Artists -- Fiction; England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; London (England) -- Fiction
He entered the shop--a dull dismal little place, with a pair of stays
lying helplessly in the window, and a staring black-eyed torso of a
female doll, for cap-making purposes, insanely smiling on the counter.
Such a heavy footfall as Mr. Bowker's was seldom heard in those vestal
halls; such a grizzly-bearded face as Mr. Bowker's was seldom seen in
such close proximity to the cap-making dummy; and little Mrs. Chapman
the milliner came out "all in a tremble," as she afterwards expressed
it, from her inner sanctum, which was about as big and as tepid as a
warm-bath, and in a quavering voice demanded the intruder's business.
She was a mild-eyed, flaxen-haired, quiet, frightened little woman, and
old Bowker's heart softened towards her, as he said, "You have a friend
of mine lodging with you, ma'am, I think--Mrs. Lambert?"
"O, dear; then, if you're a friend of Mrs. Lambert's, you're welcome
here, I can assure you, sir!" and the little woman looked more
frightened than ever, and held up her hands half in fear, half in
relief.
"Ah, she's been ill, I hear," said Bowker, wishing to have it
understood that he was thoroughly _en rapport_ with the lodger.
"Ill!--I'm thankful you've come, sir!--no one, unless they saw her,
would credit how ill she is--I mean to be up and about, and all that.
She's better to-day, and clearer; but what she have been these few
days past, mortal tongue cannot tell--all delirium-like, and full of
fancies, and talking of things which set Hannah--the girl who does
for me--and me nearly out of our wits with fright. So much so, that
six-and-sixpence a-week is--well, never mind, poor thing; it's worse
for her than for us; but I'm glad, at any rate, some friend has come to
see her."
"I'll go and do so at once, Mrs. Chapman," said Bowker. "I know my way;
the door straight opposite to the front of the stairs, isn't it? Thank
you; I'll find it;" and with the last words yet on his tongue, Mr.
Bowker had passed round the little counter, by the little milliner, and
was making the narrow staircase creak again with his weight.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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