Volume
III
I
The New Bishop
Jemima Robinson was a sprightly girl, and if anyone had dominion over Mary Tomkins it was she. “Marry come up, Molly!” she said, “how many men do you think are going to die for you? If I were Johnny Thomas I would take you by the neck and lug you into church!”
“It would avail nothing, Jemima,” said Mary Tomkins.
“I’d stop that ‘Never, never,’ with a mouthful of kisses.”
“That has availed nothing, Jemima,” she said.
“What ar’t feared on, girl?” she said. “Is not marriage honorable?”
“And so is single-blessedness.”
“Single fiddlestick! I would it were my chance.”
“And have you no lovers, Jemima?”
“Not a ghost of a swain! not a thread-paper of a man. Would that I had! Thank God, I could love any man that would ask me. But to lead apes in hell with two such strings to your bow! ’Tis a sheer wasting of the gifts of Providence.”
“I do love to lead apes,” said Mary.
“Then lead one here and take the parson. You have not heard it, perhaps, but I know. The Queen will make him Bishop of Rochester next week. She saw his profile the other day in a shopwindow, and swore that he was a sweet divine.”
“And will Abraham really be a bishop?”
“ ’Tis true.”
“Cherubic with lawn sleeves, and seraphic with an apron!” Mary turned her eyes up to heaven as she spoke.
“Indeed he will. And you—you would look the bishop’s wife to a T.”
Mary paused that day; she paused all that night; she paused the next morning, and then she made her reply—
“Never, never, never, never!”
II
The New Postmaster-General
On the next morning, John Thomas was gazetted postmaster-general. He had invented a new farthing postage-stamp, and it was felt that his claims could not be passed over. He expelled the novel and the bottle of brandy from his desk, and found that the exigencies of his new position required him to leave Finsbury Square. But though he was now Lord Thomas, he did not forget Mary Tomkins; for whether he were “my lord” or simply “Johnny Thomas,” he carried a loyal heart in his bosom; and though he may have dallied with Anastasia Fitzapplejohn, such dallying had been but the efflorescence of his youth. So now he spoke out to the lady of his heart with a gravity becoming his lofty rank.
“Miss Tomkins,” he said.
“My lord,” she replied, standing before him with downcast eyes.
“Miss Tomkins, there have been some sweet words between you and me.”
“Aye, my lord; and more than words.”
“Some passages of what the world calls—love.”
“Trifles, my lord; meaning nothing to one so high in the world’s esteem as your lordship.” Then were her eyes more downcast than ever, and her little fingers moved tremulously one over another.
“Miss Tomkins,” he said, “lend me that hand.” And she lent him her little hand. He, too, stood awhile, gazing, and then he spoke again. “Miss Tomkins,” he said, “shall it be mine forever?”
But she answered him straightway, with more then her usual eagerness, “Never, never, never, never!”
III
“Till Another Young Man Came”
The Bishop of Rochester sat in his palace, and over against him sat Mrs. Dribble, his second wife. No more powerful lady ever assisted to carry a crozier.
Lord Thomas quaffed his ruby wines in a West-End mansion, and Lady Thomas, the daughter of a marquis, counted the corks.
But Mary Tomkins still made the gravies and eked out the butter in Finsbury Square. Did no soft regrets mar the quiescence of her life? Perhaps a few soft regrets did mar the quiecence of her life.
But her aunt observed that, during all her leisure hours, she applied herself with unaccustomed diligence to her needle. At last she brought forth from her closet a coarse and somewhat thick chamber-gown or morning wrapper. Its color was gray, and ’twas made of serge; but up and down the collar and round the waist, and in and out of the plaits a curious device had been worked. The letters were not easy to decipher, but when they were read they ran as follows:—
“Old Maid.”
“And will you wear it?” asked her astonished aunt.
“Indeed I will,” said Mary. “Forever and ever, forever and ever.”
And she wore it—till another young man came that way.