FullReads

A heavy shower of rain was descending at this moment, and little Miss Honeyman, looking at her lodger, who had sat down and taken up her book, said, “Have your ladyship’s servants unpacked your trunks?”

“What on earth, madam, have you–has that to do with the question?”

“They will be put to the trouble of packing again, I fear. I cannot provide–three times five are fifteen–fifteen separate meals for seven persons–besides those of my own family. If your servants cannot eat with mine, or in my kitchen, they and their mistress must go elsewhere. And the sooner the better, madam, the sooner the better!” says Miss Honeyman, trembling with indignation, and sitting down in a chair, spreading her silks.

“Do you know who I am?” asks Lady Ann, rising.

“Perfectly well, madam,” says the other, “And had I known, you should never have come into my house, that’s more.”

“Madam!” cries the lady, on which the poor little invalid, scared and nervous, and hungry for his dinner, began to cry from his sofa.

“It will be a pity that the dear little boy should be disturbed. Dear little child, I have often heard of him, and of you, miss,” says the little householder, rising. “I will get you some dinner, my dear, for Clive’s sake. And meanwhile your ladyship will have the kindness to seek for some other apartments–for not a bit shall my fire cook for any one else of your company.” And with this the indignant little landlady sailed out of the room.

“Gracious goodness! Who is the woman?” cries Lady Ann. “I never was so insulted in my life.”

“Oh, mamma, it was you began!” says downright Ethel. “That is–Hush, Alfred dear,–Hush my darling!”

“Oh, it was mamma began! I’m so hungry! I’m so hungry!” howled the little man on the sofa, or off it rather, for he was now down on the ground kicking away the shawls which enveloped him.

“What is it, my boy? What is it, my blessed darling? You shall have your dinner! Give her all, Ethel. There are the keys of my desk, there’s my watch, there are my rings. Let her take my all. The monster! The child must live! It can’t go away in such a storm as this. Give me a cloak, a parasol, anything–I’ll go forth and get a lodging. I’ll beg my bread from house to house, if this fiend refuses me. Eat the biscuits, dear! A little of the syrup, Alfred darling; it’s very nice, love, and come to your old mother–your poor old mother.”

Alfred roared out, “No, it’s not n–ice; it’s n-a-a-sty! I won’t have syrup. I will have dinner.” The mother, whose embraces the child repelled with infantine kicks, plunged madly at the bells, rang them all four vehemently, and ran downstairs towards the parlour, whence Miss Honeyman was issuing.

The good lady had not at first known the names of her lodgers, until one of the nurses intrusted with the care of Master Alfred’s dinner informed her that she was entertaining Lady Ann Newcome; and that the pretty girl was the fair Miss Ethel; the little sick boy, the little Alfred of whom his cousin spoke, and of whom Clive had made a hundred little drawings in his rude way, as he drew everybody. Then bidding Sally run off to St. James Street for a chicken, she saw it put on the spit, and prepared a bread sauce, and composed a batter-pudding, as she only knew how to make batter puddings. Then she went to array herself in her best clothes, as we have seen; then she came to wait upon Lady Ann, not a little flurried as to the result of that queer interview; then she whisked out of the drawing-room, as before has been shown; and, finding the chicken roasted to a turn, the napkin and tray ready spread by Hannah the neat-handed, she was bringing them up to the little patient when the frantic parent met her on the stair.