MY FRIEND'S HUSBAND.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 570, 18 March 1870, Page 3

MY FRIEND'S HUSBAND.

My friend Mrs Gedder is the wife of a retired naval officer. Why in the world his family selected that profession for him in his youth, I have always been at a loss to imagine ; for never had any one less of the jolly tar or more of the fidget in his composition. Nothing is so trifling as to be below his notice, or of too small consequence to be of a long debate or prosy discussion. If on a visit at his house, the first person you encounter on descending of a morning is always Mr Gedder. He is occupied in what he calls making a good fire, . with which laudable end in view he sits, tongs in hand, inserting small scraps of coal into every available aperture of the bars, varying this process in a pleasing manner by every five minutes seizing the poker and stirring them all out again before they have had the slightest chance of becoming ignited. " Good morning, . Miss Smith," he exclaims, with a dig of the poker; " there's nothing so cheering as a good fire, I think ; don't ypu think so ? Servants never do make a good fire unless it happens to be a very warm morning." Dig goes the poker again, and little is left in the grate save ashes and smoke. " Ah ! here comes the kettle. Now, Mary, does it boil ? You know how particular I am that it should boil. Here, set it on the fire, and let me see for

myself." Mary places her bright copper kettle on the smoky mass with a rueful countenance. " There now," says Mr Gedder, ." I thought it did not boil. My dear (to his wife, who enters), you must speak to Mary, you really must; the kettle does not 1 boil thi3 morning." " My dear Charles, how can you expect such a thing of it ? It would freeze as soon on that fire." " It is a very good fire, Eliza, allow me to say; though, had I not myself attended to it, it would have been out, depend upon it." During the "whole of breakfast you are regaled with the same subject, intermingled with remarks relative to Margaret's teeth not being properly brushed, Jane's shoulders growing daily more elevated, and little Alfred's hair never lying smooth —it having, in fact, an obstinate tendency to curl. After breakfast Mrs Gedder and I are severely cross-questioned as to what we intend doing all day; we cannot exactly say — should not like to commit ourselves for a whole day. After ranch useless talk, the matter is brought within the compass of an hour. Well, we are going to work. " Then Mr G. will read the paper," behind which he forthwith ensconces himself. Think not, however, he is absorbed in the news, — far from it; he is as much on the alert as ever; he has but, as it were, snugly established himself in a sort of watch-box, and is lying in wait ready at any moment to pounce upon and worry whatever topic you may choose for conversation, or to sally forth and make war on that most unfortunate fire, despite his wife's entreaties to let it alone and allow it to burn up. You speak of your work; he comes to examine, find fault, or approve, as the case may be. You discuss a pattern; he must see it, and give an opinion, or suggest an improvement. You talk of dress, — you wish one made, and ask advice of Mr Gedder; but receive it gratis from Mrs G. He [ wishes to know what is for dinner; his wife evades the question ; he persists, and, on hearing, knocks off your favonrite dish (maccaroni and cheese) as "unwholesome; a thing the children may not eat, and therefore ought not to see;" which leads to an animated debate as to whether it is not better to inculcate self-denial by allowing children to see what they may not have. You are to initiate Mrs Gedder into the mysteries of some peculiarly excellent cakes that require unheard of skill in the compounding; for which purpose you retire to the storeroom, tuck up your sleeves, and are soon immersed in sweets. Thither also adjourns Mr Gedder to see what you are doing; and the questions he asks of " why do you do this ? " and "why you don't do that?" which "he should think a much better plan," mingled with exclamations of " now really I " " that is an extraordinary combination," "will it be nice ? " &c, &c, nearly drive you out of your wits; while you feel a horrid temptation to lay hands on a flour-bag you perceive hard by, and dust it well about his ears. Having, in the teeth of his interference, put the finishing stroke to your cookery, you hint at a walk. Mr Gedder says he was thinking of going out; whereupon you suddenly discover you have a slight cold, and had better take care of yourself, perhaps, hoping for a good fire and pleasant tete-a-tete with your friend when her spouse is gone. You wait and wait. He has risen, and is gazing from the window, drumming, " Oh, Susannah I " on the frame. It happens to be your name, and you wish he would go to Alabama, feeling he need be under no apprehension of your shedding tears at his departure. You draw forth your watch, and remark casually that it is twelve o'clock: you did not think it had been so late (a terrible fib, by-the-by, for you both hoped and believed it was at least an hour later). "Twelve, is it ?— then he must go;" and he walks towards the door, but returns; for it is one of the characteristics of his class to be always the going man. It takes as long to get one of them fairly off the premises as to get a large vessel under weigh. He has discovered a hole in his glove, the size of a pin's head : it must be repaired, and you cheerfully offer your services, thinking thereby to facilitate his departure. Having J accomplished your task, you feel delighted to see him put on the gloves, and make once more for the door. Do not allow your spirits to attain too high a level: he has turned the handle, but at that moment is attracted by some one passing the window ; retraces his steps to make out who it is, and another five minutes is gone in conjectures whether ifc can be Smith out again — to which is appended a history of Smith's accident, and consequent long confinement to the house. " One struggle more," and you believe yourself free. He has left the room. Be not deceived; he has but got as far as the hat-stand, and comes back, bearing his hat and great-coat, which he informs you he purposes putting on by the flre. And oh 1 the interminable time it requires to do so ! The coat is examined; you have the history of when, where, and of whom it was purchased; every morsel of anything like dust is deliberately stroked off. The hat is I polished again and again, until you tremble for the nap, and find yourself indulging in a calculation as to how much per annum Mr Gedder's hats may stand him in at that rate.. At length his toilette is completed, and this time he actually reaches the front door. He is not gone, however; back he comes to inform his wife the lock wants oil, and there are some finger-marks on the paint. His next attempt takes him to the garden-gate. Is it possible ? Yes; here he iB again; there are heavy clouds, he tells you; he dreads rain, and must have an umbrella; he just puts his head in to give you this information, and it is all you can do to restrain yourself from rushing at him, seizing him by the shoulders, putting him outside his own door, and turning the key upon him ! You sit for ten minutes after he has disappeared, expecting a fresh return; trying to calm yourself and be resigned should such be the case. At the end of a quarter of an hour you breathe

freely, and then have such a charming chat with Mrs Gedder, you almost forget she is no longer Eliza Dibb, and that there is a miserable man called Gedder in existence.