Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “That I didn’t,” said Mr. Hogg, his face clearing suddenly.

  “I had it in my hand not half an hour ago,” said the agitated Mr. Rose, thrusting one hand into his trouser-pocket and groping. “It can’t be far.”

  Mr. Quince attempted to speak, and, failing, blew his nose violently.

  “My memory ain’t what it used to be,” said the farmer. “Howsomever, I dare say it’ll turn up in a day or two.”

  “You — you’d better force the door,” suggested Mr. Quince, struggling to preserve an air of judicial calm.

  “No, no,” said Mr. Rose; “I ain’t going to damage my property like that. I can lock my stable-door and unlock it when I like; if people get in there as have no business there, it’s their look-out.”

  “That’s law,” said Mr. Hogg; “I’ll eat my hat if it ain’t.”

  “Do you mean to tell me you’ve really lost the key?” demanded Mr. Quince, eyeing the farmer sternly.

  “Seems like it,” said Mr. Rose. “However, he won’t come to no hurt. I’ll put in some bread and water for him, same as you advised me to.”

  Mr. Quince mastered his wrath by an effort, and with no sign of discomposure moved away without making any reference to the identity of the unfortunate in the stable.

  “Good-night,” said the farmer, “and thank you for coming and giving me the fresh advice. It ain’t everybody that ‘ud ha’ taken the trouble. If I hadn’t lost that key — —”

  The shoemaker scowled, and with the two fat books under his arm passed the listening neighbours with the air of a thoughtful man out for an evening stroll. Once inside his house, however, his manner changed, the attitude of Mrs. Quince demanding, at any rate, a show of concern.

  “It’s no good talking,” he said at last. “Ned shouldn’t have gone there, and as for going to law about it, I sha’n’t do any such thing; I should never hear the end of it. I shall just go on as usual, as if nothing had happened, and when Rose is tired of keeping him there he must let him out. I’ll bide my time.”

  Mrs. Quince subsided into vague mutterings as to what she would do if she were a man, coupled with sundry aspersions upon the character, looks, and family connections of Farmer Rose, which somewhat consoled her for being what she was.

  “He has always made jokes about your advice,” she said at length, “and now everybody’ll think he’s right. I sha’n’t be able to look anybody in the face. I should have seen through it at once if it had been me. I’m going down to give him a bit o’ my mind.”

  “You stay where you are,” said Mr. Quince, sharply, “and, mind, you are not to talk about it to anybody. Farmer Rose ‘ud like nothing better than to see us upset about it. I ain’t done with him yet. You wait.”

  Mrs. Quince, having no option, waited, but nothing happened. The following day found Ned Quince still a prisoner, and, considering the circumstances, remarkably cheerful. He declined point-blank to renounce his preposterous attentions, and said that, living on the premises, he felt half like a son-in-law already. He also complimented the farmer upon the quality of his bread.

  The next morning found him still unsubdued, and, under interrogation from the farmer, he admitted that he liked it, and said that the feeling of being at home was growing upon him.

  “If you’re satisfied, I am,” said Mr. Rose, grimly. “I’ll keep you here till you promise; mind that.”

  “It’s a nobleman’s life,” said Ned, peeping through the window, “and I’m beginning to like you as much as my real father.”

  “I don’t want none o’ yer impudence,” said the farmer, reddening.

  “You’ll like me better when you’ve had me here a little longer,” said Ned; “I shall grow on you. Why not be reasonable and make up your mind to it? Celia and I have.”

  “I’m going to send Celia away on Saturday,” said Mr. Rose; “make yourself happy and comfortable in here till then. If you’d like another crust o’ bread or an extra half pint o’ water you’ve only got to mention it. When she’s gone I’ll have a hunt for that key, so as you can go back to your father and help him to understand his law-books better.”

  He strode off with the air of a conqueror, and having occasion to go to the village looked in at the shoe-maker’s window as he passed and smiled broadly. For years Little Haven had regarded Mr. Quince with awe, as being far too dangerous a man for the lay mind to tamper with, and at one stroke the farmer had revealed the hollowness of his pretensions. Only that morning the wife of a labourer had called and asked him to hurry the mending of a pair of boots. She was a voluble woman, and having overcome her preliminary nervousness more than hinted that if he gave less time to the law and more to his trade it would be better for himself and everybody else.

