In the Year of Jubilee | Page 4

he had allowed himself since his

marriage three years ago.
It was a house in De Crespigny Park; unattached, double-fronted, with
half-sunk basement, and a flight of steps to the stucco pillars at the
entrance. De Crespigny Park, a thoroughfare connecting Grove Lane,
Camberwell, with Denmark Hill, presents a double row of similar
dwellings; its clean breadth, with foliage of trees and shrubs in front
gardens, makes it pleasant to the eye that finds pleasure in suburban
London. In point of respectability, it has claims only to be appreciated
by the ambitious middle-class of Camberwell. Each house seems to
remind its neighbour, with all the complacence expressible in buff
brick, that in this locality lodgings are not to let.
For an hour after Peachey's departure, the silence of the house was
unbroken. Then a bedroom door opened, and a lady in a morning gown
of the fashionable heliotrope came downstairs. She had acute features;
eyes which seemed to indicate the concentration of her thoughts upon a
difficult problem, and cheeks of singular bloom. Her name was
Beatrice French; her years numbered six and twenty.
She entered the dining-room and drew up the blind. Though the
furniture was less than a year old, and by no means of the cheapest
description, slovenly housekeeping had dulled the brightness of every
surface. On a chair lay a broken toy, one of those elaborate and costly
playthings which serve no purpose but to stunt a child's imagination.
Though the time was midsummer, not a flower appeared among the
pretentious ornaments. The pictures were a strange medley --autotypes
of some artistic value hanging side by side with hideous oleographs
framed in ponderous gilding. Miss. then violently rang the bell. When
the summons had been twice French looked about her with an
expression of strong disgust, repeated, there appeared a young woman
whose features told of long and placid slumbers.
'Well? what does this mean?'
'The cook doesn't feel well, miss; she can't get up.
'Then get breakfast yourself, and look sharp about it.'
Beatrice spoke with vehemence; her cheeks showed a circle of richer
hue around the unchanging rose. The domestic made insolent reply, and
there began a war of words. At this moment another step sounded on
the stairs, and as it drew near, a female voice was raised in song.
'_And a penny in his pocket, la-de-da, la-de-da,--and a penny in his

pocket, la-de-da_!'
A younger girl, this, of much slighter build; with a frisky gait, a jaunty
pose of the head; pretty, but thin-featured, and shallow-eyed; a long
neck, no chin to speak of, a low forehead with the hair of washed-out
flaxen fluffed all over it. Her dress was showy, and in a taste that set
the teeth on edge. Fanny French, her name.
'What's up? Another row?' she asked, entering the room as the servant
went out.
'I've known a good many fools,' said Beatrice, 'but Ada's the biggest
I've come across yet.'
'Is she? Well, I shouldn't wonder,' Fanny admitted impartially. And
with a skip she took up her song again. '_A penny paper collar round
his neck, la-de-da_--'
'Are you going to church this morning?' asked her sister.
'Yes. Are you?'
'Come for a walk instead. There's something I want to talk to you
about.'
'Won't it do afterwards? I've got an appointment.'
'With Lord?'
Fanny laughed and nodded.
Interrupted by the reappearance of the servant, who brought a tray and
began to lay the table, they crossed the hall to the drawing-room. In
half-an-hour's time a sluttish meal was prepared for them, and whilst
they were satisfying their hunger, the door opened to admit Mrs.
Peachey. Ada presented herself in a costume which, at any season but
high summer, would have been inconveniently cool. Beneath a loose
thin dressing-gown her feet, in felt slippers, showed stockingless, her
neck was bare almost to the bosom, and the tresses of pale yellow,
upon which she especially prided herself, lay raggedly pinned together
on the top of her flat head. She was about twenty-eight years old, but at
present looked more than thirty. Her features resembled Fanny's, but
had a much less amiable expression, and betokened, if the thing were
possible, an inferior intellect. Fresh from the morning basin, her cheeks
displayed that peculiar colourlessness which results from the habitual
use of paints and powders; her pale pink lips, thin and sullen, were
curiously wrinkled; she had eyes of slate colour, with lids so elevated
that she always seemed to be staring in silly wonder.

'So you've got breakfast, have you?' were her first words, in a thin and
rather nasal voice. 'You may think yourselves lucky.'
'You have a cheek of your own,' replied Beatrice. 'Whose place is it to
see that we get meals?'
'And what can any one do with