Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “You’ve got a nice little place here,” said Flower, by way of changing the conversation, which was well on the way to becoming personal; “but don’t you find it rather dull sometimes?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” said the old woman. “I finds plenty to do, and ‘e potters about like. ‘E don’t do much, but it pleases ‘im, and it don’t hurt me.”

  The object of these compliments took them as a matter of course, and after hunting up the stump of last night’s cigar, and shredding it with his knife, crammed it into a clay pipe and smoked tranquilly. Flower found a solitary cigar, one of the Blue Posts’ best, and with a gaze which wandered idly from the chest of drawers on one side of the room to the old china dogs on the little mantel-shelf on the other, smoked in silence.

  The old man brought in news at dinner-time. The village was ringing with the news of yesterday’s affair, and a rigourous search, fanned into excitement by an offer of two pounds reward, was taking the place of the more prosaic labours of the country side.

  “If it wasn’t for me,” said the old man, in an excess of self-laudation, “you’d be put in the gaol — where you ought to be; but I wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t for the five pounds. You’d better keep close in the house. There’s some more of ’em in the wood looking for you.”

  Captain Flower took his advice, and for the next two days became a voluntary prisoner. On the third day the old man reported that public excitement about him was dying out, owing partly to the fact that it thought the villain must have made his escape good, and partly to the fact that the landlord of the Wheatsheaf had been sitting at his front door shooting at snakes on the King’s Highway invisible to ordinary folk.

  The skipper resolved to make a start on the following evening, walking, the first night so as to get out of the dangerous zone, and then training to London. At the prospect his spirits rose, and in a convivial mood he purchased a bottle of red currant wine from the old woman at supper, and handed it round.

  He was still cheerful next morning as he arose and began to dress. Then he paused, and in a somewhat anxious fashion patted his trousers pockets. Minute and painful investigation revealed a bunch of keys and a clasp-knife.

  He tried his other pockets, and then, sinking in a dazed fashion into a chair, tried to think what had become of his purse and loose change. His watch, a silver one, was under his pillow, where he had placed it the night before, and his ready cash was represented by the shilling which hung upon the chain.

  He completed his dressing slowly while walking about the room, looking into all sorts of likely and unlikely hiding-places for his money, and at length gave up the search in disgust, and sat down to wait until such time as his host should appear. It was a complication for which he had not bargained, and unable to endure the suspense any longer, he put his head up the stairway and bawled to the old man to come down.

  “What’s the matter now?” demanded the old man as he came downstairs, preceded by his wife. “One would think the place belonged to you, making all that noise.”

  “I’ve lost my purse,” said Flower, regarding him sternly. “My purse has been taken out of one pocket and some silver out of the other while I was asleep.”

  The old man raised his eyebrows at his wife and scratched his chin roughly.

  “I s’pose you’ve lost my three pounds along with it?” he said, raspily.

  “Where’s my purse?” demanded the skipper, roughly; “don’t play the fool with me. It won’t pay.”

  “I don’t know nothing about your purse,” said the other, regarding him closely with his little bloodshot eyes; “you’re trying to do me out o’my three pounds — me what’s took you in and ‘id you.”

  The incensed skipper made no reply, but, passing upstairs, turned the bed-room topsy-turvy in a wild search for his property. It was unsuccessful, and he came down with a look in his face which made his respected host get close to his wife.

  “Are you going to give me my money?” demanded he, striding up to him.

  “I’ve not got your money,” snarled the other, “I’m an honest man.”

  He started back in alarm, and his wife gave a faint scream as Flower caught him by the collar, and, holding him against the wall, went through his pockets.

  “Don’t hurt him,” cried the old woman; “he’s only a little old man.”

  “If you were younger and bigger,” said the infuriated skipper, as he gave up the fruitless search, “I’d thrash you till you gave it up.”

  “I’m an honest man,” said the other, recovering himself as he saw that his adversary intended no violence; “if you think I’ve stole your money, you know what you can do.”

  “What?” demanded Flower.

