The domestic life of Thomas and Matthew in their old farmhouse was one of quiet and peaceful days. They were well-to-do, and the land they farmed was good. They had a housekeeper, some ten years their senior, who knew all their ways. They lived the most regular of lives. At eight o'clock they breakfasted. From nine until one they were out and about their fields or their folds. At one they dined, glanced at the newspaper, smoked a pipe, drank one glass, and took a forty seconds nap, each in his own easy-chair. When they were thus refreshed they went out into the land again until half-past five, when high tea was set in the parlour. After its consumption—and they were hearty eaters—the spirit-case was set out with the cigars, and the peaceful duties of the evening began. Sometimes they read more of the newspapers; sometimes they talked of pigs or turnips or the different qualities of artificial manure. And at precisely ten o'clock, having consumed exactly so much grog and smoked exactly so many pipes or cigars, they retired to bed and slept the sleep of the innocent. It was a harmless life and very soothing.
This life, of course, had its occasional variations. There was, for instance, the weekly market-day, when they attended the little town four miles off, did business, dined at the ordinary and took their market allowance. They were generous about the latter, as they were in all matters of food and drink, but nobody ever saw them market-merry—they were much too cautious and wise for that. Then there were occasional fair-days to attend, and sometimes they journeyed into distant parts of the country to buy sheep or cattle—these occurrences made a break in life for them, but it was seldom that their well-fed forms were not found one on each side of the hearthrug when the shades of evening fell.
And then, greatly to the astonishment of Matthew, Thomas suddenly began a new departure. As a rule the brothers rode home together from market; there came a period when he was missing when going home time arrived, and Matthew had to go home without him. On three occasions he got back late, and made excuses. He began to make more excuses about riding into the market-town of an evening, and his twin-brother was often left alone. Matthew grew alarmed, then frightened. And when at last he realized that Thomas, when he went off in this mysterious way, invariably dressed himself up, Matthew broke into a cold sweat and dared to voice a horrible suspicion.
"He's after a woman!"
He glanced round the comfortable parlour and thought what it might mean if Thomas introduced a wife into it. She would, of course, want to alter everything—women always did. She would say that cigars made the curtains smell, and forbid the decanters to be brought out until bed-time. And she would expect, no doubt, to have his easy-chair. The prospects were terrible.
"Who can she be?" he wondered, and his consternation was so great that he let his cigar go out and his grog turn cold.
Thomas came home that night with very bright eyes and a distinguished air. He mixed himself a drink and enthroned himself in his easy-chair.
"Matthew, my lad!" he said in his grandest manner. "Matthew, I've no doubt that people have oft wondered how it was that we never entered into the matrimonial condition of life."
Matthew shook his head sadly. Something was coming.
"Matrimony, Thomas," he answered feebly, "matrimony, now, is a thing that never occurred to me."