“My dear young lady,” said the fellow-passenger, “I trust I have not touched on any tender point. When lovely woman stoops to conquer—especially with tears as her weapons—she is irresistible.”
“Really, sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Birdwood, “I must request you to desist from these impertinences and this odious familiarity.”
“A thousand pardons—I am mute.”
On reaching Sandbourne station Mrs. Birdwood dismounted from the train, greatly relieved to be able to shake off the gentleman who had annoyed her. She sought out a modest inn, and then walked down to the shore.
“A pretty pass Josiah will be in,” thought she, “when he finds that I am gone! There will be ructions in the house. Well, if he will run after Finches, he must take the consequences. And Christmas coming on as well, and no comforts, no plum-pudding. I’ll be bound that Jemima will serve up the roast beef without any horse-radish—serve him right; and as to Yorkshire pudding, she can’t make it!—very glad. He’ll suffer where most sensitive. Oh!” She saw a large coloured poster. “A circus! I have not seen one since I was a girl. I will go.”
But she did not enjoy herself at the horsemanship. Her mind reverted to Jessamine Villa, and to a plum-pudding she had made a month ago, and had put away in a tin to be ready for Christmas. She wished she had brought it with her; but she had left it behind, locked up. Her husband knew nothing about it. The slavey was equally ignorant. Now that costly and excellent plum-pudding would be lost, for she would never go back to Jessamine Villa—never, never within the sound of the name of Finch.
That plum-pudding had been made from an excellent recipe given her by her mother—
“5 lb. suet, 4 lb. flour, 3 lb. bread-crumbs, 4½ lb. raisins, 3 lb. currants, 1½ lb. sugar, 1 lb. mixed peel, 1 pint old ale, 1 nutmeg, 6 teaspoonfuls salt, 2 quarts milk, 12 eggs; boiled 8 hours; a sufficient quantity for 9 puddings, 4 of which are large.”
She could rehearse it by heart. Of course, in the small establishment at Jessamine Villa nine puddings—four of which were large—were not required. But the late Mrs. Gubbins had been a woman with a large family and a larger heart, and she had been accustomed to send puddings to her married sons and daughters. Mrs. Birdwood had halved everything, and then had been able to give a pudding to an aunt at Bandon, another she had sent to a married brother in London, a small one she had reserved for a poor old woman who received her charities, and the rest were for Jessamine Villa consumption. And now——
“Dear, dear, dear!” sighed Mrs. Birdwood, not observing anything in the arena.