The Small House over the Water, and other stories. ... With portrait and ... illustrations by G. Cruikshank, etc

Front matter

THE SMALL HOUSE OVER THE WATER .JLivb ©ther stories Large Crown Svo., Illustrated, gilt edges, 6s. THE FROZEN PIRATE. By W. CLARK RUSSELL. Numerous Illustrations. Crown 8vo., cloth extra, 5s. THE LAND OF THE MOUNTAIN KINGDOM: A Narrative of Adventure in the Unknown Mountains of Thibet. By D. LAWSON JOHNSTONE. Crown 8vo.t cloth gilt, gilt edges, with 120 Illustrations, 7s. 6d. THE STARTLING EXPLOITS OF DR. QT/IE3. By PAUL CELIERE. LONDON : SAMPSON LOW, Jfcj^fsfgS, SEARLE & RIVINGTOX, Ld. MARK LEMON. THE SMALL HOUSE OVER THE WATER gait) &tlm Stories By MARK LEMON K. FOR THIRTY YEARS EDITOR OF PUNCH WITH PORTRAIT AND ELEVEN ILLUSTRATIONS BY GEORGE CRUIKSHAXK GEORGE H. THOMAS CHARLES S. KEENE J. D. WATSON LONDON SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE. & RIVINGTON (Limit? i) St. Sunstan's Bouse Fetter Lane, Fleet Street, E.C. iSSS All rights reserved Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London & Bungay.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Portrait of Mark Lemon ... ... Frontispicc: The Small House over the Water To face page 2 George H. Thomas. Christmas Eve in a Night Train ,, ,, 82 George Cruikshank. What came of Killing a Rich Uncle one Christmas Time ... ... To face page no Charles S. Keene. Chauncey gets the News ... ... ,. „ ng Charles S. Keene. An Actor's Holiday ... ... ,, ,, 142 Charles S. Keene. 'Give it to Me!' ... ... ... „ „ 170 Charles S. Keene. Aunt Grace's Sweetheart ... „ ,, 174 J. D. Watson. A Coat with a Fur Lining ... ,, ,, 216 Charles S. Keene. The Awful Moment ... ... ,, ,, 234 Charles S. Keene. What might have happened one Christmas Time 23S J. D. Watson. She saw it and has resented it To face page 252 J. D. Watson. CONTENTS. PAGE The Small House over the Water ... ... i A Christmas Day in a Jew's House ... ... 50 Christmas Eve in a Night Train ... ... 82 What came of Killing a Rich Uncle one Christmas Time ... ... ... ... 109 An Actor's Holiday ... ... ... ... 142 Aunt Grace's Sweetheart ... ... ... 173 A Coat with a Fur Lining ... ... ... 215 What might have happened one Christmas Time Shortly after the opening of Waterloo Bridge, in 1 8 17, a number of moderate-sized houses, intended for private residences, sprung up on the Surrey side of the river, and have continued to increase until this day.

They were soon tenanted by persons who let them out in lodgings, and who themselves, not infre quently, occupied the kitchen and the attics, thus contriving to live rent free, and occasionally making a small addition to their incomes. The heads of houses were rarely seen except at early morn and dewy eve, being generally engaged at some employment in the city, or at the neighbouring wharfs and manufactories. They were rarely recog nized in connection with their homes, which were associated more immediately with their helpmates ; and Mr. John Morgan, principal messenger at a Lombard Street banking-house, was really nobody at No. 13, Coburg Street, although he paid the rent, taxes, and water-rates. No ; it was Mrs. Morgan who exercised all the patronage of that establish ment, and received all the homage of the vendors of milk and butter, butcher's meat, bread and grocery, green and foreign.

Chapter I

' Dance with me, Letty Green,' said George Poynter to a pretty girl with blue eyes, and ' hair that shamed the morn.' Her ample ball-dress was of the purest white muslin, fastened at the sleeves and round the waist with blue ribbon — bluer than her eyes. ' Yes,' answered Letty, ' I want to dance with you.' And the music striking up, the young couple made the most of it, to the occasional derangement of less determined terpsichoreans. The dance at an end, Letty tried to smooth her golden curls into order with her little hands, and then, opening her pretty blue eyes to their full, said — ' George Poynter, I should like some orange.' ' Yes, Letty,' said the young gentleman addressed ; ' and there's lemonade, and negus, and such a sponge cake ! ' Letty thought that sponge-cake and lemonade would be more acceptable than orange pur et simple , and her partner fought his way bravely through the Drawn by Charles S. Keene.

