by Barry Pain
But as we went to church I discovered that she wanted a new jacket. Herown was trimmed rabbit, and had been good, but the fur had gone bald inplaces.
* * * * *
Next morning I wrote on a sheet of note-paper, "To buy a new jacket.With your husband's love." I folded the two sovereigns up in this, anddropped the packet into the pocket of Eliza's old jacket, as it hung inthe wardrobe, not telling her what I had done. My idea was that shewould put on the jacket to go out shopping in the morning, and puttingher hand in the pocket, get a pleasant surprise. As I was leaving fortown, she asked me why I kept on smiling so mysteriously. I replied,"Perhaps you, too, will smile before the day is over."
On my return I found Eliza at the front door. "Come and look," shesaid, cheerfully. "I have got a pleasant surprise for you." She flungopen the drawing-room door, and pointed. In the middle of the tablestood a _spiraea_, a most handsome and graceful plant. It stood in oneof the best saucers, with some coloured paper round the pot, and thegeneral effect was very good. I at once guessed that she had bought itfor me with the change from my present to her, and thought it showedvery good feeling in her.
"I hope you have not given too much for this," I said.
"I didn't give any money for it."
"I don't understand."
"Well, you must know I had a present this morning."
"Of course I know."
"Did mother tell you? Yes, she has sent me a beautiful new jacket. Thena man came round with a barrow of plants, and he said he didn't wantmoney if I had any clothes to spare. So I gave him my old worn-outjacket for this _spiraea_, and----"
I remembered that I had seen the man with the barrow farther down thestreet.
"Excuse me for one moment, Eliza," I said, and dashed out after him.
* * * * *
He was a big, red-faced man, and he made no difficulty about it at all.
"Yes," he said, "I bought that jacket, gov'ner, and I don't deny it.There it is at the bottom of my bundle, and I ain't even looked at itsince. Nor I ain't goin' to look now. You say there was two suvreignsin the pocket. A gent like you don't want to swindle a common man likeme. If you say the two suvreigns was there, then they're there now, andI can return yer two pound out o' my own, in a suttunty of gettin' 'emback out o' the jacket pocket. Bless yer! I knows an honest man when Isees one."
With these words he drew the money from his own waistcoat pocket, andhanded it to me. I took it with some reluctance.
"Hadn't you better make quite certain----"
"Not a bit," says he. "If them suvreigns were there when the jacketwere 'anded to me, they is there now. I could see as you was a man tobe trusted, otherwise I'd 'ave undone the bundle and searched longafore this."
* * * * *
"What have you been doing?" said Eliza, on my return.
"Never mind. Your mother has given you a new jacket. Let me have thepleasure of giving you a new hat." I pressed the two coins into herpalm.
She looked at them, and said, "You can't get a hat for a halfpenny, youknow, dear. What did you rush out for just now? And why did you havethese two farthings gilded? You'll be mistaking them for sovereigns, ifyou're not careful. Were you trying to take me in?"
I did not quite see what to say for the moment, and so I took hersuggestion. I explained that it was a joke.
"You don't look much as if you were joking."
"But I was. I suppose I ought to know if any man does. However, Eliza,if you want a new hat, anything up to half a sovereign, you've only tosay it."
She said it, thanked me, and asked me to come and help her water the_spiraea_.
"It's such a shapely _spiraea_," she said.
"Yes," I answered sadly, "it's a regular plant." And so it was, thoughI had not been intending what the French call a _double entendre_ atthe time.
THE MOPWORTHS
I must say that both Eliza and myself felt a good deal of contempt forthe Mopworths. We had known them for three years, and that gave us aclaim; Peter Mopworth was a connection of Eliza's by marriage, and thatalso gave us a claim; further, our social position gave us a claim.Nevertheless, the Mopworths were to have their annual party on thefollowing Wednesday, and they had not invited us.
"Upon my soul," I exclaimed, "I never in my life heard of anything soabsolutely paltry."
"I can't think why it is," said Eliza.
