Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “My daughter’s coming round to see you presently,” she said, at last.

  The astrologer nodded.

  “She — she wants to ask you about ‘er husband,” faltered’ Mrs. Gimpson; “she’s going to bring a friend with her — a man who doesn’t believe in your knowledge. He — he knows all about my daughter’s husband, and he wants to see what you say you know about him.”

  The old man put on a pair of huge horn spectacles and eyed her carefully.

  “You’ve got something on your mind,” he said, at last; “you’d better tell me everything.”

  Mrs. Gimpson shook her head.

  “There’s some danger hanging over you,” continued Mr. Silver, in a low, thrilling voice; “some danger in connection with your son-in-law. There,” he waved a lean, shrivelled hand backward and for-ward as though dispelling a fog, and peered into distance— “there is something forming over you. You — or somebody — are hiding something from me.”

  Mrs. Gimpson, aghast at such omniscience, sank backward in her chair.

  “Speak,” said the old man, gently; “there is no reason why you should be sacrificed for others.”

  Mrs. Gimpson was of the same opinion, and in some haste she reeled off the events of the evening. She had a good memory, and no detail was lost.

  “Strange, strange,” said the venerable Mr. Silver, when he had finished. “He is an ingenious man.”

  “Isn’t it true?” inquired his listener. “He says he can prove it. And he is going to find out what you meant by saying you were afraid of making mischief.”

  “He can prove some of it,” said the old man, his eyes snapping spitefully. “I can guarantee that.”

  “But it wouldn’t have made mischief if you had told us that,” ventured Mrs. Gimpson. “A man can’t help being cast away.”

  “True,” said the astrologer, slowly; “true. But let them come and question me; and whatever you do, for your own sake don’t let a soul know that you have been here. If you do, the danger to yourself will be so terrible that even I may be unable to help you.”

  Mrs. Gimpson shivered, and more than ever impressed by his marvellous powers made her way slowly home, where she found the unconscious Mr. Boxer relating his adventures again with much gusto to a married couple from next door.

  “It’s a wonder he’s alive,” said Mr. Jem Thompson, looking up as the old woman entered the room; “it sounds like a story-book. Show us that cut on your head again, mate.”

  The obliging Mr. Boxer complied.

  “We’re going on with ’em after they’ve ‘ad sup-per,” continued Mr. Thompson, as he and his wife rose to depart. “It’ll be a fair treat to me to see old Silver bowled out.”

  Mrs. Gimpson sniffed and eyed his retreating figure disparagingly; Mrs. Boxer, prompted by her husband, began to set the table for supper.

  It was a lengthy meal, owing principally to Mr. Boxer, but it was over at last, and after that gentleman had assisted in shutting up the shop they joined the Thompsons, who were waiting outside, and set off for Crowner’s Alley. The way was enlivened by Mr. Boxer, who had thrills of horror every ten yards at the idea of the supernatural things he was about to witness, and by Mr. Thompson, who, not to be outdone, persisted in standing stock-still at frequent intervals until he had received the assurances of his giggling better-half that he would not be made to vanish in a cloud of smoke.

  By the time they reached Mr. Silver’s abode the party had regained its decorum, and, except for a tremendous shudder on the part of Mr. Boxer as his gaze fell on a couple of skulls which decorated the magician’s table, their behaviour left nothing to be desired. Mrs. Gimpson, in a few awkward words, announced the occasion of their visit. Mr. Boxer she introduced as a friend of the family from London.

  “I will do what I can,” said the old man, slowly, as his visitors seated themselves, “but I can only tell you what I see. If I do not see all, or see clearly, it cannot be helped.”

  Mr. Boxer winked at Mr. Thompson, and received an understanding pinch in return; Mrs. Thompson in a hot whisper told them to behave themselves.

  The mystic preparations were soon complete. A little cloud of smoke, through which the fierce red eyes of the astrologer peered keenly at Mr. Boxer, rose from the table. Then he poured various liquids into a small china bowl and, holding up his hand to command silence, gazed steadfastly into it. “I see pictures,” he announced, in a deep voice. “The docks of a great city; London. I see an ill-shaped man with a bent left leg standing on the deck of a ship.”

