Part 6 (2/2)

BEULAH PLACE.

Upon her face there was the tint of grief, The settled shadow of an inward strife.

BYRON.

.... A sorrow not, a son.

ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE.

In one of the dingiest suburbs of London there is a small plot of ground known by the name of the Elysian Fields; but how it had ever acquired this singular appellation is likely to remain an unsolved problem to the end of time.

Most probably those great satirists, street denominators, had branded it with this t.i.tle in ridicule, for anything further removed from the mythological meadows could not possibly be conceived, even by the most sanguine temperament. True, there was a market garden or two, and odors redolent of decaying vegetables; but, on the whole, it was rather an unsavory region, and much frequented by the costermonger and fishwoman.

The Elysian Fields were divided and subdivided into streets, rows, and alleys; some respectable, others semi-genteel, but in most cases to be defined by the three degrees of comparison--dingy, dingier, most dingy; and it was under the comparative degree that a certain street, known by the name of Beulah Place, must be cla.s.sed.

It was a long narrow street, not differing much from the others that ran parallel with it, except in a general air of retirement and obscurity, owing to a ”No Thoroughfare” placarded up on the blank wall of a brewery, which had rather a depressing effect on the end houses that looked full on it.

There was little that was noticeable about the street except its name--for here again the satirists had sharpened their wits, and Beulah Place looked down in conscious superiority on Paradise Row.

In conscious superiority indeed--for had not Beulah Place this distinction, that its houses were garnished with imposing flights of steps and a railed-in area, while Paradise Row opened its doors directly on the pavement?

Therefore Beulah Place noted itself eminently respectable, and put on airs; let its front and back parlors to single gentlemen or widows; and looked over its wire blinds in superb disdain at the umbrella-mender, or genteel dressmaker who lived opposite.

At the extreme corner of Beulah Place, with its one gla.s.s eye peering down High Street, was Mrs. Watkins, tea merchant and Italian warehouseman--at least, so ran the gilt-lettered inscription, which had been put up over the door in the days of her predecessor, and had remained there ever since. But it was in reality an all-sorts shop, where nearly everything edible could be procured, and to betray ignorance of Mrs. Watkins was to betray ignorance not only of Beulah Place, but of the whole of the Elysian Fields.

To be sure the long window aided the deception, and was fitted up solely with goods in the grocery line; but enter the dark low door-way, and get an odorous whiff from within, and one's olfactory nerves would soon convince one of the contrary.

There was a flavor of everything there; a blended fragrance compounded of strong cheese, herrings, and candles, with a suspicion of matches and tarred wood, which to the uninitiated was singularly unpalatable, and suggested to them to shake off the dust of Mrs. Watkins as soon as possible.

To be sure this was only a trifle. To do her justice, Mrs. Watkins drove a very thriving trade; the very carters had a partiality for the shop, and would lurch in about twelve o'clock, with their pipes and hob-nailed boots, for a twist of tobacco or a slice of cheese, and crack clumsy jokes across the counter.

But, besides this, Mrs. Watkins had another source of profit that was at once lucrative and respectable. She let lodgings.

And very genteel lodgings they were, with a private entrance in Beulah Place, and a double door that excluded draughts and the heterogeneous odors from the shop.

These lodgers of Mrs. Watkins were the talk of the neighborhood, and many a pa.s.ser-by looked curiously up at the bright windows and clean white curtains, between which in summer time bloomed the loveliest flowers, and the earliest snow-drops and crocuses in spring, in the hope of seeing two fair faces which had rather haunted their memory ever since they had first seen them.

It was six o'clock on the evening of a dreary November day. Watkins's shop was empty, for the fog and the rawness and the cold had driven folks early to their homes; and Mrs. Watkins herself, fortified with strong tea and much b.u.t.tered toast, was entering her profits on a small greasy slate, and casting furtive glances every now and then into the warm, snug parlor, where her nephew and factotum Tony was refres.h.i.+ng himself in his turn from the small black teapot on the hob.

A fresh, wholesome-looking woman was Mrs. Watkins, with an honest, reliable face and a twofold chin; but she had two peculiarities--she always wore the stiffest and cleanest and most crackling of print dresses, and her hair was nearly always pinned up in curl-papers under her black cap.

Mrs. Watkins was engaged in jotting down small dabs of figures on the slate and rubbing them out again, when the green baize swing-door leading to the pa.s.sage was pushed back, and a tall grave-looking woman in black entered the shop and quietly approached the counter.

She was certainly a striking-looking person; in spite of the gray hair and a worn, sad expression, the face bore the trace of uncommon beauty, though all youth and freshness, animation and coloring, had faded out of it.

The profile was almost perfect, and the mouth would have been lovely too but for a certain proud droop of the lips which gave an impression of hardness and inflexibility; but the dark eyes were very soft and melancholy, and seemed to hold a world of sadness in their depths.

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