  Miss Rose accepted her lot in a spirit of dutiful resignation, and on Saturday morning after her father’s admonition not to forget that the coach left the White Swan at two sharp, set off to pay a few farewell visits. By half-past twelve she had finished, and Lawyer Quince becoming conscious of a shadow on his work looked up to see her standing before the window. He replied to a bewitching smile with a short nod and became intent upon his work again.

  For a short time Celia lingered, then to his astonishment she opened the gate and walked past the side of the house into the garden. With growing astonishment he observed her enter his tool-shed and close the door behind her.

  For ten minutes he worked on and then, curiosity getting the better of him, he walked slowly to the tool-shed and, opening the door a little way, peeped in. It was a small shed, crowded with agricultural implements. The floor was occupied by an upturned wheelbarrow, and sitting on the barrow, with her soft cheek leaning against the wall, sat Miss Rose fast asleep. Mr. Quince coughed several times, each cough being louder than the last, and then, treading softly, was about to return to the workshop when the girl stirred and muttered in her sleep. At first she was unintelligible, then he distinctly caught the words “idiot” and “blockhead.”

  “She’s dreaming of somebody,” said Mr. Quince to himself with conviction.

  “Wonder who it is?”

  “Can’t see — a thing — under — his — nose,” murmured the fair sleeper.

  “Celia!” said Mr. Quince, sharply. “Celia!”

  He took a hoe from the wall and prodded her gently with the handle. A singularly vicious expression marred the soft features, but that was all.

  “Ce-lia!” said the shoemaker, who feared sun-stroke.

  “Fancy if he — had — a moment’s common sense,” murmured Celia, drowsily, “and locked — the door.”

  Lawyer Quince dropped the hoe with a clatter and stood regarding her open-mouthed. He was a careful man with his property, and the stout door boasted a good lock. He sped to the house on tip-toe, and taking the key from its nail on the kitchen dresser returned to the shed, and after another puzzled glance at the sleeping girl locked her in.

  For half an hour he sat in silent enjoyment of the situation — enjoyment which would have been increased if he could have seen Mr. Rose standing at the gate of Holly Farm, casting anxious glances up and down the road. Celia’s luggage had gone down to the White Swan, and an excellent cold luncheon was awaiting her attention in the living-room.

  Half-past one came and no Celia, and five minutes later two farm labourers and a boy lumbered off in different directions in search of the missing girl, with instructions that she was to go straight to the White Swan to meet the coach. The farmer himself walked down to the inn, turning over in his mind a heated lecture composed for the occasion, but the coach came and, after a cheerful bustle and the consumption of sundry mugs of beer, sped on its way again.

  He returned home in silent consternation, seeking in vain for a satisfactory explanation of the mystery. For a robust young woman to disappear in broad day-light and leave no trace behind her was extraordinary. Then a sudden sinking sensation in the region of the waistcoat and an idea occurred simultaneously.

  He walked down to the village
again, the idea growing steadily all the way. Lawyer Quince was hard at work, as usual, as he passed. He went by the window three times and gazed wistfully at the cottage. Coming to the conclusion at last that two heads were better than one in such a business, he walked on to the mill and sought Mr. Hogg.

  “That’s what it is,” said the miller, as he breathed his suspicions. “I thought all along Lawyer Quince would have the laugh of you. He’s wonderful deep. Now, let’s go to work cautious like. Try and look as if nothing had happened.”

  Mr. Rose tried.

  “Try agin,” said the miller, with some severity. “Get the red out o’ your face and let your eyes go back and don’t look as though you’re going to bite somebody.”

  Mr. Rose swallowed an angry retort, and with an attempt at careless ease sauntered up the road with the miller to the shoemaker’s. Lawyer Quince was still busy, and looked up inquiringly as they passed before him.

  “I s’pose,” said the diplomatic Mr. Hogg, who was well acquainted with his neighbour’s tidy and methodical habits— “I s’pose you couldn’t lend me your barrow for half an hour? The wheel’s off mine.”

  Mr. Quince hesitated, and then favoured him with a glance intended to remind him of his scurvy behaviour three days before.

