"I wish the street-door was," thought Bullfinch.
The lady was inexorable. "The poppy," she said, "had done the business! If she had only someone to care for her!" Her feelings overcame her, and she lay upon the bed in agony of finely-developed grief, we presume, for the convenience of fainting.
Theophilus was at his wits' end, and a something very like a "D—n me!" was at his tongue's; but, "nursing his wrath," and echoing the words of an Eastern sultan, that "he who finds himself in a fire ought to be resigned to the Divine will; but whoever is out of the fire ought to be careful, and keep himself in his happy state." Thus far he thought with Mahomet; so he put on his hat and sallied forth, leaving Mrs. Jennings in undisputed possession of his bed. Whether this argued a want of taste, or was only a chastening of the spirit, we will not attempt to define; but certain it is he went out, and the widow, finding her efforts ineffectual, did the ditto.
Days passed, and so did Mrs. Jennings the house; the servant-maid, with a prudent industry, answering the door in the area. Bullfinch (in a money-getting lane in the City the curious reader will see the Co. written after it) was a merchant; and as, in the ordinary course of things, it is necessary to emerge into the streets previously to reaching the place "where merchants most do congregate," what was to be done?—for never did cat watch a rat-hole more patiently, more hungrily, than the widow the doorway of his house. His modesty was not widow-proof; and the only way to shun her, was by a back-door, which opened into a mews: patiently picking his way through mire and dirty straw, did Theophilus, cursing widows and poppies, wend his way; whilst she—patience had ceased to be a virtue—vowed vengeance in the streets.
On a wet day, a day of gloom and splash,—the streets running rivers, and the skies shedding drops like pebbles,—the passengers dripping, drenching,—and the New Police, all love and oil-skin, sheltering themselves under doors and gateways,—sat Theophilus Bullfinch, Esq. in his easy-chair, brightening the blaze of warm fire by a fresh "stir," smugly sipping his wine, and in the uprising of his heart wishing confusion to all widows, and devoting a full glass to the particular condemnation of Mrs. Jennings. Every now and then he cast an eye to the patting rain and floating streets, and thanked Heaven which had set the fruits of fortune ripened for his plucking, and given him that which made life like a full cup, that he could drink from, nor tire of. He sat in "contemplation sweet."
"Whence comes that knocking?" he might have said, had not the servant-maid saved him the trouble, by saying a young man wanted to see him.
"Me!" ejaculated Theophilus.
"Yes, sir," was the reply, and, after much scrubbing on the doormat, in a vein endeavour to rub his boots clean, the young man was shown up, soaked to the skin, and dripping like a watering-pot. Theophilus opened his eyes; the young man took the same liberty with his mouth, and inquired if his name was Bullfinch? The answer was in the affirmative. A chair was set; the servant left the room, and, looking at the muddy footsteps on the stair-carpets, uttered sundry pretty little sayings about "dirty feet," "her trouble in the morning;" &c. and retailed her complaints to the goddess of the kitchen.
The young man commenced by saying he had brought a little account.
"And a great deal of wet," gently murmured Theophilus. "A little account!"