Too Late.
“Now just you put that back where you took it from, Mr Impudence, or I’ll tell your master.”
“There you are, then, my dear; that’s as near the spot as I can recollect,” said the person addressed, giving Jane Barker a hearty smack on her rosy cheek, such a liberty being a little excusable on a wedding-day.
“Take your arm from round me, then; you can tell me without that, I’m sure,” said Jane, shrinking back into the rectory kitchen.
“No, I can’t; and how do I know but what perhaps, after I’ve been loving you with all my might, and saving up so as we may be married, there mayn’t come a foreign lover, a currier, or something of that sort, and cut me out?”
“Don’t be a fool, John!” exclaimed Jane, “and do adone there. I do declare—and serve you right, too! Such impudence!”
There was the sound of a smart slap received upon his cheek by John Gurdon, from the sole of one of the Rector’s very broad old slippers, a weapon held in Jane’s hand at the moment; and now she stood arranging her ruffled plumes, and gazing very defiantly at the red-cheeked gentleman before her.
“Well, that’s pretty, certainly,” he said, half in anger. “What are you doing with that shoe?”
“It’s to slap the other side of your face with, if you’re saucy,” cried Jane, “now then; and if you’re not, it’s to give to cook to throw after the carriage when we go, for luck, you know; and it’s bad enough we need it, I’m sure, for I never saw such a set-out. There’s young missus looking that stony and dreadful and never speaking, it quite frightens me. I wouldn’t care if she would only cry; but she won’t. But do tell me.”