Copyright. The Widow’s Cuffs.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLV, Issue 17, 26 October 1910, Page 52

Copyright. The Widow’s Cuffs.

By'

MRS. SMART.

U / F SIIAKP pelt of rain had driven y I more than one wayfarer, taken 4 J £ unawares, into the village store —that emporium of everything from a bootlace to a bicycle, kept by one Mr. Jonathan Spriggs, the principal inerchant of Mexbridge, and in his own Estimation, quite the most important In in the town. There were others ; wanting who took Mr. Spriggs at Own valuation, and the genial store■per had his little circle of satellites, whom the “People’s Store” ranked as high importance as a London Club the man about town, or the salon of dame Recamier to the French elegants re polities were discussed, and tters of national importance agreed on—or the reverse—the store someles figured as the village stockihange, or in softer moments mellowed o a matrimonial agency. Whether it was owing to the gentle {pring shower which was fast forcing he swelling buds to open all their freshless of green attire or whether it was hat love was in the air, and Cupid on he warpath, on this balmy April day, t is hard to say, but the little band t>f storm stayed wayfarers were discussing in a more animated fashion than feven the pros and eons of “Fiscal Policy” pad ever drawn from them —the “to be tor pot to be” of a projected alliance in *heir midst. “I say it’s no’ seemly,” said John HarpVr, the foremost grocer in the town. /‘The wummans’ not a widow more nor Spine or ten months, and I’m sartin she’s jno more thinkin’ o’ Tom Henderson, ijthan she is o’ me.” !( I'Well—they’re saying he’s never out pf the house,” said Joshua Gair, an •mgular looking bank-clerk, who prided himself on his freedom from the Mexpridge accent. i •‘And what for d'ye no' cut ’im out, Jq?” said a chorus of voices. “I perfcr fresh goods, thankye, no ipidows for me.” “It'd come in mighty handy, Jo,” said finother, “a snug li.ttie crib like WestWood, and a good bit o' money, as ye pilghter know, seeing the late Jeremiah yubbin.s kept his account at your shop!* ' The clerk smiled to himself, as if something pleasing had crossed his mind. tk “I daresay a man might do worse.” he said lighting a cigarette in a pilettante fashion. I •‘We-eel—” said the proprietor of the ptoro, as he stuck a ticket bearing the inagic words, “Prime—7Jd.” into a roll paeon, “I will say that I alius thought fAlrs. Gubbins a mighty pleasant lady, find him who gets *er ’ll no* got a bad bargain, I can tell you. If all they’re payin’s true —the late Jeremiah was no’ lerfect, and she'll be all the kinder to amber two, should the right man ’appen o come along. But she'll not be in a irry, the lady won’t, ‘once caught—twice shy’ — and I think it’s ’ardly E eccnt to be marrying ’er to arf the own, before she's out o' her murnings.” “That's jest wot I say,” said Johq “'Gw would we like it supposing we was to drop off, and folks hvas marrying our missuses to all and sundry, before we was cold in our craves? No—no—Tom ’Enderson may rail in once in a while in a friendly way fit Westwood, but it’s nothing more—ftnyway yet a while—l’ll bet my bottom iqollar on that.” I “And when is a widow supposed to be fiut of mourning?” minced the bank-clerk. £‘l should like to know, I really would. Stir. Jones— you ought to be able to Inform us, mourning being in your line,” find he turned to an insignificant looking man, who had hitherto remained Bilent, Peter Jones, the principal draper ip the town. ’Wen ’er clothes is worn out. I should Ijay,’’ snapped the little man. , •‘Ha-ha!” sneered Joshua Gair. “Mr. Jones is too wise to express an opinion.’ ‘T have known Maria Gubbins since she was a little gel,” said the little man Juth a blush, “an’ I’m not going to speak gin her—that’s all.” “And who's saying anything against the lady, Mr Jones?” said Gair, with a dangerous look in his narrow eyea.