  Mr. Thompson, his eyes wide open with surprise, jerked Mr. Boxer in the ribs, but Mr. Boxer, whose figure was a sore point with him, made no response.

  “The ship leaves the docks,” continued Mr. Silver, still peering into the bowl. “As she passes through the entrance her stern comes into view with the name painted on it. The — the — the — —”

  “Look agin, old chap,” growled Mr. Boxer, in an undertone.

  “The North Star,” said the astrologer. “The ill-shaped man is still standing on the fore-part of the ship; I do not know his name or who he is. He takes the portrait of a beautiful young woman from his pocket and gazes at it earnestly.”

  Mrs. Boxer, who had no illusions on the subject of her personal appearance, sat up as though she had been stung; Mr. Thompson, who was about to nudge Mr. Boxer in the ribs again, thought better of it and assumed an air of uncompromising virtue.

  “The picture disappears,” said Mr. Silver. “Ah! I see; I see. A ship in a gale at sea. It is the North Star; it is sinking. The ill-shaped man sheds tears and loses his head. I cannot discover the name of this man.”

  Mr. Boxer, who had been several times on the point of interrupting, cleared his throat and endeavoured to look unconcerned.

  “The ship sinks,” continued the astrologer, in thrilling tones. “Ah! what is this? a piece of wreck-age with a monkey clinging to it? No, no-o. The ill-shaped man again. Dear me!”

  His listeners sat spellbound. Only the laboured and intense breathing of Mr. Boxer broke the silence.

  “He is alone on the boundless sea,” pursued the seer; “night falls. Day breaks, and a canoe propelled by a slender and pretty but dusky maiden approaches the castaway. She assists him into the canoe and his head sinks on her lap, as with vigorous strokes of her paddle she propels the canoe toward a small island fringed with palm trees.”

  “Here, look ‘ere—” began the overwrought Mr. Boxer.

  “H’sh, h’sh!” ejaculated the keenly interested Mr. Thompson. “W’y don’t you keep quiet?”

  “The picture fades,” continued the old man. “I see another: a native wedding. It is the dusky maiden and the man she rescued. Ah! the wedding is interrupted; a young man, a native, breaks into the group. He has a long knife in his hand. He springs upon the ill-shaped man and wounds him in the head.”

  Involuntarily Mr. Boxer’s hand went up to his honourable scar, and the heads of the others swung round to gaze at it. Mrs. Boxer’s face was terrible in its expression, but Mrs. Gimpson’s bore the look of sad and patient triumph of one who knew men and could not be surprised at anything they do.

  “The scene vanishes,” resumed the monotonous voice, “and another one forms. The same man stands on the deck of a small ship. The name on the stern is the Peer — no, Paris — no, no, no, Pearl. It fades from the shore where the dusky maiden stands with hands stretched out imploringly. The ill-shaped man smiles and takes the portrait of the young and beautiful girl from his pocket.”

  “Look ‘ere,” said the infuriated Mr. Boxer, “I think we’ve ‘ad about enough of this rubbish. I have — more than enough.”

  “I don’t wonder at it,” said his wife, trembling furiously. “You can go if you like. I’m going to stay and hear all that there is to hear.”

  “You sit quiet,” urged the intensely interested Mr. Thompson. “He ain’t said it’s you. There’s more than one misshaped man in the world, I s’pose?”

  “I see an
ocean liner,” said the seer, who had appeared to be in a trance state during this colloquy. “She is sailing for England from Australia. I see the name distinctly: the Marston Towers. The same man is on board of her. The ship arrives at London. The scene closes; another one forms. The ill-shaped man is sitting with a woman with a beautiful face — not the same as the photograph.”

  “What they can see in him I can’t think,” muttered Mr. Thompson, in an envious whisper. “He’s a perfick terror, and to look at him — —”

  “They sit hand in hand,” continued the astrologer, raising his voice. “She smiles up at him and gently strokes his head; he — —”

  A loud smack rang through the room and startled the entire company; Mrs. Boxer, unable to contain herself any longer, had, so far from profiting by the example, gone to the other extreme and slapped her husband’s head with hearty good-will. Mr. Boxer sprang raging to his feet, and in the confusion which ensued the fortune-teller, to the great regret of Mr. Thompson, upset the contents of the magic bowl.

