FullReads

“Our duty is to leave them alone,” said the philosophical Serjeant. “And now about breakfast–shall we have some?” And as he spoke, a savory little procession of stewards and stewards’ boys, with drab tin dish-covers, passed from the caboose, and descended the stairs to the cabin. The vessel had passed Greenwich by this time, and had worked its way out of the mast-forest which guards the approaches of our city.

The owners of those innumerable boxes, bags, oil-skins, guitar-cases, whereon the letter K was engraven, appeared to be three ladies, with a slim gentleman of two or three and thirty, who was probably the husband of one of them. He had numberless shawls under his arm and guardianship. He had a strap full of Murray’s Handbooks and Continental Guides in his keeping; and a little collection of parasols and umbrellas, bound together, and to be carried in state before the chief of the party, like the lictor’s fasces before the consul.

The chief of the party was evidently the stout lady. One parasol being left free, she waved it about, and commanded the luggage and the menials to and fro. “Horace, we will sit there,” she exclaimed, pointing to a comfortable place on the deck. Horace went and placed the shawls and the Guidebooks. “Hirsch, avy vou conty les bagages? tront sett morso ong too?” The German courier said, “Oui, miladi,” and bowed a rather sulky assent. “Bowman, you will see that Finch is comfortable, and send her to me.” The gigantic Bowman, a gentleman in an undress uniform, with very large and splendid armorial buttons, and with traces of the powder of the season still lingering in his hair, bows, and speeds upon my lady’s errand.

I recognize Hirsch, a well-known face upon the European high-road, where he has travelled with many acquaintances. With whom is he making the tour now?–Mr. Hirsch is acting as courier to Mr. and Mrs. Horace Milliken. They have not been married many months, and they are travelling, Hirsch says, with a contraction of his bushy eyebrows, with miladi, Mrs. Milliken’s mamma. “And who is her ladyship?” Hirsch’s brow contracts into deeper furrows. “It is Miladi Gigglebury,” he says, “Mr. Didmarsh. Berhabs you know her.” He scowls round at her, as she calls out loudly, “Hirsch, Hirsch!” and obeys that summons.

It is the great Lady Kicklebury of Pocklington Square, about whom I remember Mrs. Perkins made so much ado at her last ball; and whom old Perkins conducted to supper. When Sir Thomas Kicklebury died (he was one of the first tenants of the Square), who does not remember the scutcheon with the coronet with two balls, that flamed over No. 36? Her son was at Eton then, and has subsequently taken an honorary degree at Oxford, and been an ornament of Platt’s and the “Oswestry Club.” He fled into St. James’s from the great house in Pocklington Square, and from St. James’s to Italy and the Mediterranean, where he has been for some time in a wholesome exile. Her eldest daughter’s marriage with Lord Roughhead was talked about last year; but Lord Roughhead, it is known, married Miss Brent; and Horace Milliken, very much to his surprise, found himself the affianced husband of Miss Lavinia Kicklebury, after an agitating evening at Lady Polkimore’s, when Miss Lavinia, feeling herself faint, went out on to the leads (the terrace, Lady Polkimore WILL call it), on the arm of Mr. Milliken. They were married in January: it’s not a bad match for Miss K. Lady Kicklebury goes and stops for six months of the year at Pigeoncot with her daughter and son-in-law; and now that they are come abroad, she comes too. She must be with Lavinia, under the present circumstances.

When I am arm-in-arm, I tell this story glibly off to Lankin, who is astonished at my knowledge of the world, and says, “Why, Titmarsh, you know everything.”

“I DO know a few things, Lankin my boy,” is my answer. “A man don’t live in society, and PRETTY GOOD society, let me tell you, for nothing.”