"Oh, we're not good enough for them. We all know who his father was,and we all know what he is--a petty provincial shopkeeper! A gentlemanholding important employment in one of the principal mercantile firmsin the city isn't good enough for him. If I'm permitted to clean hisboots I'm sure I ought to be thankful. Oh, yes! Of course! No doubt!"
"You do get so sarcastic," observed Eliza.
"That's nothing--nothing to what I should be if I let myself go. But Idon't choose to let myself go. I don't think he's worth it, and I don'tthink she's worth it either. It's a pity, perhaps, that they don't knowthat they're making themselves ridiculous, but it can't be helped.Personally, I sha'n't give the thing another thought."
"That's the best thing to do," said Eliza.
"Of course it is. Why trouble one's head about people of that class?And, I say, Eliza, if you meet that Mopworth woman in the street,there's no occasion for you to recognize her."
"That would look as if we were terribly cut up because we hadn't beenasked to their party."
"Possibly. Whereas, I don't even consider it worth talking about."
We discussed the Mopworths and their party for another hour and a half,and then went to bed.
* * * * *
"Lying awake last night," I said at breakfast next morning, "I couldn'thelp thinking over the different things we have done for thoseserpents."
"What serpents?"
"Those contemptible Mopworths. I wonder if they have any feelings ofshame? If they have, they must blush when they think of the way theyhave treated us."
"I can't think why they've left us out. Perhaps it's a mistake."
"Not a bit of it. I've been expecting this for some time. Of course hehas made money. I don't say--I would rather _not_ say--how he has madeit. But it seems to have turned his head. However, after this I shallprobably never mention him again."
Eliza began to talk about the weather. I told her that Mopworth haddone things which, personally, I should have been very sorry to do, andthat I should be reluctant to adopt his loud style of dress.
"But, of course," I added, "no gentleman ever does dress like that."
Eliza said that if I intended to catch my train I had better start.
I started.
* * * * *
On my return I said to Eliza that, though the whole subject wasdistasteful to me, there was one point to which I had given a fewmoments' consideration. Reluctant though I was to sully my lips withthe name of Mopworth, I felt it a duty to myself to say that even ifthe Mopworths had asked us to their annual party I should have refusedpoint-blank.
"Really?" said Eliza. This annoyed me slightly. She ought to have seen,without being told, that it was impossible for people like us tocontinue to know people like them.
"I am accustomed," I replied, "to say just exactly what I mean. As faras I can remember, I have lately more than once asked you to drop theMopworths. If I have not actually done it, it has been in my mind to doso. They are connected to us by marriage, and I am not unduly proud,but still I feel that we must draw the line somewhere. I do not care tohave Mopworth bragging about the place that he is on intimate termswith us."
"Well," said Eliza, "there aren't such a lot of people who ever ask usto anything. Miss Sakers is friendly, of course, especially when thereare subscriptions on for the bazaar or the new organ, but she doesn'tcarry it to that point."
"Quite so," I said, "and I'm by no means certain about Miss Sake
rs. Shemay be all right. I hope she is. But I candidly confess that I by nomeans like her manner."
At this moment the girl brought in a note, delivered by hand, from Mrs.Mopworth. It said that she had sent an invitation to Eliza but had hadno reply. She felt so certain that the invitation must have beendelayed in the post (which was not surprising, considering the season),that she had ventured to write again, though it might be againstetiquette. She hoped that we should both be able to come, and said thaton the previous occasion I had been the life and soul of the party.
"Well," I said, "Eliza, what would you like to do?"
"Oh, I'm going!" she replied.
"Then if you insist, I shall go with you. I've never had a word to sayagainst Mrs. Mopworth. It is true that _he_ is not in every particularwhat--well, what I should care to be myself. Possibly he has not had myadvantages. I do not want to judge him too harshly. My dress clothesare put away with my summer suit in the second drawer in the box-room.Just put them to the fire to get the creases out. And, Eliza, write afriendly note to Mrs. Mopworth, implying that we had never heard of theparty. I saw from the first that the omission was a mistake."
Eliza went away smiling. Women are so variable.