  “I can see no more,” he said, sinking hastily into his chair behind the table as Mr. Boxer advanced upon him.

  Mrs. Gimpson pushed her son-in-law aside, and laying a modest fee upon the table took her daughter’s arm and led her out. The Thompsons followed, and Mr. Boxer, after an irresolute glance in the direction of the ingenuous Mr. Silver, made his way after them and fell into the rear. The people in front walked on for some time in silence, and then the voice of the greatly impressed Mrs. Thompson was heard, to the effect that if there were only more fortune-tellers in the world there would be a lot more better men.

  Mr. Boxer trotted up to his wife’s side. “Look here, Mary,” he began.

  “Don’t you speak to me,” said his wife, drawing closer to her mother, “because I won’t answer you.”

  Mr. Boxer laughed, bitterly. “This is a nice home-coming,” he remarked.

  He fell to the rear again and walked along raging, his temper by no means being improved by observing that Mrs. Thompson, doubtless with a firm belief in the saying that “Evil communications corrupt good manners,” kept a tight hold of her husband’s arm. His position as an outcast was clearly defined, and he ground his teeth with rage as he observed the virtuous uprightness of Mrs. Gimpson’s back. By the time they reached home he was in a spirit of mad recklessness far in advance of the character given him by the astrologer.

  His wife gazed at him with a look of such strong interrogation as he was about to follow her into the house that he paused with his foot on the step and eyed her dumbly.

  “Have you left anything inside that you want?” she inquired.

  Mr. Boxer shook his head. “I only wanted to come in and make a clean breast of it,” he said, in a curious voice; “then I’ll go.”

  Mrs. Gimpson stood aside to let him pass, and Mr. Thompson, not to be denied, followed close behind with his faintly protesting wife. They sat down in a row against the wall, and Mr. Boxer, sitting opposite in a hang-dog fashion, eyed them with scornful wrath.

  “Well?” said Mrs. Boxer, at last.

  “All that he said was quite true,” said her husband, defiantly. “The only thing is, he didn’t tell the arf of it. Altogether, I married three dusky maidens.”

  Everybody but Mr. Thompson shuddered with horror.

  “Then I married a white girl in Australia,” pursued Mr. Boxer, musingly. “I wonder old Silver didn’t see that in the bowl; not arf a fortune-teller, I call ‘im.”

  “What they see in ‘im!” whispered the astounded Mr. Thompson to his wife.

  “And did you marry the beautiful girl in the photograph?” demanded Mrs. Boxer, in trembling accents.

  “I did,” said her husband.

  “Hussy,” cried Mrs. Boxer.

  “I married her,” said Mr. Boxer, considering— “I married her at Camberwell, in eighteen ninety-three.”

  “Eighteen ninety-three!” said his wife, in a startled voice. “But you couldn’t. Why, you didn’t marry me till eighteen ninety-four.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?” inquired the monster, calmly.

  Mrs. Boxer, pale as ashes, rose from her seat and stood gazing at him with horror-struck eyes, trying in vain to speak.

  “You villain!” cried Mrs. Gimpson, violently. “I always distrusted you.”

  “I know you did,” said Mr. Boxer, calmly. “You’ve been committing bigamy,” cried Mrs. Gimpson.

  “Over and over agin,” assented Mr. Boxer, cheerfully. “It’s got to be a ‘obby with me.”

  “Was the first wife alive when you married my daughter?” demanded Mrs. Gimpson.

  “Alive?” said Mr. Boxer. “O’ course she was. She’s alive now — bless her.”

  He leaned back in his chair and regarded with intense satisfaction the horrified faces of the group in front.

  “You — you’ll go to jail for this,” cried Mrs. Gimpson, breathlessly. “What is your first wife’s address?”

  “I decline to answer that question,” said her son-in-law.

  “What is your first wife’s address?” repeated Mrs. Gimpson.

  “Ask the fortune-teller,” said Mr. Boxer, with an aggravating smile. “And then get ‘im up in the box as a witness, little bowl and all. He can tell you more than I can.”

  “I demand to know her name and address,” cried Mrs. Gimpson, putting a bony arm around the waist of the trembling Mrs. Boxer.

