The Cost of Kindness

etext of The Cost of Kindness

By Jerome K. Jerome Scanned and proofed by Ronald Burkey
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THE COST OF KINDNESS By JEROME K. JEROME
Author of "Paul Kelver," "Three Men in a Boat," etc., etc.
NEW YORK DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 1909
COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY JEROME K. JEROME COPYRIGHT, 1908,
BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY Published, September, 1908
THE COST OF KINDNESS
"Kindness," argued little Mrs. Pennycoop, "costs nothing."
"And, speaking generally, my dear, is valued precisely at cost price,"
retorted Mr. Pennycoop, who, as an auctioneer of twenty years'
experience, had enjoyed much opportunity of testing the attitude of the
public towards sentiment.
"I don't care what you say, George," persisted his wife; "he may be a
disagreeable, cantankerous old brute--I don't say he isn't. All the same,
the man is going away, and we may never see him again."
"If I thought there was any fear of our doing so," observed Mr.
Pennycoop, "I'd turn my back on the Church of England to-morrow and
become a Methodist."

"Don't talk like that, George," his wife admonished him, reprovingly;
"the Lord might be listening to you."
"If the Lord had to listen to old Cracklethorpe He'd sympathize with
me," was the opinion of Mr. Pennycoop.
"The Lord sends us our trials, and they are meant for our good,"
explained his wife. "They are meant to teach us patience."
"You are not churchwarden," retorted her husband; "you can get away
from him. You hear him when he is in the pulpit, where, to a certain
extent, he is bound to keep his temper."
"You forget the rummage sale, George," Mrs. Pennycoop reminded
him; "to say nothing of the church decorations."
"The rummage sale," Mr. Pennycoop pointed out to her, "occurs only
once a year, and at that time your own temper, I have noticed--"
"I always try to remember I am a Christian," interrupted little Mrs.
Pennycoop. "I do not pretend to be a saint, but whatever I say I am
always sorry for it afterwards--you know I am, George."
"It's what I am saying," explained her husband. "A vicar who has
contrived in three years to make every member of his congregation hate
the very sight of a church--well, there's something wrong about it
somewhere."
Mrs. Pennycoop, gentlest of little women, laid her plump and still
pretty hands upon her husband's shoulders. "Don't think, dear, I haven't
sympathized with you. You have borne it nobly. I have marvelled
sometimes that you have been able to control yourself as you have done,
most times; the things that he has said to you."
Mr. Pennycoop had slid unconsciously into an attitude suggestive of
petrified virtue, lately discovered.
"One's own poor self," observed Mr. Pennycoop, in accents of proud

humility--"insults that are merely personal one can put up with. Though
even there," added the senior churchwarden, with momentary descent
towards the plane of human nature, "nobody cares to have it hinted
publicly across the vestry table that one has chosen to collect from the
left side for the express purpose of artfully passing over one's own
family."
"The children have always had their three-penny-bits ready waiting in
their hands," explained Mrs. Pennycoop, indignantly.
"It's the sort of thing he says merely for the sake of making a
disturbance," continued the senior churchwarden. "It's the things he
does I draw the line at."
"The things he has done, you mean, dear," laughed the little woman,
with the accent on the "has." "It is all over now, and we are going to be
rid of him. I expect, dear, if we only knew, we should find it was his
liver. You know, George, I remarked to you the first day that he came
how pasty he looked and what a singularly unpleasant mouth he had.
People can't help these things, you know, dear. One should look upon
them in the light of afflictions and be sorry for them."
"I could forgive him doing what he does if he didn't seem to enjoy it,"
said the senior churchwarden. "But, as you say, dear, he is going, and
all I hope and pray is that we never see his like again."
"And you'll come with me to call upon him, George," urged kind little
Mrs. Pennycoop. "After all, he has been our vicar for three years, and
he must be feeling it, poor man--whatever he may pretend--going away
like this, knowing that everybody is glad to see the back of him."
"Well, I sha'n't say anything I don't really feel," stipulated Mr.
Pennycoop.
"That will be