What came of Killing a Rich Uncle one Christmas time. — p. no. ONE CHRIS 1 MAS TIME. 111 crowd surrounding the refreshment-table, and returned with the desired delicacies. ' I like dancing with you better than any one, Letty,' said George to his pretty partner. ' Do you ? Why ? ' replied Letty, her voice rather obstructed by the sponge-cake. ' I think it is because I like you — you are so pretty,' replied the young gallant. 'You mustn't say that, or mamma will scold you> Georgy. She scolds every one who tells me I am pretty,' said the young lady. But the words had been spoken, and from that night until the end of the Christmas holidays George and Letty said they were sweethearts.

Chapter II. Some

four or five years had passed, and Letty Green and her mamma were sitting together under the verandah of their pretty cottage, working, and talking of a pleasant day they had spent at Mr. Poynter' s, when Master George came, he said, to bid them good-bye, as he was returning to school on the following morning. ' And I want to ask you a favour, Mrs. Green, and Letty a favour,' said George, colouring slightly. Mrs. Green would grant it of course, and so would Letty, if she could. ' I want Letty to ride Rufus, my pony, whilst I am at school. Papa has no use for it, and it carries a lady beautifully.' But to accept this proposal would give so much trouble. ' Not in the least. Tom — that's our groom — says it won't, and papa says it won't, and I say the same ; so please say you'll use the pony.

Straps, the harness maker, will lend a side-saddle.' Mrs. Green accepted George's offer, as Letty was rather fragile, and pony-riding had been declared to be good for her ; but Mrs. Green's income would not allow of the expense, she said. There were people who called Mrs. Green a mean woman, and hinted that she loved money better than her child. George Poynter went to school very cheery, because he had made such a capital arrangement about his pony, and he often thought, when the weather was fine, of Rufus, and wondered if Letty were riding him. George had not forgotten, perhaps, that years — years ago he and Letty had called themselves sweethearts.

Chapter III. More

years had passed, and brought their changes. George and Letty were alone together in a small book-room in Mrs. Green's house, the windows opening to the garden. George was attired in deep mourning, and there were strips of black ribbon here and there on Letty's white dress. They had been talking of death and sorrow until both had become silent. After a time Letty took George's hand, and said — 'Dear George, you must strive to meet your great affliction with a brave spirit — indeed you must.' ' I have — I do strive,' replied George, looking away from Letty ; ' but remember what has come to me. Two years ago my mother died. A year ago that villain Jackson ruined my father — broke his heart — killed him. O Letty ! what have I done to deserve this ! What can I do ? ' ' Trust still to the Father of the fatherless,' replied Letty. ' We do not know why great afflictions are permitted to overtake us, any more than we can tell why great good comes to us when we least expect to deserve it, dear George.

You are young, clever, good, and have many friends, and one — who is more than a friend.' She raised George's hand to her lips when she had said this (they were true sweethearts now), and he — ■ what could he do but press her to his bosom, and kiss her cheek burning with blushes ? Mrs. Green had been walking in the garden, evidently busy with her thoughts. She had stopped near the book-room window, near enough to hear what the sweethearts were saying to each other, and she appeared to be made more thoughtful by what she heard. When Mr. Poynter was a thriving merchant, Mrs. Green had been more than a consenting party to her daughter's acceptance of George Poynter's attentions — indeed, she had by several indirect means encouraged the young people to think lovingly of each other. But now matters were changed.