  “Go to the police,” said the old man, his little slit of a mouth twisted into a baleful grin; “if you think I’ve stole your money, go and tell the police.”

  “Let ’em come and search the house,” said the old woman, plucking up spirit. “I’ve been married forty-two years and ‘ad seven children. Go and fetch the police.”

  Flower stared at them in wrathful concern. Threats were of no use, and violence was out of the question. He went to the door, and leaning against it, stood there deep in thought until, after a time, the old woman, taking courage from his silence, began to prepare breakfast. Then he turned, and drawing his chair up to the table, ate silently.

  He preserved this silence all day despite the occasional suggestion of the old man that he should go for the police, and the aggrieved refrain of the old woman as to the length of her married life and the number of her offspring.

  He left at night without a word. The old man smiled almost amiably to see him go; and the old woman, who had been in a state of nervous trepidation all day, glanced at her husband with a look in which wifely devotion and admiration were almost equally blended.

  Flower passed slowly through the wood, and after pausing to make sure that he was not followed, struck across the fields, and, with his sailor’s knowledge of the stars, steered by them in the direction of London.

  He walked all that night unmolested, his foot giving him but little trouble, and passed the following day under a haystack, assuaging his hunger with some bread and cheese he had put in his pocket.

  Travelling by night and sleeping in secluded spots by day, he reached the city in three days. Considering that he had no money, and was afraid to go into a town to pawn his watch, he did not suffer so much from hunger as might have been expected — something which he vaguely referred to as Providence, but for which the sufferers found other terms, twice leading his faltering footsteps to labourers’ dinners in tin cans and red handkerchiefs.

  At Stratford he pawned his watch and chain and sat down to a lengthy meal, and then, with nearly eighteen shillings in his pocket, took train to Liverpool Street. The roar of the city greeted his ears like music, and, investing in a pipe and tobacco, he got on a ‘bus bound eastward, and securing cheap apartments in the Mile End Road, sat down to consider his plans. The prompt appearance of the Tipping family after his letter to Fraser had given him a wholesome dread of the post, and until the connection between the two was satisfactorily explained he would not risk another, even in his new name of Thompson. Having come to this decision, he had another supper, and then went upstairs to the unwonted luxury of a bed.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  It is one of the first laws of domestic economy that the largest families must inhabit the smallest houses — a state of things which is somewhat awkward when the heads wish to discuss affairs of state. Some preserve a certain amount of secrecy by the use of fragmentary sentences eked out by nods and blinks and by the substitution of capital letters for surnames; a practice likely to lead to much confusion and scandal when the names of several friends begin with the same letter. Others improve the family orthography to an extent they little dream of by spelling certain vital words instead of pronouncing them, some children profiting so much by this form of vicarious instruction that they have been known
to close a most interesting conversation by thoughtlessly correcting their parents on a point of spelling.

  There were but few secrets in the Wheeler family, the younger members relating each other’s misdeeds quite freely, and refuting the charge of tale-bearing by keeping debit and credit accounts with each other in which assets and liabilities could usually be balanced by simple addition. Among the elders, the possession of a present secret merely meant a future conversation.

  On this day the juniors were quite certain that secret proceedings of a highly interesting nature were in the air. Miss Tyrell having been out since the morning, Mrs. Wheeler was looking forward anxiously to her return with the view of holding a little private conversation with her, and the entire Wheeler family were no less anxious to act as audience for the occasion. Mr. Bob Wheeler had departed to his work that morning in a condition which his family, who were fond of homely similes, had likened to a bear with a sore head. The sisterly attentions of Emma Wheeler were met with a boorish request to keep her paws off; and a young Wheeler, rash and inexperienced in the way of this weary world, who publicly asked what Bob had “got the hump about,” was sternly ordered to finish his breakfast in the washhouse. Consequently there was a full meeting after tea, and when Poppy entered, it was confidently expected that proceedings would at once open with a speech from the sofa.

  “Take the children outside a bit, Belinda,” said her mother, after the tea things had been removed.

  “Got my ‘ome lessons to do,” said Belinda.

  “Do ’em when you come back,” said Mrs. Wheeler.

