The sudden turn of the road brought him full upon the house. How changed
the scene! Instead of the scarlet-coated youths thronging the gravelled
ring, flourishing their scented kerchiefs and hunting-whips--instead of
buxom Abigails and handsome mistresses hanging out of the windows, flirting
and chatting and ogling, the door was shut, the blinds were down, the
shutters closed, and the whole house had the appearance of mourning.
Mr. Sponge reined up involuntarily, startled at the change of scene. What
could have happened! Could Sir Harry be dead? Could my lady have eloped?
'Oh, that horrid Bugles!' thought he; 'he looked like a gay deceiver.' And
Mr. Sponge felt as if he had sustained a personal injury.
Just as these thoughts were passing in his mind, a drowsy, slatternly
charwoman, in an old black straw bonnet and grey bed-gown, opened one of
the shutters, and throwing up the sash of the window by where Mr. Sponge
sat, disclosed the contents of the apartment. The last waxlight was just
dying out in the centre of a splendid candelabra on the middle of a table
scattered about with claret-jugs, glasses, decanters, pine-apple tops,
grape-dishes, cakes, anchovy-toast plates, devilled biscuit-racks--all the
concomitants of a sumptuous entertainment.
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