THE PEN-WIPER
Eliza always works me some little pretty trifle for my birthday, andalways has done so since the day when I led her to the hymeneal altar.But it is not done at all as a matter of course. During the days beforemy birthday, when she is working at the present, she keeps a cleanhandkerchief by her side, and flings it over the work to hide it when Ienter the room. This makes it more of a surprise when the day comes. Asa rule, I whistle a few bars in a careless way before entering theroom, so as to give her plenty of time to get the work under thehandkerchief. There is no definite arrangement about this. I merely dowhat good taste dictates. Last year, instead of the handkerchief, shekept a large table-napkin by her side when she was working. However,though I did not tell her so, this let the secret out. I knew that shemust be doing me a pair of slippers.
* * * * *
This year, on my birthday, when I came down to breakfast, I foundplaced before me the hot-water plate with the tin cover to it--a veryuseful article when there happens to be an invalid in the house.
Eliza, bending down behind the tea-cosy to hide her smile, told me tobe quick with my breakfast, in rather a censorious voice. I lifted thetin cover, and there on the plate was the pen-wiper which Eliza hadmade for me.
This rather graceful and amusing way of giving a present is not reallyEliza's own invention. I did it some years ago when I gave her apincushion. As the pincushion was made to imitate a poached egg (andreally very like), perhaps the humour in that instance had rather morepoint. However, I do not say this at all to find fault with Eliza. I amrather one to think of novelties, and if Eliza cares to copy any ofthem, so much the better.
* * * * *
The top and bottom of the pen-wiper which Eliza had made for me were ofblack velvet, which always has a handsome look to my mind. On the topwas worked in gold beads, "Kindly clean the pen." The interior wascomposed of several folds of very pale shades of art muslin. Only theday before Messrs. Howlett & Bast had refused to send any morepatterns, as the last lot sent had not been returned, though twiceapplied for. I understood that now.
However, it made a very good pen-wiper, in pleasant, simple taste, andI thanked Eliza for it several times most warmly. At my suggestion itwas placed on the centre-table in the drawing-room. One never wrotethere, but it seemed naturally to belong to the drawing-room.
* * * * *
So far, my birthday had gone happily enough. In the evening, when Ireturned from the city, I sat down to write a short, sharp note toMessrs. Howlett & Bast. I explained to them that by their impertinencethey were running a grave risk of entirely losing my custom, andsuggested to them that the lot of patterns to which they referred mightvery possibly have been lost in the post.
When I had finished the letter, I wiped my pen on the inside of mycoat. This is my general custom. Some men wipe their pens on theirhair,--not a very cleanly habit, in my opinion,--besides, unless thecolour of the hair is exceptionally dark, the ink shows.
I had no sooner wiped my pen on the inside of my coat than I rememberedEliza's present. Determined to show her that I appreciated it, I took afull dip of ink, stepped into the drawing-room, and wiped the pen onthe new pen-wiper. Then I called up-stairs: "Eliza, I have just foundyour present very useful. Would you like to come and look?" Shehappened to be fastening something up the back at the time, but shecame down a minute afterward.
She picked up the pen-wiper, looked at it, exclaimed "Ruined!" and thenwalked rapidly out of the room. I followed her, and asked what was thematter.
It appeared that the words, "Kindly clean the pen," meant that the penwas to be cleaned on a scrap of paper before the pen-wiper was used.Eliza said that I might have known that the pretty muslin was notintended to be a perfect mess of ink.
"Well," I said, "I didn't know. That's all there is to say about it."
But it was not, apparently, all that there was to say about it. Infact, the whole thing cast an unpleasant shade over the evening of mybirthday. Finally I took a strong line, and refused to speak at all.
THE 9.43
In the course of conversation on Saturday evening it had transpiredthat Eliza had never been in St. Paul's Cathedral. "Then," I said, "youshall go there to-morrow morning; I will take you."
"I'm sure I'm agreeable," said Eliza.