  “Sha’n’t ‘ave time,” replied Belinda, taking her books from a shelf; “they’ll take me all the evening. We’ve all got a lot of ‘ome lessons to-night.”

  “Never mind, you take ’em out,” persisted Mrs. Wheeler.

  “When I want to go out,” said Belinda, rebelliously, “you won’t let me.”

  “Do as your mother tells you,” commanded Mr. Wheeler, with excellent sternness.

  “I want a little quiet,” said Mrs. Wheeler; “a little fresh air will do you good, Peter.”

  “I’ll go and smoke my pipe in the washhouse,” said Mr. Wheeler, who had his own notions of healthful recreation.

  “Take your pipe outside,” said Mrs. Wheeler, significantly. “Did you ‘ear what I said, Belinda?”

  Belinda rose noisily and gathering up her untidy books, thrust them back in a heap on the shelf, and putting on her hat stood at the door commenting undutifully upon her parents, and shrilly demanding of the small Wheelers whether they were coming or whether she was to stay there all night. She also indulged in dreary prognostications concerning her future, and finally driving her small fry before her, closed the street door with a bang which induced Mrs. Wheeler to speak of heredity and Mr. Wheeler’s sister Jane’s temper.

  “Where are you going, Poppy?” she enquired, as the girl rose to follow the dutiful Mr. Wheeler. “I want to speak to you a moment.”

  The girl resumed her seat, and taking up a small garment intended for the youngest Wheeler but two, or the youngest but one, whichever it happened to fit best, or whichever wanted it first, stitched on in silence. “I want to speak to you about Bob,” said Mrs. Wheeler, impressively. “Of course you know he never keeps anything from his mother. He ‘as told me about all the gells he has walked out with, and though, of course, he ‘as been much run after, he is three-and-twenty and not married yet. He told me that none of ’em seemed to be worthy of him.”

  She paused for so long that Poppy Tyrell looked up from her work, said “Yes,” in an expressionless manner, and waited for her to continue.

  “He’s been a good son,” said the mother, fondly; “never no trouble, always been pertickler, and always quite the gentleman. He always smokes his cigar of a Sunday, and I remember the very first money ‘e ever earned ‘e spent on a cane with a dog’s ‘ed to it.”

  “Yes,” said Poppy again.

  “The gells he’s ‘ad after ‘im wouldn’t be believed,” said Mrs. Wheeler, shaking her head with a tender smile at a hole in the carpet. “Before you came here there was a fresh one used to come in every Sunday almost, but ‘e couldn’t make up his mind. We used to joke him about it.”

  “He’s very young still,” said Poppy.

  “He’s old enough to be married,” said Mrs. Wheeler. “He’s told me all about you, he never has no secrets from ‘is mother. He told me that he asked you to walk out with ‘im last night and you said ‘No’; but I told ‘im that that was only a gell’s way, and that you’d give ‘im another answer soon.”

  “That was my final answer,” said Poppy Tyrell, the corners of her mouth hardening. “I shall never say anything else.”

  “All young gells say that at first,” said Mrs. Wheeler, making praiseworthy efforts to keep her temper. “Wheeler ‘ad to ask me five times.”

  “I meant what I said,” said Poppy, stitching industriously. “I shall never change my mind.”

  “It’s early days to ask you perhaps, so soon after Captain Flower’s death,” suggested Mrs. Wheeler.

  “That has nothing at all to do with it,” said the girl. “I shall not marry your son, in any case.”

  “Not good enough for you, I suppose?” said the other, her eyes snapping. “In my time beggars couldn’t be choosers.”

  “They can’t choose much now,” said Poppy, in a low voice; “but as you know I’m going to a situation on Monday, I shall soon be able to pay off my debt to you: though, of course, I can’t repay you for your kindness in letting me live here when I had nowhere else to go.”

  “It isn’t me you owe it to,” said Mrs. Wheeler. “I’m sure I couldn’t ‘ave afforded to do it whatever Wheeler liked to say if Bob hadn’t come forward and paid for you.”

