LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 891, 3 May 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE TWO JONESES. A Story of St. David’s Day. {From London Society.) ( Concluded.) The toasts came to an end at last, the bards packed up their harps, and the last of the guests departed, leaving Evan Jones still sound asleep in his chair. A council of waiters was held over the slumbering hero, j and endeavours were made to ronse him. They shook him, they punched him—but all in vain He couldn’t, or he wouldn’t, wake up. They succeeded in getting on' of him that his name was Jones, but to a further inquiry as to where he lived he only mar mured ‘ ’scendaut of Llewellyn,’ and re- | lapsed again into still deeper slumbers. ‘ You’ll have to give him a shake-down j among the empty bottles, William,’ said [ one. ; ‘ Not if I know it,’ replied the head waiter, j ‘He nrght wake up in the night and walk off with the spoons. No, we must find out where he lives, somehow. Some of you just look in his pockets, will you ? Perhaps the gent has a card-case about him.’ i No sooner said than done. '■ ‘Here’s a card,’ said one, diving into Evan’s waistcoat-pocket. ‘ M r Owen Jones, 99, Winslow-square.’ ‘ That’s him right enough; he said his name was Jones. He don’t look much like a Winslow square sort, does he ? But there’s no accounting for these Welsh gents. Just as well he had his pasteboard about him, though, wasn’t it ? or he wouldn’t have got home to-night.’ * # * Sfr # It was a little after eleven o’clock when a four-wheel cob drove up to the door of No 99, Winslow square. ‘ This is Mr Jones’s, ain’t it ?’ said the cabman to the smart parlor-maid who answered his knock at the door. ‘Yes, this is Mr Jones’s,’ answered the maid. ‘ That’s the name right enough. Here’s the card they give me : “ Mr Owen Jones, N 099.” Well, look here, miss, I’ve brought your master from the Welsh dinner. He’ve been enjoying of his wine a goodish bit, I should say, and I can’t wake him up nohow.’ ‘ You don’t mean to say he’s taken too much V ‘ Well, miss, that depends. I don’t think myself, in a general way, a geneieman can take too much; the more the merrier, I says. But he’s pretty far gone, anyhow. ’ The maid rushed in to her mistress, who was sitting in the dining-room. ‘ 0 ma’am, here’s master come back in a cab from the Welsh dinner, and the cabman says he’s fast asleep and quite tosticated.’ ‘ Nonsense, ‘Mary ! ’ said her mistress angrily, and advancing into the hall ; ‘ there must be somefmistako. ’ ‘No mistake, me’m,’ said the cabman, touching his hat respectfully ; ‘ I’ve brought the gens from the Welsh dinner, and here’s bis card ’ ‘Good heavens !’said Mrs Jones, recog nising her husband’s card, ‘ it is too true. O dear, however shall I survive this shockj ing disgrace ? Mary, go downstairs ; 1

I know I can rely upon you not to say a word y of this dreadful misfortune to the other servants.’ 0 Mary retired accordingly, and Mrs Jones continued : ‘Cabman, I must ask you to assist Mr Jones up to his bedroom; it is the front ) room on the first H or ; you will find the gas ready lighted. I can give you no help ; for ) I think it would kill me to see him in such a condition.’ 1 ‘ Lor, don’t take on so, ma’am/ said the . cabman good naturedly ; ‘it ain’t nothing I- when your’e used to it. Why, sumo o’ ! them nobs does it every night. My old horse’ll stand as steady as a church, and I’ll • have the genelman upstairs in a jiffy.’ Poor Mrs Jones returned into the dining- , room, holding her handkerchief to her eyos : ' and after a moment’s pause she Avas made aware, by a sort of scuffling in the passage, aceompani d by exclamations of ‘ Wo-ho/ ‘Hold up/ and other ejaculations of a horsey nature, that the cabman was assisting Mr Jones up-stairs. After an interval of about ten minutes, Avhich seemed an age, he reappeared at the dining-room door, and •said, in a confidential manner, ‘ I’ve got the gent into bed quite comfortable, mum. He was a little orkard to undress, but I done him at last, proper; and he’s sleeping like a babby.’ Mrs Jones dismissed the man with a fee beyond his Avildest expectations, and re sinned her seat, feeling as if her peace of mind Avas for ever lost. She felt that she never could have the same respect for her husband again. Ho, Avho h d always been a model of all that Avas dignified and gentlemanly, a very pattern bus and, to come home helplessly drunk from a tavern dinner ! It Avas incredible; and yc» the fact Avas beyond question. Surely there must be some mystery about the matter. Could lie be ill ? But no ; be bad never been in better health than Avhen ho left her a few hours previously, and to send for a doctor Avould only Ire to p blish his disgrace. Could his Avine have been drugged ? But surely at a public dinner, at a first-rate place of entertainment, this Avas equally out of the question. There seemed no alterna tive but to suppose that, carried aAvay by the excitement of the occasion, Mr Jones had fallen into one of those sudden frailties to which