Volume
I
I
Mary Tomkins
John Thomas was a clerk in the post-office, beloved by all who knew him; but he never did any work, usually had a novel and a bottle of brandy in his desk, and broke the heart of the Junior Assistant Secretary in whose Department he had been placed. He lived at 19 Finsbury Square, where he paid thirty shillings a week for his board and lodging, washing included, and fell in love with Mary Tomkins, the niece of Mrs. Johnson, the lodging-house keeper.
If ever there was an angel upon earth, it was Mary Tomkins. She had long eyes and a short nose, a little mouth and a big chin, silken hair and a satin complexion, a high forehead and a small waist; but her manner was more than her appearance, and she was everything her aunt could wish her. “Never, Johnny,” she said to her love, as he sat with his arm round her waist, “never, never, never, never.”
“Why the deuce won’t you, then?” said John Thomas.
II
The First Kiss
Why wouldn’t she? It was now two years since she had consented to be kissed, or, as may perhaps have been the case, had been kissed without her consent by the Rev. Abraham Dribble. Mr. Dribble had been a Low-Church scoundrel. He had kissed and had left the parish, having sneaked himself into the good graces of a bishop. Mary soon knew the nature of the man, but the kiss was still there and hallowed. “Never, never, never, never!” It was her daily language as Johnny Thomas sat with his arm around her waist when his office hours were over.
“Surely you love him,” said her aunt, in confidence, while they were preparing together a Saturday pie for the lodgers.
“Shall there be two loves?” asked Mary. “Certainly,” said Mrs. Johnson, practically, “if the first fails, or maybe three—as circumstances may require.”
“Never, never, never, never!” said Mary Tomkins.
III
Anastasia Fitzapplejohn
On Monday, April 1, Mary Tomkins received the following letter:
Only that he pleads a previous promise to you, John Thomas would be my bridegroom. I have his heart, I know. And, oh! and oh! and oh! it is too true that he has mine. Be noble and make him free, and enjoy the undying friendship of
Mary sat as usual with her waist encircled by his arm, while with her left hand she held the crumpled letter. “John,” she said, “who has your heart?”
“Who but you, my poppet?”
“Anastasia Fitzapplejohn has your heart.”
“She be—oh! anything you please except married to me.”
“Where were you last night, John? Did you pass the hours you were away from here with that female?”
“But listen to me, Mary.”
“I demand to know whether you were there!”
“Wait till I tell you all about it.”
“I will hear nothing of such a one as Miss Fitzapplejohn.”
“For my sake, Mary.”
“Never, never, never, never!” she said, as her head dropped on his shoulder.