  “You can have it,” he said at last, rising.

  Mr. Hogg pinched his friend in his excitement, and both watched Mr. Quince with bated breath as he took long, slow strides toward the tool-shed. He tried the door and then went into the house, and even before his reappearance both gentlemen knew only too well what was about to happen. Red was all too poor a word to apply to Mr. Rose’s countenance as the shoemaker came toward them, feeling in his waist-coat pocket with hooked fingers and thumb, while Mr. Hogg’s expressive features were twisted into an appearance of rosy appreciation.

  “Did you want the barrow very particular?” inquired the shoemaker, in a regretful voice.

  “Very particular,” said Mr. Hogg.

  Mr. Quince went through the performance of feeling in all his pockets, and then stood meditatively rubbing his chin.

  “The door’s locked,” he said, slowly, “and what I’ve done with that there key — —”

  “You open that door,” vociferated Mr. Rose, “else I’ll break it in. You’ve got my daughter in that shed and I’m going to have her out.”

  “Your daughter?” said Mr. Quince, with an air of faint surprise. “What should she be doing in my shed?”

  “You let her out,” stormed Mr. Rose, trying to push past him.

  “Don’t trespass on my premises,” said Lawyer Quince, interposing his long, gaunt frame. “If you want that door opened you’ll have to wait till my boy Ned comes home. I expect he knows where to find the key.”

  Mr. Rose’s hands fell limply by his side and his tongue, turning prudish, refused its office. He turned and stared at Mr. Hogg in silent consternation.

  “Never known him to be beaten yet,” said that admiring weather-cock.

  “Ned’s been away three days,” said the shoemaker, “but I expect him home soon.”

  Mr. Rose made a strange noise in his throat and then, accepting his defeat, set off at a rapid pace in the direction of home. In a marvellously short space of time, considering his age and figure, he was seen returning with Ned Quince, flushed and dishevelled, walking by his side.

  “Here he is,” said the farmer. “Now where’s that key?”

  Lawyer Quince took his son by the arm and led him into the house, from whence they almost immediately emerged with Ned waving the key.

  “I thought it wasn’t far,” said the sapient Mr. Hogg.

  Ned put the key in the lock and flinging the door open revealed Celia Rose, blinking and confused in the sudden sunshine. She drew back as she saw her father and began to cry with considerable fervour.

  “How did you get in that shed, miss?” demanded her parent, stamping.

  “I — I went there,” she sobbed. “I didn’t want to go away.”

  “Well, you’d better stay there,” shouted the over-wrought Mr. Rose. “I’ve done with you. A girl that ‘ud turn against her own father I — I—”

  He drove his right fist into his left palm and stamped out into the road. Lawyer Quince and Mr. Hogg, after a moment’s hesitation, followed.

  “The laugh’s agin you, farmer,” said the latter gentleman, taking his arm.

  Mr. Rose shook him off.

  “Better make the best of it,” continued the peace-maker.

  “She’s a girl to be proud of,” said Lawyer Quince, keeping pace with the farmer on the other side. “She’s got a head that’s worth yours and mine put together, with Hogg’s thrown in as a little makeweight.”

  “And here’s the White Swan,” said Mr. Hogg, who had a hazy idea of a compliment, “and all of us as dry as a bone. Why not all go in and have a glass to shut folks’ mouths?”

  “And cry quits,” said the shoemaker.

  “And let bygones be bygones,” said Mr. Hogg, taking the farmer’s arm again.

  Mr. Rose stopped and shook his head obstinately, and then, under the skilful pilotage of Mr. Hogg, was steered in the direction of the hospitable doors of the White Swan. He made a last bid for liberty on the step and then disappeared inside. Lawyer Quince brought up the rear.

  BREAKING A SPELL

  Witchcraft?” said the old man, thoughtfully, as he scratched his scanty whiskers. No, I ain’t heard o’ none in these parts for a long time. There used to be a little of it about when I was a boy, and there was some talk of it arter I’d growed up, but Claybury folk never took much count of it. The last bit of it I remember was about forty years ago, and that wasn’t so much witchcraft as foolishness.

  There was a man in this place then — Joe Barlcomb by name — who was a firm believer in it, and ‘e used to do all sorts of things to save hisself from it. He was a new-comer in Claybury, and there was such a lot of it about in the parts he came from that the people thought o’ nothing else hardly.

