"STAR" TALES.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 7567, 27 November 1902, Page 4

"STAR" TALES.

AN AFFAIR OF THE AREA.

Klondort Truth.) Arethusa Binkers — commonly known to her fellow-domestics as Thooza— wa* parlourmaid at the Copper Beeches, IT villa residence in Streatham. She was a trim, pretty girl, with dark hair and eyes and a very becoming pink and white complexion. Moreover, she was known to have £60 in the savings bank and to be laying by, every quarter, out of her wages. It is needless, therefore, to add that she boasted a numerous retinue of admirers. / Item, the postman, the dustman, the milkman, the baker's man, the butcher's; man, the fishmonger's man, the grocers' (dry and green) men, the gas collector's cterk and John Thompson, the gardener. It is with the two last that our present story is chiefly concerned.

Senior es priores. Let me^ therefore, first speak of John, the gardener at the Copper Beeches. A man of forty-two was he, but looking older, who had buried his first wife some years previously. In statute, short and inclining stout. In visage, stolid, not to say woodfcn. In character, steady, industrious and eminently <respectable. He kept his garden in a manner typical of the man. It was the neatest, most geometrical, least original garden in the- whole suburb. The geranium beds were like figures out of Euclid. The edges of the lawn were so exactly rectilinear that they might have been cut to a T-square. Not a daisy nor a dandelion ever disfigured the uniform verdure of the turf; not the suspicion of a weed,- the gravel paths. The evergreen shrubs were kept clipped with such precision as to suggest that they were being " nursed " for some life-sized Noah's Ark. In a word, method, order, regularity, were the keynote of John the gardener's garden, a-s they were also the essential element in John the man's disposition.

His manner of showing his admiration for pretty Thooza was characteristic. There was no gush about it, no theatrical iervour, no amorous abandon. He did not indulge in erotic hyperbolej as the milkman did. He did 'not go languishing loveeick over her, like the baker. He did not spend his hard-earned wages in trinkets for her, like the ten o'clock postman. On the contrary t his demeanour toward the young woman was always grave and selfcontained. What he said to her was wellweighed, sensible and strictly to the point. , i " I reckon it won't be long now afore you thinks about marrying, Thooza?"

"What's that to you? Mind: your own business," replied the pretty parlourmaid, tossing her "h'ftad. - " Thatfs just what I'm a-doin'," answered John the gardener with stolid meaning.

"Hoity-toity! Don't I like your imperenee!'' she laughed scornfully. "An old Methuselah such as you! Oh, my stare!" "I ain't a chicken," he admitted. "I don't set up to be. But you wants someone, as'll take care of yer. Yer a giddy gurl, yer know, Thooza, when all's said and done, and 1 I shall just balance yer."

"I'm sure you won't," retorted Thooza, in contemptuous derision. " You'll never get the chance. Don't you think it. I ain't co hard up for beaux as I'm likely to take a chap of your venerable age. Not me. Besides, it's in the forbidden decrees at the end of the prayer book."

"How do you make out that, Thooza?" demanded matter-of-fact John.

" Look at the top of the list, and you'll find out," answered Thooza, as she slammed the back door in her elderly admirer's face. Then sh« repaired to the servants' nail, where the others were assembled at luncheon, and made merry with her fellowAbigails at John the gardener's expense. When' that individual went home to din.-: ncr, the first thing ne did was to take down his big family 'prayer-book, and, having carefully dusted it with his coat-sleeve, to examine the table of forbidden decrees on the last page. The top entry (on the female side) read as follows:

" A woman may not marry with her grandfather."

