quarrelled wi’ his wife afore they’d been married a week, and she raced him all over th’ town wi’ a besom—’
‘With a besom, uncle?’ exclaimed Harold, shocked at these family disclosures.
‘Wi’ a besom,’ said Dan. That come o’ reasoning wi’ a woman. It taught him a lesson, I can tell thee. And afterwards he always said as nowt was worth a quarrel—NOWT! And it isna’.’
‘I don’t think Maud will race me all over the town with a besom,’ Harold remarked reflectively.
‘There’s worse things nor that,’ said Dan. ‘Look thee here, get out o’ th’ house for a’ ‘our. Go to th’ Conservative Club, and then come back. Dost understand?’
‘But what—’
‘Hook it, lad!’ said Dan curtly.
And just as Harold was leaving the room, like a school-boy, he called him in again.
‘I havena’ told thee, Harold, as I’m subject to attacks. I’m getting up in years. I go off like. It isna’ fits, but I go off. And if it should happen while I’m here, dunna’ be alarmed.’
‘What are we to do?’
‘Do nothing. I come round in a minute or two. Whatever ye do, dunna’ give me brandy. It might kill me—so th’ doctor says. I’m only telling thee in case.’
‘Well, I hope you won’t have an attack,’ said Harold.
‘It’s a hundred to one I dunna’,’ said Dan.
And Harold departed.
Soon afterwards Uncle Dan wandered into a kitchen full of servants.
‘Show me th’ missis’s bedroom, one on ye,’ he said to the crowd.
And presently he was knocking at Maud’s door.
‘Maudie!’
‘Who is it?’ came a voice.
‘It’s thy owd uncle. Can’st spare a minute?’
Maud appeared at the door, smiling, and arrayed in a peignoir.
‘HE’S gone out,’ said Dan, implying scorn of the person who had gone out. ‘Wilt come downstairs?’
‘Where’s he gone to?’ Maud demanded.
She didn’t even pretend she was ill.
‘Th’ Club,’ said Dan.
And in about a hundred seconds or so he had her in the drawing-room, and she was actually pouring out gin for him. She looked ravishing in that peignoir, especially as she was munching an apple, and balancing herself on the arm of a chair.
‘So he’s been quarrelling with ye, Maud?’ Dan began.
‘No; not quarrelling, uncle.’
‘Well, call it what ye’n a mind,’ said Dan. ‘Call it a prayer-meeting. I didn’t notice as ye came down for supper —dinner, as ye call it.’
‘It was like this, uncle,’ she said. ‘Poor Harry was very angry with himself about that petrol. Of course, he wanted the car to go well while you were in it; and he came upstairs and grumbled at me for leaving him all alone and driving home with you.’
‘Oh, did he?’ exclaimed Dan.
‘Yes. I explained to him that of course I couldn’t leave you all alone. Then he got hot. I kept quite calm. I reasoned it out with him as quietly as I could—’
‘Maudie, Maudie,’ protested the old man, ‘thou’rt th’ prettiest wench i’ this town, though I AM thy great-uncle, and thou’st got plenty o’ brains—a sight more than that husband o’ thine.’
‘Do you think so, uncle?’
‘Aye, but thou hasna’ made use o’ ‘em tonight. Thou’rt a foolish wench, wench. At thy time o’ life, and after a year o’ th’ married state, thou ought’st to know better than reason wi’ a man in a temper.’
‘But, really, uncle, it was so absurd of Harold, wasn’t it?’
‘Aye!’ said Dan. ‘But why didst-na’ give in and kiss him, and smack his face for him?’
‘There was nothing to give in about, uncle.’
‘There never is,’ said Dan. ‘There never is. That’s the point. Still, thou’rt nigh crying, wench.’
‘I’m not, uncle,’ she contradicted, the tears falling on to the apple.
‘And Harold’s using bad language all up Trafalgar Road, I lay,’ Dan added.
‘It was all Harold’s fault,’ said Maud.
‘Why, in course it were Harold’s fault. But nowt’s worth a quarrel, my dear—NOWT. I remember Harold’s grandfeyther—he were th’ second of us, your grandfeyther were the eldest, and I were the youngest—I remember Harold’s grandfeyther chasing his wife all over th’ town wi’ a besom a week after they were married.’