The little man made no reply, except one utterly irrelevant to the subject, namely, that “it had stopped raining.” As he spoke the door opened, and a tall burly farmer walked in. “Mournin’—friends—gossipin’ as usual? Mr. Spriggs, you oughter charge a commission on the scandal talked in this shop, and ye’d be a rich man.’’ “We were just discussing a very interesting subject, Mr. Rudge,” said the l>ank-clerk, “perhaps you may be able to enlighten us? When do widow’s weeds stop growing?” “When the flower of love chokes them,” said the new arrival promptly. “Ha—ha —you nevei - thought I was so witty, did you, Mr. Gair?” "No, but jokin’ apart,” said the host “these young men is all thirsting to lay themselves at the feet o’ the charming Mrs. Gubbins —you know wot widows is —and none of them can quite arrive at the proper time to makes advances, and yet they’re feared our friend Mr. Tom ’Enderson may cut them out —so as a man o’ the world, Mr. Rudge—ye might give them a bit o’ advice, it wud be a sad pity if thej' was all too late—and seeing you’re so well up in matters o’ etikelt—” “Well aeceording to the ladies’ fashion papers, a lady’s a widow for a year and a day—after that —■ according to the other women—she’s a designing monster who tries to set ’er cap at everything she sees in a coat and trousers—but she must wear her weeds for a year and a day, if she's a respectable married woman.” “And what do weeds consist of? Give us a definition of the terra,” asked the bank-clerk. “Jo’ wants to know —like all financial men, he ’as an eye after the cash,” said Mr. Spriggs aside to the draper with a dig in the ribs, which made the poor little man wriggle. “Wa-ell —weeds is crape, and caps—and long veils—and them white collars and the cuffs they wears on their wrists,” replied Mr. Rudge comprehensively.

“But my sister that lost ’er 'usband, wore them white things for many a year,” said the grocer reflectively. “Well—she needn’t ’are,” snapped Mr. Rudge; “I tell you—that’s the best thing to go by, them cuffs, when you see them disappear, it’s a. sign that summer is nigh.” «•••••• Tom Henderson stood in a meditative fashion leaning over a gate, as his friend and neighbour, John Rudge, rode past. “I was ’earing a lot about you to-day, Tom—- “ Ya-as? I ’opes you ’card well?” “I ’eard ye war making up to the widow ?” “Wot widow! oh, sly Tom! d’ye mean to say ye don’t know?” “Well —an’ if I am—l’m sure I might do worse?” “Ye’ll ’ave to look sharp, my l>oy, if you want to get ’er—there’s other’s in the running—” “Who?”’ “That beaky bank-clerk for one, an’ I don’t know ’ow many more—they asked me w’en it wud 'be ‘komilfo’ to start the race—as it were —• an‘ I told them w’enever they saw ’er stop wearin’ them white cuffs that widows ’as, then they might enter or scratch—as they thought fit —but there’ll not be many scratch — I’m thinking.” “And when’ll she stop wearing them, since you seem to know all about it?” “W’en she’s a year and a day a widow —very soon now—Tom —so you watch—” and Budge rode away, his broad sides shaking with laughter. «»«*«*• Mrs. Gubbins folded her hands contentedly Over her crape-cloth dress, and looked pensively over the garden towards the high road. It was September, some months later than the discussion described above: she had been a widow well over the year convention demanded her seclusion and sombre mourning attire, but the crape trimmings still crackled with the rise and fall of her ample .bosom, and she still wore the fateful bands of white at her wrists. She was—truth to tell—too well satisfied with the placidity of her life, after- turbulent existence with the late Jeremiah to have any wish to again enter the troubled seas of matrimony. That she had and would have suitors in plenty was evident, for not only were her personal charms undeniable, but her pecuniary affairs were supposed to be in a most satisfactory condition, and

these two things combined were a fflsfi net strong enough to attract most men. “Good-evening, Mr. Henderson,” she said sweetly to the advancing whose beard shone ruddy in the evening sunlight. “Good-evenin’, Mrs. Gubbins. Yea looking as fresh as a daisy—but there—| there’s no need for me to tell you that —you knows it already.” “La’! Mr. Henderson!” blushed the widow, “’ow you do go on!” ■But Tom Henderson had come with a definite purpose in his mind. The year was considerably more than spent which custom decreed should be dedicated to the memory of the late Jeremiah—why wait any longer, when it would be so much more economical and pleasant to join forces.? Mrs. Gubbins blushed and looked away from the fervent admiration expressed by her bucolic admirer. “You forget my mourning, Mr. Henderson,” she murmured decorously. “I'll tear them white rags off your ’wrist,” said the masterful Tom angrily, proceeding to try to suit his actions to his words. “No, no,” said the widow, with a, flash from her dark eyes, “it’s not you that takes them off, Hr. Henderson—whoever does—Good-evening.” The disappointed suitor met the bankclerk coming up the hill. “You needn’t go further,” he snarled, “them white cuffs is sewed on so sure, nothing’ll take them off.’” Joshua smiled to himself, he had little doubt but that his superior education, and genteel manners would carry great weight with the widow. The cuffs would disappear at his command! But Mrs. Gubbins was obdurate. Although he painted in glowing terms what an excellent position they would have in the town, and flattered her intellectual vanity by telling her she was the only woman he could ever think of in the place, he went away like the farmer, with a flea in his ear. When he had gone Mrs. Gubbins sighed a little. “They go fearful quick in the wash,” she said, folding in a frayed edge of her right hand cuff; “I must go and get some more to-morrow.” The following day saw her walk up the High Street to Mr. Peter Jones’ drapery establishment. “I want some widow’s cuffs, please, Mr. Jones,” she said, “will you shew me wot you’ve got?” The shy little draper looked anxiously

