Rogues and Vagabonds. George R. Sims

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      It is a week since Mr. and Mrs. George Smith have taken up their residence beneath the humble rooftree of Mr. Jabez Duck.

      ‘Quite the gentleman,’ says Miss Duck, when she discusses the new lodgers with her brother.

      ‘And quite the lady,’ adds Mr. Duck, upon whom Bess’s bright country face has made a great impression.

      ‘You’re an idiot, Jabez,’ answers Georgina. ‘She may be a lady in comparison with the persons with whom you are in the habit of associating—housekeepers, cooks, and such like menials—but Mrs. Smith is not a real lady. Anybody could see that with half an eye.’

      ‘Well, my dear, I’ve got four half eyes, and I say distinctly that a well-bred and well-behaved young woman——’

      ‘Quite so, Jabez; she is a very nice young woman: but a young woman is not a young lady.’

      Mr. Jabez gave premonitory symptoms of a small joke by increasing in shininess. A smile spread up to the roots of his hair.

      ‘A young woman is not a young lady; but a young lady must be a young woman. Ha, ha!—that’s a paradox.’

      ‘It may be a paradocks, or a Victoria Docks, or an East India Docks, or any docks you like,’ said Miss Duck, snappishly; ‘but if Mrs. Smith ‘s a lady, I’ll eat my head.’

      ‘Don’t, my dear,’ exclaimed Jabez, with the premonitory shine bursting forth again. ‘It would be sure to bring on indigestion, and your temper’s awful when your digestion’s bad.’

      ‘Jabez, you’re a contemptible idiot. Such frivolous tomfoolery may suit the menial classes with which you mix; but don’t bring it into this house, if you please.’

      Jabez evidently thought he’d made quite as many small jokes as his sister could stand for one day; so he finished his breakfast in silence and departed citywards.

      The menial classes were metaphorically hurled at his head now whenever he and his sister were together; but Jabez was not to be provoked into picking up the gauntlet; and, in spite of all Georgina’s hints, the name of Mrs. Turvey never crossed his lips.

      Leaving Mr. Jabez to get to the office by himself, let us walk upstairs to the first floor, and pay a visit to the newly married couple.

      We will knock at the door first, for young married couples do not sit on either side of the room, with all the furniture between them as a barricade, like many old married couples do.

      Mr. and Mrs. Smith have just finished breakfast. George is sitting in a low chair reading the newspaper, and Bess is on a hassock at his feet, looking up at him and doing a little quiet hero-worship.

      Their marriage certificate is a week old. George resided in the apartments long enough to qualify for a licence, and then Bess came up to town and they were married quietly, and went back to spend their honeymoon at Dalston. George has been so good and kind, and Bess has been so happy, it has been quite like fairyland. Wandering about the Park hand in hand, lunching at the pastrycooks’, going to Madame Tussaud’s and to the theatre—it had seemed as if the people who had never got married on the sly and gone into apartments for the honeymoon could never have known what real happiness was.

      George let a week go by in unalloyed bliss, then he put his hand in his pocket and counted his change out of the forty pounds he started married life with; he had but twenty left. Directly he made that discovery it was decided to take buses instead of cabs, and to go to the pit instead of the upper boxes, ‘And George dear,’ said Bess, ‘we must be very careful and economical till you get something to do. I think we’ll begin to dine at home instead of going out every day.’

      ‘Yes, dear, I think we’d better,’ said George. ‘I suppose Miss Duck won’t mind you cooking in the kitchen?’

      ‘Of course not, dear. Let’s start housekeeping to-day. What shall we have for dinner?’

      George suggested lots of things, but they were all too much for two people.

      Bess was perplexed too. Suddenly a bright idea occurred.

      ‘Oh, George dear,’ she said, ‘do you think you could eat a nice little toad-in-the-hole?’

      ‘A toad-in-the hole, little woman? Splendid! I say, can you really make one, though?’

      ‘Yes, indeed I can. Father used to say——’

      For a moment her voice quivered and her eyes filled with tears.

      Smiling through them as the April sun gleams through the showers she went on:

      ‘You must taste my toad-in-the-hole. I’ll make one to-day, and you shall help me.’

      ‘I—I don’t think I can, dear,’ answered her husband, pulling his moustache doubtfully. ‘I’m an awful duffer with my hands, you know.’

      ‘Don’t be a goose. You shall go and buy the things.’

      George had his hat on directly.

      Bess gave him her reticule to take on his arm, and then told him to buy two neck chops and some flour and some eggs.

      ‘And be sure you see your change is right, you careless boy,’ she added, laughing.

      George Heritage marching down the street with a reticule in his hand was a sight worth seeing. He felt as proud of his commission as if Her Majesty had made him a plenipotentiary. He wasn’t quite sure where you got the flour and the eggs, so he tried the butcher’s for the latter and the greengrocer’s for the former, but at last he got into the right shops.

      ‘I want some flour, please,’ he said to the man behind the counter.

      ‘How much, sir?’

      ‘Well, I don’t know quite. About enough to make a toad-in-the-hole for two.’

      The man stared at his customer for a minute, and then suggested perhaps half a quartern would do.

      ‘Certainly,’ said George. If the man had said a hundredweight or an ounce he would have said the same.

      When all his commissions were executed—though not without considerable puzzling over quantities—George marched home in triumph.

      He had only broken one egg and let the flour all over the reticle by poking the chops in so that the sharp point of the bone made a hole in the bag. Bess lifted the lid, looked into the reticule, and gave a little scream.

      It was annoying to have the chops and a broken egg and the flour all mixed up together; but still, as it was George’s first journey to market, he was forgiven.

      He had a hug, and was ordered to sit still and not get into mischief while his wife went downstairs into the kitchen and prepared the delicate dish.

      It was a happy dinner, I can tell you; better than all your Richmond follies and your London restaurant nonsenses. СКАЧАТЬ