“Peter Pash!” exclaimed the lady indignantly, “you’re a great goose; and if I didn’t know that you’d been sitting here three hours without nothing stronger than small beer before you, I should say you’d been drinking. Now, once for all, you can come if you like, or you can stay away if you like. I’m not going even to think about getting married till Miss May’s settled, and that won’t be well, never mind that. Now go home.”
“Yes, my dear,” said Peter in a resigned way, and taking his hat off the sideboard he began to brush the nap round and round very carefully. “But you’re very hard on me, Keziah.”
“Didn’t I tell you to go?” said the lady.
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?”