"A good wife, ma'am, is a jewel,—the tears are still in your eyes,—and will you allow me to make you an offer——"
"An offer!" said Mrs. Jennings; and the tears, spite of herself, shrunk back, as though ashamed of what they were doing,—"an offer!"
"Of my handkerchief," said Theophilus.
A clover-field is a dangerous thing to walk in. Philosophers may divine the cause,—we only know it is so; sentiment is not for the highway: love and clover are synonymous. Mrs. Jennings knew this, and trotted the unsuspecting, uninitiated Theophilus into one, accordingly. Poppies, we know not why, do grow in clover; and Bullfinch—he was fond of botanising—plucked one, and, lamenting that violets were out of bloom, gave it to Mrs. Jennings. This was enough; and she whispered to the lady who was doing thirdy, "He must mean something."
The town residence of Theophilus Bullfinch was in one of the squares in the neighbourhood of the Museum. But what is a house if it want a woman's smile? So thought Mrs. Jennings and she let no opportunity pass of "popping in;"—we are grieved to say the popping was all upon her side. She would call as she was passing—the day was so hot—to take a rest; or the day was so cold, and she wanted—the truth must be spoken—a warm! What could Theophilus do? With a grim welcome on his face, and a "D—n the woman!" in his heart, he grumbled out, "You'd better take a chair." Mrs. Jennings did, and anything else she could get. But getting was a point not easily arrived at; for if Bullfinch loved one thing more than another, it was himself. She would bring him, by way of treat, wrapt in the corner of her pocket handkerchief; five or six nice little ginger-cakes, of her own making, of the size, and bearing a strong family likeness to what children call "sixes;" but finding all her entreaties thrown away, and her ginger-cakes likely to be in the same predicament, she would in the liberality of her soul take them into the kitchen by way of present to the housekeeper, who "pshaw'd!" as soon as her back was turned, and, enlarging upon the merits of her own ginger-cakes, gave them to the maid, and she—they went no farther: servant-maids have good appetites.
What woman could bear these slights of fortune tamely? We can take upon ourselves to say Mrs. Jennings did not; but, intent upon the one great object of a woman's life,—a husband,—she let no opportunity pass of reporting that herself and Theophilus were shortly to be one, fully convinced of the fact that, though marriages may be made in heaven, there is nothing like speculating upon them on earth; and hoping, no doubt, to discover the true philosophers stone, which "turneth all to gold,"—Theophilus was a man of wealth,—she left no stone unturned to get him; and, to give things an appearance, she sat herself down—we tremble as we write—in no less a place than his bedroom, determined not to quit it until, as she observed, "there was an understanding between them." Theophilus was horror-stricken, the housekeeper no less so, and the servant-maid all flutters and ribbons.
"Oh! oh!" gasped the widow, "you base man!—a weak woman as I am!"
"Very!" grunted Theophilus.
The housekeeper here interfered. "What's the use of crying about it? Why don't you look after somebody else?"
"Ah!" sobbed the widow, "you don't know what's atwixt us!"