Well! she washed up the breakfast cups, chatting away the whole time, and telling Tom all sorts of anecdotes about the brass-and-copper founder; put everything in its place; made the room as neat as herself;--you must not suppose its shape was half as neat as hers though, or anything like it--and brushed Tom's old hat round and round and round again, until it was as sleek as Mr. Pecksniff. Then she discovered, all in a moment, that Tom's shirt-collar was frayed at the edge; and flying up-stairs for a needle and thread, came flying down again with her thimble on, and set it right with wonderful expertness; never once sticking the needle into his face, although she was humming his pet tune from first to last, and beating time with the fingers of her left hand upon his neckcloth. She had no sooner done this, than off she was again; and there she stood once more, as brisk and busy as a bee, tying that compact little chin of hers into, an equally compact little bonnet: intent on bustling out to the butcher's, without a minute's loss of time; and inviting Tom to come and see the steak cut, with his own eyes. As to Tom, he was ready to go anywhere; so off they trotted, arm-in-arm, as nimbly as you please; saying to each other what a quiet street it was to lodge in, and how very cheap, and what an airy situation.
To see the butcher slap the steak, before he laid it on the block and give his knife a sharpening, was to forget breakfast instantly. It was agreeable, too--it really was--to see him cut it off, so smooth and juicy.
There was nothing savage in the act, although the knife was large and keen; it was a piece of art, high art; there was delicacy of touch, clearness of tone, skilful handling of the subject, fine shading. It was the triumph of mind over matter; quite.
Perhaps the greenest cabbage-leaf ever grown in a garden was wrapped about this steak, before it was delivered over to Tom. But the butcher had a sentiment for his business, and knew how to refine upon it. When he saw Tom putting the cabbage-leaf into his pocket awkwardly, he begged to be allowed to do it for him; `for meat,' he said with some emotion, `must be humoured, not drove.'
Back they went to the lodgings again, after they had bought some eggs, and flour, and such small matters; and Tom sat gravely down to write at one end of the parlour table, while Ruth prepared to make the pudding at the other end; for there was nobody in the house but an old woman (the landlord being a mysterious sort of man, who went out early in the morning, and was scarcely ever seen); and saving in mere household drudgery, they waited on themselves.
`What are you writing, Tom?' inquired his sister, laying her hand upon his shoulder.
`Why, you see, my dear,' said Tom, leaning back in his chair, and looking up in her face, `I am very anxious, of course, to obtain some suitable employment; and before Mr. Westlock comes this afternoon, I think I may as well prepare a little description of myself and my qualifications; such as he could show to any friend of his.'
`You had better do the same for me, Tom, also,' said his sister, casting down her eyes. `I should dearly like to keep house for you and take care of you always, Tom; but we are not rich enough for that.'
`We are not rich,' returned Tom, `certainly; and we may be much poorer.
But we will not part if we can help it. No, no: we will make up our minds Ruth, that unless we are so very unfortunate as to render me quite sure that you would be better off away from me than with me, we will battle it out together. I am certain we shall be happier if we can battle it out together. Don't you think we shall?'
`Think, Tom!'
`Oh, tut, tut!' interposed Tom, tenderly. `You mustn't cry.'
`No, no; I won't, Tom. But you can't afford it, dear. You can't, indeed.'
`We don't know that,' said Tom. `How are we to know that, yet awhile, and without trying? Lord bless my soul!' Tom's energy became quite grand.
`There is no knowing what may happen, if we try hard. And I am sure we can live contentedly upon a very little--if we can only get it.'
`Yes. that I am sure we can, Tom.'
`Why, then,' said Tom, `we must try for it. My friend, John Westlock, is a capital fellow, and very shrewd and intelligent. I'll take his advice.
We'll talk it over with him--both of us together. You'll like John very much, when you come to know him, I am certain. Don't cry, don't cry. You make a beef-steak pudding, indeed!' said Tom, giving her a gentle push.
`Why, you haven't boldness enough for a dumpling!'
`You will call it a pudding, Tom. Mind! I told you not!'
`I may as well call it that, till it proves to be something else,' said Tom. `Oh, you are going to work in earnest, are you?'