Master George, as he was generally called, had neither houses nor lands, nor had he ' ships gone to a far countrie,' and Mrs. Green was perplexed how to act. She knew that Letty loved her first sweetheart, and would per haps love him more now that he was poor. Girls are very perverse sometimes, and will not see with their mothers' eyes, which look upon Love only with respect when the little gentleman has a good wardrobe and a balance at his banker's. Mrs. Green therefore was perplexed when she heard what the sweethearts had said to each other, and conjectured how they were ' signing and sealing ' some loving contract, when silence prevailed in the little book-room. Mrs. Green was relieved from her perplexity more agreeably than she deserved to have been, as George Poynter called the next day, bringing with him a letter from his uncle, rich old Silas Cheeseman, promising to provide for his only sister's only son, and hinting that George might by good conduct look to be heir to all his thrifty savings.

Silas was a bachelor, having been blighted in his youth. He then took to loving money, and had been a most successful wooer, as those clever people who know everybody's business but their own declared old Silas Cheeseman to be worth his hundred thousand pounds — ' more or less as the case might be.' Uncle Silas had also procured a situation for George in the neighbouring town of St. Gnats — merely a probationary situation, as clerk to a timber mer chant who was under pecuniary obligation to Silas. All this was very cheering, and very kind of Uncle Silas, although Mr. Bawk, the timber-merchant, was indelicate enough to surmise that George was placed in his establishment as a spy, and to watch the interests of his uncle. George would have scorned such a position for all Uncle Silas had to give or to leave behind him.

Chapter IV

Before we pass on to the events of the next few years, we will introduce Chauncey Gibbs, a friend of George Poynter, of whom we have yet made no mention. Chauncey — his patronym of Gibbs was rarely mentioned — Chauncey was a good-natured, good for-nothing, unsettled, amusing fellow, who contrived to live a gipsy kind of life on 200/. a-year, steadfastly refusing to encumber himself with any employment or to incur responsibilities more (to quote Chauncey) than his hat would cover. He was a native of St. Gnats and known to everybody in the town, but he had no regular abiding place, as he chose to wander at will; and George Poynter would not have been surprised to have received one of Chauncey's brief letters dated from London, Paris, Vienna, or Pekin. He mostly affected England, however, and London especially in the winter.

When money was scarce Chauncey walked, when he was in funds he availed himself of any cheap conveyance which offered, some- Drawn by Charles S. Keene. Chauncey gets the News.— p. 119. times never inquiring its destination, but making himself equally at home wherever he was stranded. At Christmas time he always returned to St. Gnats, and was a welcome guest at many hospitable tables in that thriving town, making his head-quarters, how ever, with his old friend and school-chum, George Poynter. He had written to announce his return to St. Gnats for the Christmas approaching the end of the two years which had intervened since George Poynter had assumed the stool of office at Mr. Bawk's, and supplies of tobacco and bitter beer were already secured for the welcome expected guest. Chauncey had a favourite lounge in London, a tobacconist's in an out-of-the-way street in the neighbourhood of St. Mary Axe.

The proprietor was a Beadle, or some official of that character, to one of the companies, and the tobacco business was conducted during the early part of the day by the beadle's wife and daughter. It was Chauncey 's pleasure to sit on a snuff-tub in front of the counter and smoke, in turn, all the varieties of tobacco sold at the Beadle's, beguiling the time, also, with animated conversations with the daughter, whose powers of repartee were more ready than refined. It is not our intention to chronicle more than Chauncey's parting interview and what came of it, as slang from a woman's lips is our abhorrence. Chauncey was about to leave the shop after one of his long sittings, when the young lady said — ' You won't see me again, I expect, Mr. Chauncey ; I'm going to be married.' ' You married ! ' exclaimed Chauncey ; as though such an event had been the most unlikely thing that could have happened. ' Yes, me ; why not, I should like to know ? ' asked the lady, a little piqued. 'I'm sure I envy the happy man,' replied Chauncey. ' It's not the Scotchman at the shop-door, is it ? ' ' Well, I'm sure ! ' said the young lady, and without another word she bounced into the little parlour at the back of the shop. ' Now you've regularly offended Becky,' said Mrs. Beadle, ' and such old friends as you was — and she to be married to-morrow, and so respectable.' ' Well, I'm glad to hear that,' said Chauncey. ' Where's the wedding to be ?

