book is one to be eagerly read and enjoyed to a degree
rarely experienced in the perusal of English memoirs.”—_Morning Post._
“Nor do we hesitate to recommend the result of his labours to general
even more than to studious readers—satisfied that whilst unconsciously
imbibing instructive information they will be carried along from chapter
to chapter by a keen sense of intense and unflagging amusement.”—_The
Daily Telegraph._
“As a mere narrative, these three volumes are remarkable for the manner
in which they engage throughout the attention of the reader.”—_Morning
Star._
_Some Habits and Customs of the Working Classes._
By A JOURNEYMAN ENGINEER.
“Here we must leave this very interesting volume, which we advise those
who wish to obtain accurate information about the working classes to
read carefully for themselves. They will learn more from it in two or
three hours than from years of personal observation, or from the most
earnest attention to the speeches and articles of interested
advocates.”—_Sunday Gazette._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.