Chapter II: Inmates of a Suburban Boarding-House

Next morning at breakfast Mrs. Tring's inmates assembled, and the new comers were duly introduced to their future companions. The breakfast was plain, and passed off rather uncomfortably, a feeling of restraint checking merriment. As the boarders descended one by one, and were presented to Cecil and his wife, an unanimity in commonplaces formed the staple of remark, and every one seemed unwilling to unbend before having closely scrutinized the new comers. Small communications respecting the state of the health, and of the good or bad night's rest, were confidentially whispered in corners; while daring prophecies on the subject of the weather were more audibly pronounced.

Mr. Revell, the ex-official, ate in solemn silence; Mrs. Merryweather, the lively Irish lady, was patronizing and polite; Miss Bachelor, as demure as a well-fed cat; Mr. Roberts, a dapper clerk with a rosy face and well-oiled hair, was the only person apparently undaunted by the presence of strangers, and rattled on with more confidence than wit, until the half hour warned him of the approach of his omnibus, when he buttoned his single-breasted frock-coat up to the neck, passed on to his red fingers a close-fitting pair of doe-skin gloves, rolled the silk of his umbrella into the smallest possible compass, and departed with the indelible conviction of being "about the neatest dressed man to be met in a day's walk."

Breakfast did not last long. Mr. Revell then engaged himself in assiduous study of the second day's _Times_, the only vestige of a paper which found its way into that forlorn place. Mrs. Tring departed to look after her household concerns, leaving her boarders to their usual chat in the back parlour, until their bed-rooms were ready for their reception.

Mrs. Merryweather began to unbend, and Cecil feared that her liveliness might prove more tiresome than her reserve. She was a great talker of inconceivable small talk; launched upon the endless sea of personal reminiscence, she told stories with all the minute detail of a professed _conteur_, excited attention by the ample paraphernalia of an anecdote, and baulked it by ending without a point. Of all bores, this species is the worst: it is the bore obtrusive and inevitable. Other bores can, with some adroitness, be managed, they do not unchain your attention; but the story-teller fastens upon your attention by artful preparations, and though you have been disappointed a hundred times, experience is of no use, for your interest is involuntarily accorded on every succeeding occasion.

To escape from the torrent of talk which was thus loosened upon him, Cecil sat down to the piano, and ran his fingers over the keys, after which he begged Miss Bachelor to favour the company with a taste of her quality. After the necessary hesitation and apologies, she sat down. From a teacher of music he anticipated a sort of railway rattle; but Miss Bachelor agreeably disappointed him by the modest execution of a sonata by Dussek: it was a mild, feeble, performance, unpretending as the performer, and infinitely preferable to Mrs. Merryweather's stories. He then sang a duet with Blanche, then a solo, and then another duet. This concluded, he observed that Mrs. Merryweather had retired, and he followed her example.

"I can't say much for our society," he said to his wife, as they went out for a stroll.

"We shall not see much of it, you know. We have our own room," replied Blanche.

"True; but while I am at work?"

"I can think of you!"

There was no reply to this, but to press the arm that leaned on his, closer to his side, and to look fondly in her loving face.

During their walk, they discussed their plans again with that inexhaustible interest which the future always has to the young and struggling; and they returned to dinner with a good appetite.

A significant smile was exchanged between Mrs. Merryweather and Miss Bachelor, and then between the ladies and Mr. Revell, as a handsome piece of ribs of beef was placed upon the table. Cecil noticed it, but failed to comprehend its meaning. He observed also that the hostess carved, and would by no means consent to his relieving her of the trouble; a procedure which the exiguity of the single slice placed upon each plate fully explained.

"May I trouble you for a little horse-radish?" he suddenly asked.

Mrs. Merryweather and Miss Bachelor--astonishment snatching up their eyebrows--simultaneously ceased eating. Mr. Revell, whose deafness prevented his astonishment, ate on. Ask for horse-radish! There was something bewildering in the very extravagance of the expectation.

In silence, they awaited Mrs. Tring's reply.

"Horse-radish!" said that lady, with intense suavity. "Dear me! how very forgetful of me. But we never eat it ourselves; and it never occurred to me that you might like it. Very forgetful; very forgetful, indeed."

"Pray, do not say a word about it. I care very little for it--only a matter of habit."

Emboldened by this audacity in the newcomer, Miss Bachelor ventured to think she could eat another cut of beef. Mrs. Tring, scowlingly, and in the most repressed tone, suggested the propriety of keeping a corner for the second course; to which Miss Bachelor assented, now fairly unable to conceive the immensity of the revolution which the appearance of the Chamberlaynes had created. A second course! Visions of pheasants--perhaps even grouse--darkened her bewildered brain.

Mr. Revell, as usual, had heard nothing, but sent up his plate for a second help; to all Mrs. Tring's shouts about "keeping a corner," imperturbably answering, "Yes, rather well done; and a bit of fat."

Mrs. Merryweather remembered how on one occasion she was dining at Colonel James's who had married an old schoolfellow of hers, the daughter of the man who for so many years kept the What's-the-name hotel in Jermyn Street, where the Polish count stayed so many weeks, and was so like Thaddeus of Warsaw, only his name was Winsky, and he came from Cracow, and about whom there was that tragical story; how one night as he was walking down Regent Street, when he was suddenly felled by a blow on the head, and was taken senseless to his hotel. It was a most extraordinary occurrence, and excited a great deal of talk at the time; but Mrs. Merryweather could not at that instant remember the exact circumstances. But, however, that was neither here nor there. What she was going to say was, that her old school-fellow had married Colonel James--quite the gentleman--and often invited her to dinner; very good dinners they were too; plenty of wine and delicacies of the season--peas when they first came in, and all that sort of thing; well, one day--she never could forget it, live as long as she might--she had eaten so plentifully of the first course, a delicious saddle of mutton, that when the game arrived--she had not anticipated game--she was scarcely able to touch it; and Colonel James, with his usual affability, observed, "Ah, Mrs. Merryweather, you should have kept a corner for the second course."

This thrilling anecdote being ended, the beef was removed. Cecil was not a little amused when he saw that an apple pudding constituted this famous second course. But as, in the memory of man and boarder, no precedent for such an extravagance as pudding with hot meat had been known at Mrs. Tring's, the ladies were quite satisfied that such a second course should appear at all. The only misgiving in their minds, was whether such cheer was to become habitual; or was it simply an illusive and treacherous display for that occasion only?

A Dutch cheese followed the pudding, and there the dinner terminated.

Accustomed as Blanche and Cecil had been to the luxuries and refinements of their station, it may be supposed that this ignoble boarding-house was very repugnant to them, and that they suffered bitterly from the change. It was not so, however. Change is so pleasant to every human being, that, provided it be abrupt and striking enough to produce a vivid sense of contrast, it is eminently agreeable. The man who most enjoys a well-appointed table, whose pride it is to have his dinners served with the care and splendour bestowed upon banquets, will also enjoy "roughing it," and picking the leg of a fowl with no fork but his fingers, no plate but a hunch of bread. We like from time to time to feel ourselves superior to conveniences, superior to our wealth and its advantages.

The change was quite abrupt enough to make Cecil and his wife enjoy it; and on retiring to rest that night, they were as happy as affection could make them.