John the gardener scratched his head with a; puzzled frown. He was slow to grasp a jest ; and it was some minutes before the point of Thooza's facetious sally dawned upon him. When it did, he scratched his head again, then said to himself, thoughtfully:

"Ah I But it don't depend on the woman, do it? It depend on the man. If he really make up his mind. — grandfather or no gandfather — he'll have her. Pore 'Liza, wot's now dead, said 'No,' to me eight times. But I took no notice»of that. I just went on steady and obstinate, and at . the ninth time I got her. Women, being by natur fickle and friv'lous, don't understand steady determination. First it amuses 'em, and, last of all, it frightens 'em. They gets like a rabbit wot's being pursood by a stoat. It think at first as, with its superior speed, it can get away as easy as winkin'. But when it find the stoat a-followin' it sure- and steady, and nothink a-putting it orf, it grow puzzled and alarmed, till at last it come to feel as that stoat's its fate, and as there's no esoapin'. Then it just lie feebly down, and let the stoat nobble it sittin'. That's what women- is. They're the bunnies of human natur'. Some of 'em, to Fe sure, is livelier than others. Thooza's one of the livelier sort. She'll give the stoat a- long run. But, sooner or later, he'll nobble her sittin', all one for. that." So said our human stoat, with placid conviction.

Presently he returned from dinner ; and, as he passed the back door of the Copper Beeches, be saw Thooza deep in flirtation with the milkman. H© observed the two look at him. He heard the milkman sniggering and Thooza giggling. He inferred that he himself was the subject of their laughter. But this affected him very little. He -went quietly on, without appearing to notice.

" Let her make a game of me," he soliloquised. "Really, it don't matter a button. Bunny makes game of the stoat at the first going off. The beginning ain't notihink. It's the end as counts. In fact, I likes to see her carrying on with all them young fools — with one as much as "with another. There's safety in numbers, after all. Of course, if she was to make a pertik'lar fa-

ourito of any one of 'em, it might mean danger. But* she don't. She flirt with the whole lot, indiscriminate. And, in the meanwhile I looks on quietly, and bides my time." ' .

Consoling himself with this sound philosophy, John the gardener pursued the even tenor of his way, secure and confident in his ultimate capacity to run giddy Thooza. to earth. But suddenly /there arose in the situation a new development that changed the whole aspect of affairs. This development took a concrete and growing shape — the shape of young Bonham, the gas collector's new clerk. He called one day for the gas company's account. He saw Thooza. j He liked the look of her, as most men did. Thooza, on her side, liked the look of him, as most girls did. He was altogether, you see, a cut above the postman and the tradesmen"!? men — better dressed, better mannered, better educated. His conversation was most engaging, his whole demeanour supremely genteel. In almost less time that it takes to write it, pretty Thoozai lost her heart to this smaA young ckrk, and the two started walking out the very next Sunday. Now/ it so happened that John the gardener met them in the' course 'of their first perambulation. Thooza was in her best, including a florid new toque. She proceeded arm-in-arm with young Bonham, who, in frock coat, top hat and lavender kit gloves, presented a most distinguished, appearance. Ho held his face inclining downward to-^ ward' Thooza's. She held (her face inclining upward toward his. John could not fail to mote her expression. It was one of rapt and amorous admiration. A troubled frown creased the usually stolid brow ,of John tho gardener. His soul within him was deeply perturbed. : " Who's that common-looking fellow as stared at us so hard?" inquired young Boaham when John had passed them. "C~ i that's the gardener at our place. Impudent old fool he is, too. Do you know, he acshully had the lip to arst me if I'd marry him." And -Thooza laughed with scornful amuse 1 ment.

" Did he really now? What cheek ! I hope you gave him an answer that made him sit up, Thooza." "I just told him as I wasn't allowed by law to many my grandfather," tittered Thooza,

" That was one in the eye for him, any way. And what did he say to it?"* "He didn't say nothink. He've hardly a-spoke to me since. And I don't think he will in a hurry, neither." "If he do repeat any of that impudent nonsense you must let me know, Thooza, and I'll soon put him to rights," answered young Bonham, fiercely. " Liftin' up his vulgar eyes to you! I never hear such a thing." At this Thooza squeezed young Bonham's arm. Young Bonham kissed Thooza. Thooza returned the compliment to young Bonham.