On the Sunday morning one or two little things had happened to put meout. At breakfast I had occasion to say that the eggs were stone-cold,and Eliza contradicted me. It was very absurd of her. As I pointed outto her, what earthly motive could I have for saying that an egg wascold if it was not? What should I gain by it? Of course she had noanswer--that is, no reasonable answer. Then after breakfast I broke myboot-lace in two places. No, I was not angry. I hope I can keep mytemper as well as most men. But I was in a state of mind bordering onthe irritable.
* * * * *
Eliza came down-stairs, dressed for going out, asked me why I was notready, and said we should miss the 9.43.
"Indeed!" said I. "And what, precisely, might you mean by the 9.43?"
"I mean, precisely, the train which leaves here for the city atseventeen minutes to ten."
"One of your usual mistakes," I replied. "The train is 9.53, and not9.43."
"Have you a time-table?" she asked.
"No."
"Because if you had a time-table I could show you that you are wrong.Why, I _know_ it's the 9.43."
"If I had a time-table I could show you most certainly that it is the9.53. Not that you'd believe it, even then. You're too obstinate,Eliza--too certain of yourself!"
* * * * *
"Look here!" I observed, after she had argued that point at somelength, "let us come back to the original subject of discussion. Whichof us travels most to and from London? That is the reasonable way tosettle it."
"You do, on week-days. But you never go on Sundays, and the Sundaytrains are different."
"I am fully aware of the difference. Every day I am thrown intoconstant contact with the time-tables. Only last night I was looking atthem at the station. As far as I know, my memory is not going."
"No more is mine."
"Really? A week ago I purchased and brought home six new collars. Theyare not marked. Why? Because you forgot them! At this very moment thatI am speaking to you I am wearing an unmarked collar."
"Yes; but I only forgot them one day."
"Then why did you not mark them on the other days?"
"Because on the other days you forgot to bring home the marking-ink."
"'M, yes," I said. "In a sense that is true. I have my own business toattend to in the city without always thinking about markin
g-ink. Butwhat has that got to do with it? And why bring it in? We are nottalking about marking-ink; we are talking about trains!"
She said that I began it, and of course I pointed out to her that I haddone nothing of the kind.
* * * * *
We argued for some little time as to which of us had begun it, and thenEliza said, in her spiteful way--
"We are not talking about which of us began it; we are talking abouttrains!"
"It's very little use talking to you about trains. I know you're wrong!I would stake my life, cheerfully, that it is 9.53, and not 9.43. Butyou'd never own you're wrong; you're too obstinate for that!"
"Of course I don't own I'm wrong, because I'm not wrong! That would besilly!" she added, reflectively. "Even if it was 9.53, I shouldn't bewrong. All I said was, that we should miss the 9.43. Well, if there isno 9.43, we cannot catch it; and what you don't catch, you miss!"
"Absurd nonsense! If you do not catch scarlet fever, you do not saythat you miss it!"
She replied: "We are not talking about scarlet fever; we are talkingabout trains!"
"Bah!" I exclaimed. I should have added more, but at this moment theclock on the dining-room mantelpiece struck ten.
THE CONUNDRUMS
I had bought the little book at the station stall, and it seemed to bevery well worth the sixpence which I paid for it. It was entitled"Everybody's Book of Bright and Original Conundrums." Of course I hadan idea in my head in buying the book; I am not the man to throw awaymy money to no purpose. I thought that these conundrums would be notonly a pleasant amusement, but also a valuable intellectual exercise toEliza and myself during the winter evenings. Then we could use them forsocial purposes during the Christmas party season. I do not know how itmay be with others, but I have often found, when introduced to a lady,that I have said "Good evening," and then had absolutely nothing elseto say. With the help of the conundrum book I would fill in any awkwardpause by asking her who was the most amiable king in history. Thatwould break the ice. Besides, if we kept the book reasonably clean, itmight afterward make a very serviceable and acceptable present toEliza's mother. I generally know pretty well what I am doing, I think.I looked at two or three of the conundrums on the way home. There wasone which I do not remember precisely, but remarkably clever--somethingabout training the shoot and shooting the train. I often wonder who itis who thinks of these things.