  “Bob?” cried Poppy, springing to her feet and dropping her work onto the floor.

  “Yes, Bob,” said the other, melodramatically; “‘im what isn’t good enough to be your husband.”

  “I didn’t know,” said the girl, brokenly; “you should have told me. I would sooner starve. I would sooner beg in the streets. I will go at once.”

  “I daresay you know where to go, so I sha’n’t worry about you,” replied Mrs. Wheeler. “You quiet ones are generally the worst.”

  “I am sorry,” murmured Poppy; “I did not mean to be rude, or ungrateful.”

  “You’re very kind,” said Mrs. Wheeler. “Is Mr. Fraser up in London?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” said the girl, pausing at the door.

  “Sure to be, though,” said Mrs. Wheeler, significantly; “you won’t ‘ave to starve, my dear. But, there, you know that — some people’s pride is a funny thing.”

  Miss Tyrell regarded her for a moment in silence and then quitted the room, coming back again from half-way up the stairs to answer a knock at the door. She opened it slowly, and discovered to her horror Mr. Fraser standing upon the doorstep, with a smile which was meant to be propitiatory, but only succeeded in being uneasy.

  “Is that Mr. Fraser?” demanded Mrs. Wheeler’s voice, shrilly.

  “That’s me,” said Fraser, heartily, as he shook hands with Poppy and entered the room.

  “I thought you wouldn’t be far off,” said Mrs. Wheeler, in an unpleasant voice. “Poppy’s been expecting you.”

  “I didn’t know that Mr. Fraser was coming,” said Poppy, as the helpless man looked from one to the other. “I suppose he has come to see you. He has not come to see me.”

  “Yes, I have,” said Mr. Fraser, calmly. “I wanted—”

  But Miss Tyrell had gone quietly upstairs, leaving him to gaze in a perturbed fashion at the sickly and somewhat malicious face on the sofa.

  “What’s the matter?” he enquired.

  “Nothing,” said Mrs. Wheeler.

  “Isn’t Miss Tyrell well?”

  “So far as I’m permitted to know the state of ‘er ‘ealth, she is,” was the reply.

  “Mr. Wheeler well?” enquired Fraser
, after a long pause.

  “Very well, I thank you,” said Mrs. Wheeler.

  “And Miss Wheeler, and Bob, and the whole pa —— and all of them?” said Fraser.

  “All very well,” said Mrs. Wheeler.

  His stock of conversation being exhausted he sat glancing uncomfortably round the littered room, painfully conscious that Mrs. Wheeler was regarding him with a glance that was at once hostile and impatient. While he was wondering whether Miss Tyrell had gone upstairs for a permanency, he heard her step on the stairs, and directly afterwards she appeared at the door with her hat and jacket on.

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Wheeler,” she said, gravely.

  “Good-bye,” said Mrs. Wheeler, in the same way that a free-speaking woman would have said “Good-riddance.”

  The girl’s eyes rested for a moment on Fraser. Then she bade him good-bye, and, opening the door, passed into the street.

  Fraser looked at Mrs. Wheeler in perplexity, then, jumping up suddenly as Poppy passed the window, he crossed to the door.

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Wheeler,” he shouted, and, vaguely conscious that something was wrong somewhere, dashed off in pursuit.

  Poppy Tyrell, her face pale and her eyes burning, quickened her pace as she heard hurrying footsteps behind her.

  “I just wanted a few words with you, Miss Tyrell,” said Fraser, somewhat breathlessly.

  “I — I am going on business,” said Poppy, in a quiet voice.

  “I didn’t understand Mrs. Wheeler just now,” said Fraser. “I hope you didn’t mind my calling?”

  “Oh, no,” said the girl; “call as often as you like, but this evening I’m busy. Come to-morrow.”

  This hospitality over-reached itself. “Have you left the Wheelers?” he enquired, suddenly.

  “Yes,” said Poppy, simply.

  “What’s the good of telling me to call, then?” enquired Fraser, bluntly.

  “They will be pleased to see you, I’m sure,” said Miss Tyrell.

  “Where are you going?” asked Fraser.