I'll buy a bundle of watercresses and strew her way into church as an apology for my rudeness.' ' Oh ! she won't want no apology from you — she knows what you are, Mr. Chauncey ; but she's to be married at ten to-morrow, at St. Mary Axe's, but we don't want it spoke of, as the bridegroom's nervous,' said Mrs. Beadle in a whisper. ' I'll be there in time,' replied Chauncey. ' I suppose her father will give her away — in full costume, cocked hat, staff, and all that.' ' He will do all things that is proper, Air. Chauncey,' said Mrs. Beadle with much dignity; and Becky at that moment calling ' Mother ! ' in rather an hysterical tone, Chauncey was allowed to find his way out of the shop as he pleased. On the following morning Chauncey was at the church of St. Mary Axe a quarter of an hour before the time appointed for the ceremony which was to unite Miss Beadle and somebody to their lives' end.

A hale old gentleman between sixty and seventy, perhaps, was the next arrival. Having made some very confidential communication to the old pew opener, he was conducted, evidently in great trepida tion, to the vestry, and there immured until the arrival of the tobacconist and family — but without the emblematical Scotchman. Chauncey concluded, therefore, that Miss Beadle had captivated the old gentleman now awaiting his doom in the condemned cell called the vestry. i The Beadle was in mufti, but his costume still partook of the splendour of his office, and a canary coloured waistcoat with glittering buttons of ruby glass rendered him somewhat conspicuous even in the gloom of St. Mary Axe. His general expression and bearing was that of a tempered indignation, as though he were about to consent to the infliction of some injury which he could avoid if he pleased.

A word, a look, might have provoked him to have torn the license from the parson's hands and to have dragged his daughter from the altar. He was there fore allowed to walk up the aisle unmolested. Mrs. Beadle was very lively on her entrance to the church — more lively, perhaps, than black tea and the occasion warranted ; but whatever had been the stimu lating cause of her cheefulness, it ran in plenteous drops from her eyes as she approached the altar, and must have been exhausted entirely by the end of the ceremony. Niobe weeping for her children would have been a dry nurse compared with Mrs. Beadle. Miss Beadle was resigned, as became her to be at thirty-one. With closed eyes and drooping head she leaned upon her mother's arm, until, with pardonable confusion, she released her hand to put up her parasol as she drew near the altar.

Chauncey rushed to her relief, and with some difficulty possessed himself of the encumbrance ; and as there were no attendant bridesmaids, the impudent fellow attached himself to the wedding party, to be, as he said, 'generally useful, and to pick up the pieces.' The ceremony proceeded with all proper solemnity, but there was some association with the name of one of the contracting parties which made Chauncey fairly start, and then determine to witness the signing of the certificate, to satisfy a doubt which had suddenly entered his mind. The wedding party retired to the vestry when ' Amazement ' had ended the ceremony, and pro ceeded to sign the registers attesting the union which had just been solemnized. Mr. Chauncey Gibbs being, as he said, a friend of the family, signed also, and there read — what had better be revealed in the next chapter. 1

Chapter V. Any

one had only to have walked down the High Street of St. Gnats to have known that Christmas was at hand. The grocers' windows were overrunning with lusciousness ; the butchers' shops were so choke full of beef and mutton that the butchers themselves vould have to cut their way out into the street ; the poulterers had laid in such stocks of turkeys, geese and chickens, that Mr. Babbage's calculating machine could alone have computed them — mere human intellect would have failed. The window-frames of the houses seemed sprouting with holly and ' the ivy green,' and no doubt but mistletoe hung kiss-provoking within. Mrs. Green had made every room in her cottage an anagram of her name, as it was holly-decked everywhere. Nor was the sacred bough forgotten — ' on the young people's account,' she said, ' though Letty and George had long ceased to want an excuse for a kiss.' All promised a merry Christmas time to come, but promises, we know, are not alwavs realized.

George Poynter was waiting the arrival of his friend, Chauncey Gibbs. A glorious fire blazed within the grate ; the table was spread to welcome the coming guest, for whose delectation a faultless rumpsteak pie was browning in the oven. The train, punctual to its time, was heard screaming into the station close by, and in a few minutes after the two friends were together. If you are hungry it is tantalizing to listen to the particulars of a dinner you are not to share ; if you are sated, you are bored by the recapitulation of dainties you care not to touch, and therefore we will allow the friends to take their meal in peace. Neither will we join their after revel when two or three old cronies came in and made a night of it, until George and Chauncey sought their beds fairly tired out with jollity.

