stairs, where he halted, and wiped his face, blowing lustily.
Mrs. Mel had been watching him with calm scorn all the while. She saw him attempt most ridiculously to impel the trunk upwards by a similar process, and thought it time to interfere.
“Don’t you see, sir, you must either take it on your shoulders, or have a help?”
The old gentleman sprung up from his peculiarly tight posture to blaze round at her. He had the words well-peppered on his mouth, but somehow he stopped, and was subsequently content to growl: “Where’s the help in a parcel o’ petticoats?”
Mrs. Mel did not consider it necessary to give him an answer. She went up two or three steps, and took hold of one handle of the trunk, saying: “There; I think it can be managed this way,” and she pointed for him to seize the other end with his hand.
He was now in that unpleasant state of prickly heat when testy old gentlemen could commit slaughter wholesale with ecstasy. Had it been the maid holding a candle who had dared to venture to advise, he would have overturned her undoubtedly, and established a fresh instance of the impertinence, the uselessness, and weakness of women. Mrs. Mel topped him by half a head, and in addition stood three steps above him; towering like a giantess. The extreme gravity of her large face dispersed all idea of an assault. The old gentleman showed signs of being horribly injured: nevertheless, he put his hand to the trunk: it was lifted, and the procession ascended the stairs in silence.
The landlady waited for Mrs. Mel to return, and then said:
“Really, Mrs. Harrington, you are clever. That lifting that trunk’s as good as a lock and bolt on him. You’ve as good as made him a Dolphin—him that was one o’ the oldest Green Dragons in Fallifield. My thanks to you most sincere.”
Mrs. Mel sent out to hear where Dandy had got to: after which, she said: “Who is the man?”
“I told you, Mrs. Harrington—the oldest Green Dragon. His name, you mean? Do you know, if I was to breathe it out, I believe he’d jump out of the window. He’d be off, that you might swear to. Oh, such a whimsical! not ill-meaning—quite the contrary. Study his whims, and you’ll never want. There’s Mrs. Sockley—she’s took ill. He won’t go there—that’s how I’ve caught him, my dear—but he pays her medicine, and she looks to him the same. He hate a sick house: but he pity a sick woman. Now, if I can only please him, I can always look on him as half a Dolphin, to say the least; and perhaps to-morrow I’ll tell you who he is, and what, but not to-night; for there’s his supper to get over, and that, they say, can be as bad as the busting of one of his own vats. Awful!”
“What does he eat?” said Mrs. Mel.
“A pair o’ chops. That seem simple, now, don’t it? And yet they chops make my heart go pitty-pat.”
“The commonest things are the worst done,” said Mrs. Mel.
“It ain’t that; but they must be done his particular way, do you see, Mrs. Harrington. Laid close on the fire, he say, so as to keep in the juice. But he ups and bounces in a minute at a speck o’ black. So, one thing or the other, there you are: no blacks, no juices, I say.”
“Toast the chops,” said Mrs. Mel.
The landlady of the Dolphin accepted this new idea with much enlightenment, but ruefully declared that she was afraid to go against his precise instructions. Mrs. Mel then folded her hands, and sat in quiet reserve. She was one of those numerous women who always know themselves to be right. She was also one of those very few whom Providence favours by confounding dissentients. She was positive the chops would be ill-cooked: but what could she do? She was not in command here; so she waited serenely for the certain disasters to enthrone her. Not that the matter of the chops occupied her mind particularly; nor could she dream that the pair in question were destined to form a part of her history, and divert the channel of her fortunes. Her thoughts were about her own immediate work; and when the landlady rushed in with the chops under a cover, and said: “Look at ’em, dear Mrs. Harrington! do look at ’em!” she had forgotten that she was again to be proved right by the turn of events.
“Oh, the chops!” she responded. “Yes: they don’t look bad. Send them while they’re hot.”
“Send ’em! Why you don’t think I’d have risked their cooling? I have sent ’em; and what do he do but send ’em travelling back, and here they be; and what objections his is I might study till I was blind, and I shouldn’t see ’em.”
“No; I suppose not,” said Mrs. Mel. “He won’t eat them?”
“Won’t eat anything: but his bed-room candle immediately. And whether his sheets are aired. And Mary says he sniffed at the chops; and that gal really did expect he’d fling them at her. I told you what he was. Oh, dear!”
The bell was heard ringing in the midst of the landlady’s lamentations.
“Go to him yourself,” said Mrs. Mel. “No Christian man should go to sleep without his supper.”
“Ah! but he ain’t a common Christian,” returned Mrs. Hawkshaw.
The old gentleman was in a hurry to know when his bed-room candle was coming up, or whether they intended to give him one at all that night; if not, let them say so, as he liked plain-speaking. The moment Mrs. Hawkshaw touched upon the chops, he stopped her mouth.
“Go about your business, ma'am. You can’t cook ’em. I never expected you could cook ’em: I was a fool to try you. It requires at least ten years instruction before a man can get a woman to cook his chop as he likes it.”
“But what was your complaint, sir?” said Mrs. Hawkshaw, imploringly.
“That’s right!” and he rubbed his hands, and brightened his eyes savagely. “That’s the way.