a moment. His senses were evidently half scattered.
‘My name is George Englehardt, of Philadelphia,’ he said presently.
Then he looked round anxiously.
‘Are there any saved except me?’ he asked, in a faint whisper.
‘Not a soul.’
The man heaved a deep sigh, and relapsed once more into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER II. TOPSEY TURVEY SEES A GHOST.
I don’t imagine that Mrs. Turvey had ever read Cowper: in fact, it is exceedingly improbable that Mrs. Turvey’s poetical readings had ever extended beyond the works of the late lamented Dr. Watts. This talented author had, it is pretty certain, come under her notice, for it is on record that she once reprimanded her niece, Topsey, for putting her fingers into the marmalade-pot, by telling her that—
‘Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.’
And fancying that this solemn warning by itself might not be sufficient, she had added to it a picture of the delights of an active life by requesting Topsey to contemplate the habits of the busy bee, who ‘improves each shining hour by gathering honey all the day from every opening flower.’ A quotation which was singularly inapt under the circumstance, for, substitute marmalade for honey, and open jam-pot for opening flower, and Topsey had been really doing her best to imitate the bright example aforesaid.
Topsey might have retorted to this effect had she been a sharp child, but unfortunately she was not. So she just wiped her sticky little fingers on her pinafore, looked up with a roguish smile at her ‘aunty,’ and darted from the room, to find as much mischief (or marmalade) as she could elsewhere.
Mrs. Turvey and Topsey, her twelve-year-old niece, were the sole inhabitants of a great old-fashioned house in a street near Russell Square. Mrs. Turvey was housekeeper to Mr. Gurth Egerton, a gentleman who was travelling abroad for the benefit of his health, and feeling lonely with fourteen rooms all to herself, not to speak of cellars, dark corners, and gloomy passages, she had, in an evil hour, obtained permission of her brother, a widower and a railway guard, to take his little daughter into her keeping, and so have the echoes of the desolate mansion occasionally awakened with a human voice.
Topsey woke the echoes, and no mistake. The echoes had a bad time of it if they were at all sleepy echoes. They did have forty winks now and then in the day, when Topsey ran errands; but as a rule they were only allowed to drop off and take their natural rest when Topsey took hers—at night.
See what a mischievous little thing this Topsey is. She has actually kept Cowper waiting while we are attending to her.
Let us hark back to Cowper and Mrs. Turvey at once.
There is a well-known passage in ‘The Winter’s Evening,’ which I never read, even on a hot June day, without wishing it was a winter’s evening, and I could take the poet’s advice. Thus it runs:—
‘Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That cheer but not inebriate wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.’
Now Mrs. Turvey, I will venture to say, had never read this charming piece of advice, but she was certainly putting it into practice. It was a winter’s evening, singularly enough, and she had stirred the fire, closed the shutters fast, and let fall the curtains. The table stood too near the fire for a sofa, to be wheeled round, but three chairs were set in nice convenient places, the urn was bubbling and hissing away as cheerily as possible, and three cups and saucers stood waiting in a quiet and contented manner to take their proper part in the programme of the evening’s entertainment.
Cowper doesn’t mention muffins, beautifully browned and lavishly buttered, standing on the hob, and he is discreetly silent as to a glass dish of home-made marmalade. Neither can I discover any reference to a fat black pussy dozing, the picture of sleek contentment, on the hearthrug. In these particulars Mrs. Turvey had, I make bold to assert, improved upon the poet. But then Cowper only proposed to welcome the evening in. Mrs. Turvey’s welcome was designed for something with a more substantial appetite.
Don’t imagine I intend to convey that Mrs. Turvey’s visitor was going to eat the cat. That was always on the hearthrug. The marmalade and the muffins were the specialities which denoted the expected advent of company.
There were three cups and saucers set. Now, allotting one to Mrs. Turvey and one to Topsey, we might, by setting our wits to work, arrive at the conclusion that only one visitor was expected. Our wits would have performed the task confided to them most creditably if this was the result of their labour, for there is a knock at the door, and presently Topsey, who has been upstairs on the qui vive, comes dancing down into the housekeeper’s little room with the intelligence that ‘He’s come.’
‘He’ follows very closely at Miss Topsey’s heels. ‘He’ is a fat, smiling gentleman of fifty, and so shining that it seems almost a waste to burn the gas when he is in the room.
His bald head shines, his face shines, his coat shines, his boots shine, his buttons shine, his black stock shines, and his old-fashioned stand-up collar shines.
He smiles a sweet smile at Mrs. Turvey, and when he opens his mouth you see that he has white shiny teeth.
‘You’re late, Mr. Jabez,’ says Mrs. Turvey, as, having shaken hands with her visitor and motioned him to the tea-table, she seats herself and prepares to do the honours.
‘Business, my dear madam, business. Nothing but business would have made me late for this appointment, you may be sure,’ answers the gentleman, shining all over his face, till he reflects the teapot and the teapot reflects him.
‘Ah!’ sighs Mrs. Turvey, ‘business is a strange thing!’
‘Yes, my dear madam, it is, and never stranger than in our line. Muffins—thank you; I adore muffins. I’ve been in our line thirty years, Mrs. Turvey, and our business gets stranger every day. Now our business to-night, for instance——’
‘Ahem!’
Mr. Jabez is so suddenly interrupted by the warning eye of Mrs. Turvey that he gives a little cough, and swallows a little piece of muffin, and the redness which ensues, together with the extra shininess, makes him look like a setting sun sinking slowly below the horizon of Mrs. Turvey’s tea-table.
Mrs. Turvey’s glance has implied that the conversation is to be deferred till Topsey is out of the room. Let us take advantage of the lull in the conversation to properly introduce the worthy housekeeper’s visitor.
Mr. Jabez Duck is a clerk in the employ of that eminent firm of solicitors, Messrs. Grigg and Limpet, Lincoln’s Inn. Messrs. Grigg and Limpet are the family solicitors of Mr. Gurth Egerton, and have the entire management of his affairs during his long absence abroad. Mr. Duck is the clerk specially entrusted with this part of the firm’s business, and occasions for visits to the house have from time to time arisen.
Mr. Duck pays Mrs. Turvey her housekeeping allowance, sees her with regard to accounts that are applied for, authorises repairs, and comes occasionally to refer to papers and documents, or to see if they are in the library of the firm’s absent client. This is the business part of the acquaintanceship. But beyond this there is a little personal friendship. Mrs. Turvey is a spinster, in spite of her matronly appellation, and Mr. Duck is a bachelor. Mr. Duck stays occasionally to take