I From 'henceforth many masculine noses were out of joint. In vain did the milkman rattle Iris cans obtrusively and sing out " Co-o-ow " in his most penetrating fal- ! setto.. Thooza, who before had always come running out of Her pantry at the sound, now turned a deaf ear and left him to thd exclusive attentions of cook. In vain did the dustman, of a Wednesday morning, bang and thump the sanitary dustbin, until sound of his vigorous . siovel could be heard half-way down the street. Thooza responded- no longer to the familiar signal. In vain, did the butcher's man linger at the back door, feigning to be engrossed in cook's gossip, but really hoping for a/sight of Thoozii, who hitherto had general^, managed to be around at the -hour of his morning call. Thes* things had been, but they were no longer. Tradesmen's men were of the proletariat, proletarian. And Thooza, being now engaged to a frockcoated " chirk," could, of course, no longer associate with such vulgar creatures. When the engagement had lasted for about two months, young Bonham was offered a considerably more lucrative berth in the north of England— in Sheffield, to be i explicit — which he at once accepted. He departed thither, promising to take and furnish a nice little house for Thooza's reception, and then to run back to Streatham and marry her, as soon as ever the arrangements were completed. So much Thooza confided to cook— which was equivalent to confiding it to the whole- neighbourhood. But she did not confide certain other matters to her; at least, not at the time. It was« only after several weeks had elapsed that the parlourmaid put her fellow-domes-tics in possession of all the facts. They had noticed that she was looking every day more worried and anxious, and the climax was reached one morning at breakfast, when a letter came to Thooza through the returned letter office. She suddenly covered her face with her hands and burst' out crying. ■ ' . "Why, what's up, Thooza?" cried cook, one-third sympathetic and two-thirds inquisitive. "The wretch— the traitor— the thief!" sobbed Thooza, hysterioally. "My dear, whatever have he been and done now?" exclaimed cook, pricking, as it were, her eairs in pleasurable anticipation of something spicy. " That wicked swindler of a 'Enery— he've been and robbed me of — of "

"Of what, Thooza?" interrupted cook, turning pale with excitement. " Or — of — all my savings— sixty-five pounds — and my di-mond ring, what the postman give me, and my pearl bangle, and —Oh ! Oh ! Don't I wish I had the villain

here!" cried Thooza, clenching her fists with sudden passion. "Well, I never! This is bad for you, my dear," said cook, throwing up her fat hands.

"I was always afraid it might come to this," added Jane, the plain and elderly housemaid, with something of exultation in her sour face. " But how could you 'a been such a silly, Thooza, as to entrust him, like that, with all your money and your joolsT' " 1 lent him the money to help buy furniture with," wept poor Thooza, "and the ring as he might have the proper eize for choosing my wedding ring ; and the bangle — well, I let him have that as he might get the pearls rephuced by emeralds, him having a-said as pearls was too cheap and common for the likes of me, and he wish to make me a present' of something classier. And I believe him — yes ! I was fool enough to believe him. But he ain't a-written me one line since he went, and the letters that I wrote him at the address he gave me at Sheffield fcis all come back through the post office ; and — and I wish I'd never been born," said the unhappy girl, beside herself with misery and indignation.

"I hopes as there's nothing wuss than this to come out, Thooza," observed Jane, with severe meaning.'