When breakfast was over the next morning, and Chauncey found that George had excused himself from attendance at the timber-yard, he said : ' I am glad you can give the morning to me, as I have some news for you that may, perhaps, surprise and annoy you.' ' Indeed ! ' replied George. ' What is it ? ' ' I would not touch upon it last night, although, I think, some immediate action should be taken by you WHA T CAME OF KILLING A RICH UNCLE or your friends,' continued Chauncey, looking very serious. ' Pray speak out,' said George. ' Oh yes. I must do that, for I have no tact, never had, to make an unpleasant matter agreeable. Have you heard from your uncle lately ? ' ' Yes, two days ago — principally on Mr. Bawk's business,' replied George. ' My old boy, your uncle never intended you any good when he shut you up in that log-house of Bawk's. He put you there for his own selfish purpose and nothing else.' ' Why do you say that ? ' asked George. ' He has led you to suppose that you were to be his heir some day, has he not ? ' ' He has never said that in direct terms ; but he certainly has hinted at such a possibility.' ' Then he's an old scamp, if he don't deserve a harder name,' said Chauncey, thumping the table. ' Two days ago he did his best to disinherit you.

You may stare, but I saw with my own eyes, heard with my own ears, that old ragamuffin marry a bouncing woman of thirty.' ' Marry ! Uncle Silas marry ! ' ' Fast as St. Mary Axe could do it, to a snuffseller's daughter ; ' and then Chauncey, to the astonishment of his friend, narrated what we already know of the wedding at which Mr. Chauncey had so officiously assisted. ' This is indeed a terrible blow,' said George, ' an unexpected blow.' ' Yes ; I am afraid, knowing the hands he has fallen into, that he won't have a will of his own when a few months have passed,' said Chauncey. ' I found out how the matter came about. Old Silas was very ill, and wouldn't have a doctor ; but — a Beadle, I call him, got at him, and then introduced his daughter as nurse. They first physicked him nearly to death, and then brought him round with bottled porter.

They told the rid fool they had saved his life, and he believed it; and out of gratitj.de, and the want of a r urse, he proposed to Miss High-dried, and married her.' ' This hits me harder than you know, Chauncey — much harder. Poor Letty and I can never hope now' ' Oh, nonsense ! ' replied Chauncey. ' Keep your uncle's secret, as he will, if he can, marry Letty, and let Mother Green storm afterwards.' George shook his head, and then said — ' Chauncey, you advise that which is dishonourable.' ' All fair in love, old boy,' replied Chauncey, with a laugh ; ' and if I were you, to gain the woman who loves me, and whom I love, I'd KILL MY UNCLE.' ' Great heaven ! what do you say ? But I see — you were joking. No ; my course is perfectly clear so far as Mrs. Green and Letty are concerned. I go to them at once, and tell them what has taken place.

If I am for biddento continue my visits to Mrs. Green, she shall be obeyed. Letty, I know, will be always true to me ; and when I can make a home for her, I can claim her with honour.' ' Devilish pretty speech,' said Chauncey, ' and all right, I have no doubt. I still say, kill old Silas Cheeseman, and get married : or, stay — perhaps — yes — you shall write to him, now that he's honeymoon struck — tell him you want to follow his example, and require ten thousand pounds to do it.' ' I understand this nonsense, Chauncey,' replied George, with a sad smile. ' Your friendly chaff is well meant ; but my ca-e is very serious. And so good-bye for an hour or two. You will find me here after that time.' The road to Airs. Green's cottage never seemed so long before to George Poynter as it did now that he felt his fate.

The happiness, for a time at least, of his darling Letty depended upon the interview he was seeking with her mother. He was not without some justification for the misgivings which beset him, as Airs. Green had more than twice or thrice casually hinted at what a mother's course should be, to pre vent a child ' marrying into poverty.' Indeed, she had once told him, when Letty was not present, how glad she was when his uncle's recognition of him pro duced such a favourable turn in George's fortunes, as it had spared them all the pain which she should have felt it her duty to have inflicted. The crisis had only been deferred. There were tears from Airs. Green — regrets and pity ; but there were also cold, cruel words, which were not to be gainsaid, unless Letty could disobey the mother who had loved her all her life, and lived only to see her happy.