round before he complied with her request—they were alone iu the shop. •‘I thought you’d ’are given 'em tip by now,” he said pleadingly. “Mr Jones!’’ “It’s time you did,” he said more boldly, “wot’s the good o’ wasting your life—and mine?” and instead of fetching the cuff and collar box, he put his hand gently but firmly on the widow’s eulf, and began tearing away the fragile cambric. “Mr. Jones!” “Say Peter —Maria—you know I've loved you ever since you was a little gel—d’you really think them things i« going to keep you longer from me?” and he Hung the pieces of tom cambric on the floor. The widow smiled up in his face. "Of course if you haven't got them in stock, Mr. Jones, I must just manage without —till —till — I get something else!” The village .store was more than usn illy crowded on the evening following the announcement of Mr. Peter Joneu' engagement to Mrs. Gnbbins. To say that much custom resulted from the crush would be to make a statement open to doubt, for the company' were far too busy discussing the pros and eons of the latest sensation, to notice the attractive wares, or the seductive prices appended thereto on Mr. Jonathan Sprigg’s counter. And who eould blame them least of all the genial storekeeper? “Well I never —'” said that worthy, sticking his thumbs as far as they would go into his armholes, “to think that Peter Jones—little Jones —who you'd think couldn't say ‘bo to a goose’— should have carried her off from under your very noses!” “The question is,” said Joshua Gair acidly, “did anyone else make any effort to secure the prize?” Tom Henderson looked quickly round. “I dunno’ ’bout securing the prize, but I know I met you looking mighty perky going up the hill to Westwood, one night not long since, and there was a different colour on your counting-house when you was coming back, for I saw you, when you didn’t guess 1 was looking, and your cheeks were as white as the dough on an under-cooked dumpling. Sez I to myself, ‘he's gotten the same I got’—for I’m not ’shamed to say, that I would like fine to have had the widow for - my own, and I think Peter Jones is an uncommonly lucky fellow!” “There’s as good fish in the sea as ever came out o’ it, Tom,” said Mr. Jonathan Spriggs sympathetically. “.Mebbe — but not every fish swims your, stroke — and there is something about Maria Gnbbins, that goes to the heart o’ a man.” “Not to mention her money,” sneered the bank clerk. “Guess I wasn’t so keen on that part of the show, as some other folks I would mention,” snapped Mr. Henderson in reply. “You white-fingered clerks that does nothing but handle gold, and count bank notes, you get to think that there’s nothing else in the world, but your filthy eash—but I tell you there’s one thing better than all the money in the world, and that is love, and the man who has won the affections of Maria Gnbbins, is—as I said before—a damned lucky shop!” Meanwhile Mrs. Gnbbins and Mr. Jones sat in elose proximity to each other on the Westwood sofa. The widow was still dressed in black, but her couielv arms, emerged from becoming frills of lace, instead of the rigorous lines of the widow’s cuffs. Air, Jones timidly put his hand on the round white arm, which lay so temptingly near him. “It would lie a shame to hide them any longer,” he said with a lover-like squeeze, “Some folks thinks widows’ dress very becoming,” and Mrs. Gnbbins shyly looked down,” “Yes, for a time, but you get tired of it, don’t you, Maria?” “I’m not denying it’s lonely being by oneself,” whispered the widow. “I’m going to make you happier now nor ever you was, Maria—to make up—” “Oh, Peter! I’ve been, terrible lonesome!” and she began io cry softly. “There, there, Maria, it’s all over now, and just think what a blessing it was I didn’t stock them widows’ cuffs!” and his arm stole round her waist.