"Wuss!" cried Thooza, passionately. "What could be worse?" I wish I had the scoundrill here, I'd tear his eyes out !" "No more than he deserves, neither," said cook. " But you was partly to blame yourself, Thooza, for being such a natural," added Jane, amiably. Thooza, unable to bear more, rushed from the kitchen, to cry out her pretty eyes in the solitude of her bedroom. What cook knew (as I have already suggested), the whole neighbourhood very soon knew also. John the gardener had heard the whole story by ten o'clock. It was only natural, of course — under the circumstances — that he should be the reverse of sorry at this complete exposure of his successful rival. But, on the other hand, he did feel great sympathy for Thooza in her trouble, and he expressed it in the most magnanimous way. "Poor thing," he said. ' "It's a crool shame — the' way she've been used — that it is." "It only shows how careful we girls has to be in our dealings with you men," replied) the forty-eight-year-old cook, with a coquettish glande at John the gardener. John did not pursue the conversation. He turned away and proceeded to his work, scratching his' head thoughtfully. Later on, when Thooza came out of the French window of the dining-room after luncheon to shake the table-cloth, John, whether by accident or design, was weeding a flowerbed in x close proximity thereto, and he looked up and spoke to her. "Sorry to hear of the way that chap's a-serve yer, Thooza," he said, with quiet sympathy. "He deserve to go to prison for what he've done. And if I were you, " I don't know as I shouldn't send him there." "T would, if I could catch him," answered Thoozai with pardonable vindictiveness. "The police could do that, I dare say* if you was to arst 'em. Only there's one thing agin such a course," he said, after ; a moment's consideration.. " You mightn't 4ike it all being made public and getting into the papers, might yer? In fack, it certainly wouldn't be fit for a nice, respectable gurl like you, Thooza, to have to go into a p'lipe court, and p'rhaps have all yer love-letters read, and unkind people a-la'rfin "

" No, no ! It's bad enough as it is. I simply couldn't stand that !" interposed Thooza, hastily.

"And I wouldn't like to see yer bein' made a public objeck," answered John. " All the same, it d!o seem a bit orf as that scoundrel should get clear away with your money and your jools. And I was a-thinkin', Thooza; I was a-thinkin'," he repeated slowly, "as why shouldn't some friend of yours — myself, for instance — just hunt? out this young villain for yer, and make him give up all as he've pinched?"

" Oh ! would you — would you really, John?" cried Thooza, with sudden eagerness. • "I would," he answered decidedly. "But how will you find time to follow him all the way to Sheffield?" she inquired doubtfully. ' :> " Sheffield !" grunted John the gardener, in a contemptuous tone. "He ain't at Sheffield, not he ! If he told you as he was going there, you may bet, as it's the very last place he've a-gone to. Howsomever, I'll ferret out my lord, by hook or by .crook,: wherever he is. You leave the job implicit to me i Thooza, and wot's in the power of man to effect shall be done." ''•' Thank you t John. You're very kind. But I doubt if you'll succeed," replied' the parlourmaid, shaking her head despondently. "We'll see," replied John the gardener laconically. Two days later, he was able to report as follows : "I've a-found out from the woman where he used to lodge as he've given orders for his letters to be address to the Charing Cross Post Office. So I'm a-goin' to arst the governor for a week's holiday. Thooza— which I ain't had one this ten year— and I'm a-goin' to take up my stand outside that there post office and wait until my lord call for, his letters. Them I'll nobble him. Wot's more, I won't let him out of my sight until he've give everythink up I"

"Oh ! John ! ' How clever you are, and how good," said Thooza, gratefully. " I'm sure I can never thank you enough for — " " It'll be time enough to thank me when you've got back your shiners and yotir jools," interposed John. " Not as I wants to, be thanked, in any case. I'm not, adoin' of this 'ere, job for that ; bub simply 'cos I carn't sit quiet, and see a nice giri like you imposed upon so crool and heartless. I was always on© to stand up for the defenceless. It's my natur', Thooza. I carn't help it," The same evening, John the gardener went to his master and asked for a week's holiday. This Avas on a Wednesday. Thooza saw no more of him until the following Sunday, on the evening of which day he came and knocked at the back door of the Copper Beeches. The parlourmaid herself came and opened it. " Oh ! it's you, John," she exclaimed with eaprer satisfaction. "An i hotv have yoii got on? Did you find the wicked wretch? And did you — but } come in. I'm alone till* evening. Cook and Jane has gone to church." John was quite aware of this, having watched cook and Jane out. But he didn''i say so. He followed Thooza in silence into the servants' hall. " Now, tell me all about it, John." eric": the girl, eagerly. "Did you catch him?" " Yes, I catch, him," replied John calmly.