  He was a man as got ‘imself very much liked at fust, especially by the old ladies, owing to his being so perlite to them, that they used to ‘old ‘im up for an example to the other men, and say wot nice, pretty ways he ‘ad. Joe Barlcomb was everything at fust, but when they got to ‘ear that his perliteness was because ‘e thought ‘arf of ’em was witches, and didn’t know which ‘arf, they altered their minds.

  In a month or two he was the laughing-stock of the place; but wot was worse to ‘im than that was that he’d made enemies of all the old ladies. Some of ’em was free-spoken women, and ‘e couldn’t sleep for thinking of the ‘arm they might do ‘im.

  He was terrible uneasy about it at fust, but, as nothing ‘appened and he seemed to go on very prosperous-like, ‘e began to forget ‘is fears, when all of a sudden ‘e went ‘ome one day and found ‘is wife in bed with a broken leg.

  She was standing on a broken chair to reach something down from the dresser when it ‘appened, and it was pointed out to Joe Barlcomb that it was a thing anybody might ha’ done without being bewitched; but he said ‘e knew better, and that they’d kept that broken chair for standing on for years and years to save the others, and nothing ‘ad ever ‘appened afore.

  In less than a week arter that three of his young ‘uns was down with the measles, and, ‘is wife being laid up, he sent for ‘er mother to come and nurse ’em. It’s as true as I sit ‘ere, but that pore old lady ‘adn’t been in the house two hours afore she went to bed with the yellow jaundice.

  Joe Barlcomb went out of ‘is mind a’most. He’d never liked ‘is wife’s mother, and he wouldn’t ‘ave had ‘er in the house on’y ‘e wanted her to nurse ‘is wife and children, and when she came and laid up and wanted waiting on ‘e couldn’t dislike her enough.

  He was quite certain all along that somebody was putting a spell on ‘im, and when ‘e went out a morning or two arterward and found ‘is best pig lying dead in a corner of the sty he gave up and, going into the ‘ouse, told �
�em all that they’d ‘ave to die ‘cause he couldn’t do anything more for ’em. His wife’s mother and ‘is wife and the children all started crying together, and Joe Barlcomb, when ‘e thought of ‘is pig, he sat down and cried too.

  He sat up late that night thinking it over, and, arter looking at it all ways, he made up ‘is mind to go and see Mrs. Prince, an old lady that lived all alone by ‘erself in a cottage near Smith’s farm. He’d set ‘er down for wot he called a white witch, which is the best kind and on’y do useful things, such as charming warts away or telling gals about their future ‘usbands; and the next arternoon, arter telling ‘is wife’s mother that fresh air and travelling was the best cure for the yellow jaundice, he set off to see ‘er.

  Mrs. Prince was sitting at ‘er front door nursing ‘er three cats when ‘e got there. She was an ugly, little old woman with piercing black eyes and a hook nose, and she ‘ad a quiet, artful sort of a way with ‘er that made ‘er very much disliked. One thing was she was always making fun of people, and for another she seemed to be able to tell their thoughts, and that don’t get anybody liked much, especially when they don’t keep it to theirselves. She’d been a lady’s maid all ‘er young days, and it was very ‘ard to be taken for a witch just because she was old.

  “Fine day, ma’am,” ses Joe Barlcomb.

  “Very fine,” ses Mrs. Prince.

  “Being as I was passing, I just thought I’d look in,” ses Joe Barlcomb, eyeing the cats.

  “Take a chair,” ses Mrs. Prince, getting up and dusting one down with ‘er apron.

  Joe sat down. “I’m in a bit o’ trouble, ma’am,” he ses, “and I thought p’r’aps as you could help me out of it. My pore pig’s been bewitched, and it’s dead.”

  “Bewitched?” ses Mrs. Prince, who’d ‘eard of ‘is ideas. “Rubbish. Don’t talk to me.”

  “It ain’t rubbish, ma’am,” ses Joe Barlcomb; “three o’ my children is down with the measles, my wife’s broke ‘er leg, ‘er mother is laid up in my little place with the yellow jaundice, and the pig’s dead.”