Peter Pash sighed and drew the back of his hand across his mouth, but then his heart failed him, and he shook hands and said “good-night”—words which seemed thrown back at him by the lady of his heart; directly after he withdrew in accordance with the line in italics which appeared at the bottom of his tallow-chandler’s trade card—“N.B. Orders punctually executed!” leaving Keziah Bay, cook and housekeeper to John Richards, the old money-lender, of Walbrook, nipping her lips together, beating one foot upon the fender, and frowning very fiercely at the fire.
For this had been a very exciting affair for Mrs Keziah Bay, since, heretofore, Peter Pash’s custom had been to come three times a week to Walbrook, where he would sit in the half kitchen, half sitting-room, of the dingy old mansion—a house built in the days when merchants condescended to live over their offices, with bedrooms looking down upon warehouse or yard—sit and smoke a pipe while Keziah darned her master’s stockings; stare at her very hard, sup, and say “good-night,” and then go. That was the extent of Peter Pash’s courting. He had certainly once before said something respecting wedding, and been snubbed into silence; but only that once; hence, then, this had been rather an exciting time at Walbrook, and for more reasons than that one.
Mrs Keziah Bay had not been thoughtfully tapping the old-fashioned brass fender with her foot for more than five minutes before the door softly opened and a slight girlish figure entered, to steal quietly to the comely dame’s side, kneel down, and clasp two little white hands round her waist.
“That means trouble, I know,” said Keziah sharply, but all the same one of her hands was passed caressingly over the soft brown hair, and her lips were pressed to the white upturned forehead. “That means trouble, and worry, and upsets, or you wouldn’t come to me. Now, what is it? But there: I know: you’ve been thinking about Frank Marr; haven’t you?”
A sigh was taken for an affirmative answer, and Keziah continued:
“What’s Mr Brough been here for to-night?”
“Don’t talk about it—don’t ask me!” cried the kneeling girl, who now burst out into a passion of weeping. “O, ’Ziah, what shall I do, what shall I do?”
“Why, tell me all about what you’re crying for, to be sure,” cried Keziah sharply; but all the same with a motherly attempt or two at soothing. “Surely master hasn’t been at you again about Mr Frank, has he?”
“O, yes—yes,” sobbed the girl; “and it does seem so cruel and hard. O, ’Ziah, I’ve no one to talk to but you—no one to ask for help. He talks as if Frank could help being poor, and not prospering in his business, when, poor fellow, he strove so hard.”
“But what did he bring all that up for?” cried Keziah. “Mr Frank hasn’t been here these two months, I’ll swear. Did you say anything?”