mind it was a breach of faith for him not to send and say that he regretted an appointment with Azrael prevented his habitual fleshly appearance at the Aurora. The cook and head-waiter, interrogated as to their dealings with the old gentleman, testified solemnly to the fact of their having performed their duty by him. They would not go against their interests so much as to forget one of his ways, they said—taking oath, as it were, by their lower nature, in order to be credited: an instinct men have of one another. The landlady could not contradict them, for the old gentleman had made no complaint; but then she called to memory that fifteen years back, in such and such a year, Wednesday’s dish had been, by shameful oversight, furnished him for Tuesday’s, and he had eaten it quietly, but refused his Port; which pathetic event had caused alarm and inquiry, when the error was discovered, and apologised for, the old gentleman merely saying, “Don’t let it happen again.” Next day he drank his Port, as usual, and the wheels of the Aurora went smoothly. The landlady was thus justified in averring that something had been done by somebody, albeit unable to point to anything specific. Women, who are almost as deeply bound to habit as old gentlemen, possess more of its spiritual element, and are warned by dreams, omens, creepings of the flesh, unwonted chills, suicide of china, and other shadowing signs, when a break is to be anticipated, or has occurred. The landlady of the Aurora tavern was visited by none of these, and with that sweet and beautiful trust which habit gives, and which boastful love or vainer earthly qualities would fail in affecting, she ordered that the pint of Madeira stood from six o’clock in the evening till seven—a small monument of confidence in him who was at one instant the “poor old dear;” at another, the “naughty old gad-about;” further, the “faithless old good-for-nothing;” and again, the “blessed pet” of the landlady’s parlour, alternately and indiscriminately apostrophised by herself, her sister, and daughter.
On the last day of the month a step was heard coming up the long alley which led from the riotous, scrambling street to the plentiful, cheerful heart of the Aurora. The landlady knew the step. She checked the natural flutterings of her ribbons, toned down the strong simper that was on her lips, rose, pushed aside her daughter, and, as the step approached, curtsied composedly. Old Habit lifted his hat, and passed. With the same touching confidence in the Aurora that the Aurora had in him, he went straight to his corner, expressed no surprise at his welcome by the Madeira, and thereby apparently indicated that his appearance should enjoy a similar immunity.
As of old, he called “Jonathan!” and was not to be disturbed till he did so. Seeing that Jonathan smirked and twiddled his napkin, the old gentleman added, “Tuesday!”
But Jonathan, a man, had not his mistress’s keen intuition of the deportment necessitated by the case, or was incapable of putting the screw upon weak excited nature, for he continued to smirk, and was remarking how glad he was, he was sure, and something he had dared to think and almost to fear, when the old gentleman called to him, as if he were at the farther end of the room, “Will you order Tuesday, or not, sir?” Whereat Jonathan flew, and two or three cosy diners glanced up from their plates, or the paper, smiled, and pursued their capital occupation.
“Glad to see me!” the old gentleman muttered, querulously. “Of course, glad to see a customer! Why do you tell me that? Talk! tattle! might as well have a woman to wait—just!”
He wiped his forehead largely with his handkerchief, as one whom Calamity hunted a little too hard in summer weather.
“No tumbling-room for the wine, too!”
That was his next grievance. He changed the pint of Madeira from his left side to his right, and went under his handkerchief again, feverishly. The world was severe with this old gentleman.
“Ah! clock wrong now!”
He leaned back like a man who can no longer carry his burdens, informing Jonathan, on his coming up to place the roll of bread and firm butter, that he was forty seconds too fast, as if it were a capital offence, and he deserved to step into Eternity for outstripping Time.
“But, I daresay, you don’t understand the importance of a minute,” said the old gentleman, bitterly. “Not you, or any of you. Better if we had run a little ahead of your minute, perhaps—and the rest of you! Do you think you can cancel the mischief that’s done in the world in that minute, sir, by hurrying ahead like that? Tell me!”
Rather at a loss, Jonathan scanned the clock seriously, and observed that it was not quite a minute too fast.
The old gentleman pulled out his watch.
“Forty seconds! That’s enough. Men are hung for what’s done in forty seconds. Mark the hour, sir! mark the hour, and read the newspaper attentively for a year!”
With which stern direction the old gentleman interlaced his fingers on the table, and sounded three emphatic knocks, while his chin, his lips, nose, and eyebrows were pushed up to a regiment of wrinkles.
“We’ll put it right, sir, presently,” murmured Jonathan, in soothing tones; “I’ll attend to it myself.”
The old gentleman seemed not to object to making the injury personal, though he complained on broad grounds, for he grunted that a lying clock was hateful to him; subsequently sinking into contemplation of his thumbs,—a sign known to Jonathan as indicative of the old gentleman’s system having resolved, in spite of external outrages, to be fortified with calm to meet the repast.
It is not fair to go behind an eccentric; but the fact was, this old gentleman was slightly ashamed of his month’s vagrancy and cruel conduct, and cloaked his behaviour towards the Aurora, in all the charges he could muster against it. You see, he was very human, albeit an odd form of the race.
Happily for his digestion of , the cook, warned by Jonathan, kept the old gentleman’s time, not the Aurora’s: and the dinner was correct; the dinner was eaten in peace; the