  “I decline to give it,” said Mr. Boxer, with great relish. “It ain’t likely I’m going to give myself away like that; besides, it’s agin the law for a man to criminate himself. You go on and start your bigamy case, and call old red-eyes as a witness.”

  Mrs. Gimpson gazed at him in speechless wrath and then stooping down conversed in excited whispers with Mrs. Thompson. Mrs. Boxer crossed over to her husband.

  “Oh, John,” she wailed, “say it isn’t true, say it isn’t true.”

  Mr. Boxer hesitated. “What’s the good o’ me saying anything?” he said, doggedly.

  “It isn’t true,” persisted his wife. “Say it isn’t true.”

  “What I told you when I first came in this evening was quite true,” said her husband, slowly. “And what I’ve just told you is as true as what that lying old fortune-teller told you. You can please yourself what you believe.”

  “I believe you, John,” said his wife, humbly.

  Mr. Boxer’s countenance cleared and he drew her on to his knee.

  “That’s right,” he said, cheerfully. “So long as you believe in me I don’t care what other people think. And before I’m much older I’ll find out how that old rascal got to know the names of the ships I was aboard. Seems to me somebody’s been talking.”

  BLUNDELL’S IMPROVEMENT

  Venia Turnbull in a quiet, unobtrusive fashion was enjoying herself. The cool living-room at Turnbull’s farm was a delightful contrast to the hot sunshine without, and the drowsy humming of bees floating in at the open window was charged with hints of slumber to the middle-aged. From her seat by the window she watched with amused interest the efforts of her father — kept from his Sunday afternoon nap by the assiduous attentions of her two admirers — to maintain his politeness.

  “Father was so pleased to see you both come in,” she said, softly; “it’s very dull for him here of an afternoon with only me.”

  “I can’t imagine anybody being dull with only you,” said Sergeant Dick Daly, turning a bold brown eye upon her.

  Mr. John Blundell scowled; this was the third time the sergeant had said the thing that he would have liked to say if he had thought of it.

  “I don’t mind being dull,” remarked Mr. Turnbull, casually.

  Neither gentleman made any comment.

  “I like it,” pursued Mr. Turnbull, longingly; “always did, from a child.”

  The two young men looked at each other; then they looked at Venia; the sergeant assumed an expression of careless ease, while John Blundell sat his chair like a human limpet. Mr. Turnbull a
lmost groaned as he remembered his tenacity.

  “The garden’s looking very nice,” he said, with a pathetic glance round.

  “Beautiful,” assented the sergeant. “I saw it yesterday.”

  “Some o’ the roses on that big bush have opened a bit more since then,” said the farmer.

  Sergeant Daly expressed his gratification, and said that he was not surprised. It was only ten days since he had arrived in the village on a visit to a relative, but in that short space of time he had, to the great discomfort of Mr. Blundell, made himself wonderfully at home at Mr. Turnbull’s. To Venia he related strange adventures by sea and land, and on subjects of which he was sure the farmer knew nothing he was a perfect mine of information. He began to talk in low tones to Venia, and the heart of Mr. Blundell sank within him as he noted her interest. Their voices fell to a gentle murmur, and the sergeant’s sleek, well-brushed head bent closer to that of his listener. Relieved from his attentions, Mr. Turnbull fell asleep without more ado.

  Blundell sat neglected, the unwilling witness of a flirtation he was powerless to prevent. Considering her limited opportunities, Miss Turnbull displayed a proficiency which astonished him. Even the sergeant was amazed, and suspected her of long practice.

  “I wonder whether it is very hot outside?” she said, at last, rising and looking out of the window.

  “Only pleasantly warm,” said the sergeant. “It would be nice down by the water.”

  “I’m afraid of disturbing father by our talk,” said the considerate daughter. “You might tell him we’ve gone for a little stroll when he wakes,” she added, turning to Blundell.

  Mr. Blundell, who had risen with the idea of acting the humble but, in his opinion, highly necessary part of chaperon, sat down again and watched blankly from the window until they were out of sight. He was half inclined to think that the exigencies of the case warranted him in arousing the farmer at once.

  It was an hour later when the farmer awoke, to find himself alone with Mr. Blundell, a state of affairs for which he strove with some pertinacity to make that aggrieved gentleman responsible.