" Wot's more, by threatenin' him resolute with the p'kece, I make him disgorge. Here y'are, Thooza." (He put a packet into her hands. ) " There's you money and your jools. Better examine 'em, hadn't yer, and see as they're ail right?" With a cry of joy Thooza took the packet and inspected its contents. "Yes, yes!" she exclaimed delightedly. " Everythink's quite right ; bank-notes and all. Oh, John! How clever and capable you done it. You're somethink like a man." " Don't mention it," r&plied John with befitting modesty. " I'd do more nor that for you any day. Good-nigjht, Thooza !" And he turned to depart. "Half a mo," she cried. "Don't be in such a hurry. I say, John." "Well?" " Do you remember once telling me as I was a giddy girl, and wanted balanoing?" " Aye ! I remember," replied John, "What of it?" " Why, I don't know, but p'raps you was right," murmured grateful 'Arethusa coyly. ' One day, when they had been married a.bout a year, John, the gardener, said to his pretty wife, apropos nothing : I orfen wonder, Thooza, as yer never guess?" " Guess what?" inquired the puzzled, Mrs J. " All that rtPmpus about young Bonham," he answered. "But, there! Of course, yer didn't know as he was already married." "Married? Was he, the scoundrill! Well, I'd believe anytohink of him after the way he serve me," exclaimed Thooza. "That's not all, though," continued John, in his placid way. " I find it out soon after he first came foolin' around yer, my dear. And it put rather a queer notion, into my head, which I goes and has a straight talk; with my lord. ' Listen to me,' I. says. 'D'ye want me to give yer away to your wife? I says. 'And also to Miss Arethoosa?' I says. When I arst him that question, he turnj bhe colour of a maidenhair fern wot's been expose to the sun, being' mortal', terrified', and) says, '0, I say, d'on't tell the missus, „ wotever, and Til give up Miss Arethoosa, from this, minnit.' 'No you won't,' I says ;' you'll keep on- with her just as long as I sees fit ; and you'll serve her just as I tells yer to serve her,' I says. ' Leastways, if yer don't, it'll be the wuss for yeT.' Then I gave ihimi the orfice what he's to do, Thooza, and I frightens the young coward into doin' it ; which, act-in' under my orders, lie borders your money amd your jools, and hand 'eani over to me." "What!" interrupted Mrs J.,ina shrill voice. "Do you meaa as it was all a put up job, and as you was at the bottom of the whole crool deception? How could you be so deep and wicked? And whatever make yer db such a thing— you wretch? "Love, my dear," answered John. "I'd got to marry yer, yer see; and as you wouldn't let me do it straightforward, I had to work the job by strattygem, I understands women, Thooza, and I knows that when a gurl won't look at yer in th« or'nary way, yer can orfen catch her on. the hop, after a disappointment; which, if we earns her gratitood irrto the bargain, and manages to show her what a clever, reliable chap yer are— why, you've as good as put the wedding ring on her finger. Leastways, that's my notion."

" You're quite wrong," . cried his wif£, feigning indignation, though, in reality, she felt it a high compliment tt> her charms that they should have bee© deemed worth securing at the cost . of so much ingenuity. " And if that's yer notion, all I can say id yer knows nothink wotever of a woman's 'cart."

"'Earts is very well. But what's 4ihe good of a gurl's 'cart- to-yer, .if yer caro't get 'old of 'er 'and? That's my way of lookin' at it." . "And what's the good' of a gurl's 'and to yer, if yer carn't get 'old of 'er 'cart? That's- my way of lookia' at it." " Ain't" I got of yer "cart, my d«&ar?" demanded John* with a confident smile. " Lor ! What a man year are ! Yer'd* twist the truth out of a lawyer, let" alone a. poor Helpless gurl," simpered beaming Aretliusa.