George spared his Letty and her mother any con test as to the decision to be made. He promised to obey Mrs. Green in all she required of him ; but he promised Letty also, when they were left alone, that bis love never should change, nor should a doubt ever have place in his thoughts that she could change one tittle in her love for him. And as he held her to his beating heart — not for the last time, no ! no ! — he told her how he would strive to make a home for both — that their probation would be short if a brave resolution could only find the means to work with. And they would come — they always did ; for had they not been promised by the One which could not lie? Poor hearts ! they parted very sadly; but a good angel was already busying himself for their reunion. And such an angel ! — Chauncey Gibbs ! ' He won't write to old Silas ?

Then I will,' said Chauncey, half aloud, when George had left him. ' He won't KILL HIS UNCLE — an old fool ; then I will.' He opened the long blade of his penknife and — trimmed a quill which he found on George's desk. There were paper and ink, as may be supposed, and there was also the ready-writer Chauncey, who began : — ' St. Gnats, Dec. 20, 1 8 — , ' Dear Sir,— As my friend, Air. George Poynter, is unfortunately suffering at this time from a severe blow in his chest — (" That's perfectly true ") — I have placed myself at his service ; and although I shall not express myself as he would have done on the subject — ("That's true again, I fancy") — I hope you will take the will for the deed. News has reached us here, dear sir — (" He'll like that dear sir ") — that after many years of deliberate calculation — (" No, not cal culation's—consideration, you have discovered that man was not made to live alone, and therefore, with a wise regard for your own happiness, you have sought connubial felicity at the altar of St. Alary Axe. — (" Very good !

" muttered Chauncey ; " the name of the church will show that his secret is known to us.") — I know not whether it is your wish that your blissful union should be made generally known ; but I cannot hesitate (on the part of my friend, I mean) to offer you my sincerest congratulations, and to wish you all the happiness you deserve. — (" That's true ; and I should like to add, all you are likely to find.") — I am aware that what you have done must necessarily inter fere largely, if not entirely, with those expectations which you once or twice — (" Shall I say promised ? No") — encouraged me to entertain. — (" What would old George say to that ? ") — And though I descend from the clouds, — hope — (" Good figure that ") — to the substratum of daily toil and permanent anxiety, I shall know that you are sitting happy at your domestic hearth, smoking the pipe of peace — (" It wants something else to round off the sentence ") — and— and— (" Oh, blow it !

")— rocking the cradle. ' May I request — if not asking too much at this blissful period of your life— a line, to tell me that I may add to my affectionate remembrances an Aunt Cheeseman ? I remain, dear Sir, ' Your affectionate nephew, ' For George Poynter. Chauncey paused. ' It won't do to sign my name, or Airs. C. will remember it. Yes — I have it — they never heard the name of 'C. Gibbs.' Having sealed and directed his letter, Chauncey proceeded to post it. In travelling down from London, Chauncey had learned that a projected branch railway from St. Gnats was in high favour with all the monied interest of the place ; and when he suggested the propriety of killing old Silas he had this railway in his mind, as on the following day the allotment of shares was to take place. Chauncey knew — as he knew every body — -Air.

Golding, the banker and chairman pro tern, of the projected company. Without the least misgiving or hesitation he called upon that highly respectable gentleman, and, after a few minutes' inter view, gave the conversation an extraordinary twist, or jerk, as thus — ' You've heard of the great windfall to our towns man, George Poynter, I suppose,' said Chauncey. 'No? Well, perhaps it was hardly to be expected, seeing what a retiring fellow he is.' ' What is it ? ' asked Air. Golding. ' He is a young man for whom I have the greatest respect. I shall be glad to hear of any good fortune to him.' 'And it is a good fortune! His uncle, you know, was immensely rich,' said Chauncey. ' The old bache lor is no more — went off three days ago — and my friend George was long ago his appointed heir.' 'Silas Cheeseman gone!' remarked Air.