poor human nature, even that of the noblest, is subject. At first the weeping Avife had felt as if the offence Avas beyond all pardon ; but gradually a softer feeling came over her, and she felt that, though the wrong could never be forgotten, it might in time be possible to forgive it. And then she mentally rehearsed the painful scene which would take place between herself and her erriug husband on his return to consciousness and self-respect; and she had just arranged a few little speeches, to be spoken more in soitoav than in anger, when suddenly a latch key Avas heard in the door, and in Avalked Mr J ones himself, calm and unruffled, without a hair out of place, or a crease on his snowy shirt-front. Mrs Jones gazed at him a moment, scarcely believing ner own eyes. ‘ Owi-n ! —and sober ! ’ she exclaimed ; then Hung herself into his arms, and went into a tit of decided hysterics. ‘ My darling wife, what on earth is the matter ? ’ ‘O Owen, I am so thankful/ said the little Avife, as soon as her sobs world let her speak-— ‘ I am so thankful. But, then, who is the man in our bed ? ’ 1 ‘The man in our bed!’ said Mr Jones. ‘ Whatever do you mean ? ’ ‘ O Owen dear, you can’t toll Avliat I have gone through. A cab came half an hour ago, and brought you home from the dinner: j at least the cabman said it was you, very j tipsy and fast asleep, and he had your card ; j and so I told him to put you —I mean to say | him—in our room, and there he is uoav.’ I ‘ The devil he is!’ said M r Jones. ‘ I j must have a look at this double of mine ; ’ j and seizing a candle, he strode upstairs, j Frcsently he again entered the room. : j ‘ I think I see how the mistake hap- f pened,’ said he. ‘ This follow upstairs Avas I at the dinner to-night, and had more than ] aviis good for him at an early period of the I ! evening. He Avas rather rude to me ; but it | was no use to be angry Avith a man in such a li condition : so I merely handed him my jj card, and told him Avheu he returned to his I senses be might come and apologise, though | 1 can’t say I had much expectation that he | s avo Id. What became of him aftenvards 11 ! can’t say. I smoked a cigar with our friend | I Griffiths, and then walkd leisurely home, | McanAvhilo I suppose this fellow Avas tool drunk to answer for himself; and finding I my card about him, they assumed it Avas his ! own, and sent him here accordingly. The I | only thing that puzzles me is that you ; I didn’t find out the mistake.’ | j ‘Well, dear, to tell you the truth, I was 1 so shocked and horrified that you should be, i as 1 supposed, in such a condition, that I Avould not even see you, or let Mary do so cither; sol sent her dowrstairs, and told the cabman to take the wretched man up to our room. But whatever shall we do uoav ? The idea of a filthy drunken wretch in our bed! It’s too horrible.’ ‘ Wc must n’t be too hard upon him, dear. I could see at a glance that he was one of our poorer brethren ; I daresay a hard-Avork- j ing sober man enough in a general way, but the temptation of a good dinner and unlimited liquor Avas too much for him. Besides, dear, we must consider the occasion. It is the immemorial privilege of every Welshman to get drunk, if he likes, on St. David’s Day. Some of us Avaive it, but that’s not to the purpose. We must move into the spare room for to-night, that’s all. You had better give Mary orders accordingly ; and at the same time it Avill be as avcll to rest re my blackened character by showing her that I am not quite so far gone as she imagines.’ Mrs Jones rang the bell. ‘ O Owen/ she said, kissing him fondly, and still wavering betAvecn smiles and tears, ‘ it is such a relief, 1 can’t tell you. I am so 1 bankful it Avasn’c you,’ Mary’s face, Avheu she opened the door, was a picture. ‘ Lor, ma’am ! Lor, sir !’ she said, looking from one to the other. ‘ It is all right, Mary, said her master. ‘ You will be relieA r ed to bear that the gentleman up-stairs is another Mr Jones. '■ bore lias been a little mistake, that’s all : and your mistress and I are going to sleep iu the spare room.’ Oh AFTER 111. Evan Jones Avoke on tbo morning fol’oiv ing the eventful dinner hot and feverish, with a tremendous headache and an agonising feeling of thirst. ‘ O, my poor head ! ’ he groaned, < Betsy,

my gal/ imagining his wife beside him, for mercy’s sake get out and give me a drink o’ water, there’s a good soul.’ There was no answer ‘ 1 s’pose she’s gone down stairs. O, lor my head ! ’ and he tried to settle hims> If to sleep again, but his parched throat was unbearable. ‘ I must have a drink of wate ,ii I die for itand he unwillingly opened his eyes, and dragged himself into a sitting position. ‘ Hallo ! ’ he exclaimed, as bis eyes fell on Ivs unaccustomed surroundings, ‘ Where the deuce have I got to, and how on earth did I come here 1 Why, it’s like a fairy tale. I must be a nobleman in disguise or one ofthemfoun ling hospital chaps come into a fortune. Jones, you old fool, you’re dreaming 1 I ain’t, though. Lor, what a bed! and lace curtains and marble tables; and what a lot o’ lookingglasses ! ’Pon my word, I should like never to get up any more. I must have a glass of water, though. Ah! that’s just heavenly. Now let mo think a hit. How did 1 come here? Let’s sec, what was yesterday? Yes, it must have heen yesterday that I went to the Welsh dinner. I remember going, but I don’t remember coming away; and, judging from my head this morning, I’m afraid I must have been uncommon screwed. And I haven’t been home all night. My eyes, what’ll Betsy say? T shall never hear the last of it to my dying day.’ At this moment onr hero’s reflections wore interrupted by a knock at the chamberdoor. ‘ Come in ! ’ he shouted incautiously ; ‘ at leaf,, no ; don’t come in—l mean, what is it?’ The voice of Mary, the parlour-maid, replied, ‘ Masters compliments, and he says breakfast is ready for yon, sir, whenever you can come down stairs.’ ‘My respects to your master, and I’ll be down directly miss,’ answered Jones. ‘ Well, that’s a comfort, anyhow/ ho soliloquised, ‘for ’pon my word, I didn’t know whether I mightn’t be given in custody for sleeping in other people’s heels under false pretences ; or embezzling another gent’s bouse, or something of that sort. How the deuce did I get here, that’s what beats me. ’ Still vainly trying to solve the enigma, Evan made a hurried toilet, and finally, with his head still aching as if it would split, and looking a wreck of yesterday’s greatness, he left the room, and crept softly downstairs. The evidences of wealth and luxury on every side, so unlike his own humble belongings, quite awed him, and having found his way down, be would not venture into any of the sitting-rooms, but modestly took bis scat on a chair in the hall, and waited for the development of of events. Here he was found after a few moments by Mr Owen Jones, who wished him a friendly good morning. ‘ I’ve seen you somewhere, I know, sir ’ said Evan ; ‘but I can’t for the life of me tell where.’ • ‘ Can’t you P ’ said his host, smiling. ‘We were both at the Welsh dinner last night, and one of us took a little too much. i A light suddenly flashed across Evan’s mind. I remember now, sir; I’m afraid I was rude to you. ‘Well, you were a little plain-spoken, and I ave you my card, and I told yon if you wished to apologise, von would know where to find me. I must say I didn’t expect yon would have come quite so soon though The fact is, you wore brought here by the mistake of a cabman, who supposed my card was your own.’ ‘l’m sure I humbly beg your pardon, sir ’ I said poor Evan, completely crestfallen. ‘T I can’t think how I came to disgrace myself; | hub to tell you the truth, sir, Fd had to | pinch a bit to buy my ticket, and all day | yesterday I hadn't tasted bit or sup since I breakfast, and when it cam to dinner-time j 1 was that faint and weak that the very first j ghiss seemed to set ray head al swimu.rug < like. I’d lot it go ton long, sir, and that’s | what it was 1 humbly ask your pardon, ! I’m sure, for the trouble I’ve caused, and I i thank you kindly f r giving me a night’s ! shelter. I feed I don't deserve ymrkind- ; ness, sir ; but I’m grateful, I assure you. ’ J And with tears in bis eyes Evan moved humblv to the hall-door to depart. ‘No, no. said Mr Owen Jones; ‘you; mu tn’t think of going without yonr break-i fast We are all Welsh here; and i f aj brother Welshman does take a glass too j much on St. David's Day, we know how to ' make allowances for him. Come, step in j here. We have had breakfast an hour ago ; j but Mrs Jones is waiting to give you | yours.’_ jj Looking very shamefaced and repentant, j Evan Jones followed his namesake into the I breakfast parlour, where Mrs Jones, who j had heard his humble confession and apology, | gave him a kindly greeting, and he was soon | seated before a snowy table-cloth and, as | well as his headache would let him, enjoying ! a plenteous repast. During the meal his 1 entertainers quietly drew him out, and wore ! speedily behind the scenes as to his daily life and his hard struggles to keep I tbo wolf from the door; and when he finally took leave, a well-filled basket was waiting for him in the hall to take home as a present to the children. Nor Avas this by any means ‘he last which found its way to the same quarter, sent by the same friendly hands ; and I am sorry to say that of all days, that held in the highest veneration by the little Joneses is ‘ the day when papa got so dreadfully tipsy at the Welsh dinner. ’ ifc -X* % I feel that there must be a moral to this story somewhere, but I can’t quite sec where it lies. You can’t call it exactly a temperance story, because, yon observe, Evan Jones got a good night’s lodging and made a couple of kind friends by getting drunk—which is not poetical justice by any means. After much auxious consideration, the only safe moral I can see is, that a mrrried lady should never order any gentleman, however tipsy, to be put into her own bed without making quite sure, in the first place, that ho is the gentleman who rightfully belongs to her.