This was an abstract inquiry beyond Mrs. Zachariah’s scope. “It is some people’s nature to like to be tidy,” she contented herself with observing; “and others do not care for it.”
“Oh, perhaps it is because I am a soldier, and accustomed to order, that I care for it above everything.”
Mrs. Zachariah started for a moment. She reflected. She had forgotten it—that she was talking to an officer in His Majesty’s service.
“Have you seen much fighting, sir?”
“Oh, well, for the matter of that, have had my share. I was at Talavera, and suffer a good deal now in damp weather, from having slept so much in the open air.”
“Dear me, that is very hard! My husband is rheumatic, and finds Tarver’s embrocation do him more good than anything. Will you try it if I give you some?”
“With profound gratitude.” Mrs. Coleman filled an empty bottle, took a piece of folded brown paper out of the fireplace cupboard, untied a coil of twine, made up a compact little parcel, and gave it to the Major.
“A thousand thanks. If faith now can really cure, I shall be well in a week.”
Mrs. Zachariah smiled again.
“Are you Dissenters?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes. Independents.”
“I am not surprised. Ever since Cromwell’s days you have always been on the side of liberty; but are you strict—I don’t know exactly what to call it—go to the prayer-meetings—and so on?”
“We are both members of the church, and Mr. Coleman is a deacon,” replied Mrs. Zachariah, with a gravity not hitherto observable.
She looked out of the window, and saw him coming down the street. She placed the kettle nearer the fire, put the tea in the teapot, and sat down again. He came upstairs, went straight into his bedroom, cleaned himself as much as possible, changed his coat, and entered. The Major, being pressed, consented to take tea, and Mrs. Zachariah was a cheerful and even talkative hostess, to the surprise of at least one member of the company. She sat next to her husband, and the Major sat opposite. Three silver spoons and silver sugar-tongs had been put on the table. Ordinarily the spoons were pewter. Zachariah, fond of sugar, was in the habit of taking it with his fingers—a practice to which Mrs. Zachariah strongly objected, and with some reason. It was dirty, and as his hands were none of the whitest, the neighbouring lumps became soiled, and acquired a flavour which did not add to their sweetness. She had told him of it a score of times; but he did not amend, and seemed to think her particularity rather a vice than a virtue. So it is that, as love gilds all defects, lack of love sees nothing but defect in what is truly estimable. Notwithstanding the sugar-tongs, Zachariah—excusable, perhaps, this time, considering the warmth of the speech he was making against the late war—pushed them aside, and helped himself after the usual fashion. A cloud came over Mrs. Zachariah’s face; she compressed her lips in downright anger, pushed the tongs towards him with a rattle, and trod on his foot at the same time. His oration came to an end; he looked round, became confused, and was suddenly silent; but the Major gallantly came to the rescue by jumping up to prevent Mrs. Zachariah from moving in order to put more water on the tea.
“Excuse me, pray;” but as he had risen somewhat suddenly to reach the kettle, he caught the tablecloth on his knee, and in a moment his cup and saucer and the plate were on the floor in twenty pieces, and the tea running all over the carpet. Zachariah looked at his wife, and expected to see her half frantic. But no; though it was her best china, she stopped the Major’s apologies, and assured him, with something almost like laughter, that it was not of the slightest consequence. “Tea doesn’t stain; I hope it has not gone on your coat;” and producing a duster from the cupboard, the evil, save the loss of the crockery, was remedied in a couple of minutes.
At half-past seven o’clock the Major and Zachariah departed. They walked across the top of Hatton Garden, and so onwards till they came to Red Lion Street. Entering a low passage at the side of a small public-house, they went up some stairs, and found themselves opposite a door which was locked. The Major gave three taps and then paused. A moment afterwards he tapped again twice; the lock was turned, and he was admitted. Zachariah found himself in a spacious kind of loft. There was a table running down the middle, and round it were seated about a dozen men, most of whom were smoking and drinking beer. They welcomed the Major with rappings, and he moved towards the empty chair at the head of the board.
“You’re late, chairman,” said one.
“Been to fetch a new comrade.”
“Is that the cove? He looks all right. Here’s your health, guv’nor, and d⸺n all tyrants.” With that he took a pull at the beer.
“Swear him,” said the Major.
A disagreeable-looking man with a big round nose, small red eyes, unshaven face, and slightly unsteady voice, rose, laid down his pipe, and beckoned to Zachariah, who advanced towards him.
The Secretary—for he it was—produced a memorandum-book, and began with a stutter:
“In the sacred name of—”
“Stop!” cried Zachariah, “I don’t swear.”
“That will do,” shouted the Major across a hubbub which arose—“religious. I’ll answer for him: let him sign; that’s enough.”
“You are answerable,” growled the Secretary “if he’s a d⸺d spy we’ll have his blood, that’s all, and yours too, Major.” The Major took no notice, and Zachariah put his name in the book, the roll of the Red Lion Friends of the People.
“Business, Mr. Secretary—the last minutes.”
The minutes were read, and an adjourned debate was then renewed on a motion to organise public meetings to petition in favour of Parliamentary Reform. The reader
