Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  Mrs. Bowman found speech at last. “N. C. — Nathaniel Clark,” she said, in broken tones. “So that is where he went last month. Oh, what a fool I’ve been! Oh, what a simple fool!”

  Mr. Tucker gave a deprecatory cough. “I — I had forgotten it was there,” he said, nervously.

  “Yes,” breathed the widow, “I can quite believe that.”

  “I was going to show you later on,” declared the other, regarding her carefully. “I was, really. I couldn’t bear the idea of keeping a secret from you long.”

  Mrs. Bowman smiled — a terrible smile. “The audacity of the man,” she broke out, “to stand there and lecture me on my behavior. To talk about his spoilt life, and all the time—”

  She got up and walked about the room, angrily brushing aside the proffered attentions of Mr. Tucker.

  “Laughing-stock of Trimington, is he?” she stormed. “He shall be more than that before I have done with him. The wickedness of the man; the artfulness!”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Mr. Tucker, shaking his head. “I said to him—”

  “You’re as bad,” said the widow, turning on him fiercely. “All the time you two men were talking at each other you were laughing in your sleeves at me. And I sat there like a child taking it all in, I’ve no doubt you met every night and arranged what you were to do next day.”

  Mr. Tucker’s lips twitched. “I would do more than that to win you, Amelia,” he said, humbly.

  “You’ll have to,” was the grim reply. “Now I want to hear all about this from the beginning. And don’t keep anything from me, or it’ll be the worse for you.”

  She sat down again and motioned him to proceed.

  “When I saw the advertisement in the Northtown Chronicle,” began Mr. Tucker, in husky voice, “I danced with—”

  “Never mind about that,” interrupted the widow, dryly.

  “I went to the hotel and saw Mr. Clark,” resumed Mr. Tucker, somewhat crestfallen. “When I heard that you were a widow, all the old times came back to me again. The years fell from me like a mantle. Once again I saw myself walking with you over the footpath to Cooper’s farm; once again I felt your hand in mine. Your voice sounded in my ears—”

  “You saw Mr. Clark,” the widow reminded him.

  “He had heard all about our early love from you,” said Mr. Tucker, “and as a last desperate chance for freedom he had come down to try and hunt me up, and induce me to take you off his hands.”

  Mrs. Bowman uttered a smothered exclamation.

  “He tempted me for two days,” said Mr. Tucker, gravely. “The temptation was too great and I fell. Besides that, I wanted to rescue you from the clutches of such a man.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me himself?” inquired the widow.

  “Just what I asked him,” said the other, “but he said that you were much too fond of him to give him up. He is not worthy of you, Amelia; he is fickle. He has got his eye on another lady.”

  “What?” said the widow, with sudden loudness.

  Mr. Tucker nodded mournfully. “Miss Hack-butt,” he said, slowly. “I saw her the other day, and what he can see in her I can’t think.”

  “Miss Hackbutt?” repeated the widow in a smothered voice. “Miss — —” She got up and began to pace the room again.

  “He must be blind,” said Mr. Tucker, positively.

  Mrs. Bowman stopped suddenly and stood regarding him. There was a light in her eye which made him feel anything but comfortable. He was glad when she transferred her gaze to the clock. She looked at it so long that he murmured something about going.

  “Good-by,” she said.

  Mr. Tucker began to repeat his excuses, but she interrupted him. “Not now,” she said, decidedly. “I’m tired. Good-night.”

  Mr. Tucker pressed her hand. “Good-night,” he said, tenderly. “I am afraid the excitement has been too much for you. May I come round at the usual time to-morrow?”

  “Yes,” said the widow.

  She took the advertisement from the table and, folding it carefully, placed it in her purse. Mr. Tucker withdrew as she looked up.

  He walked back to the “George” deep in thought, and over a couple of pipes in bed thought over the events of the evening. He fell asleep at last and dreamed that he and Miss Hackbutt were being united in the bonds of holy matrimony by the Rev. Nathaniel Clark.

  The vague misgivings of the previous night disappeared in the morning sunshine. He shaved carefully and spent some time in the selection of a tie. Over an excellent breakfast he arranged further explanations and excuses for the appeasement of Mrs. Bowman.

  He was still engaged on the task when he started to call on her. Half-way to the house he arrived at the conclusion that he was looking too cheerful. His face took on an expression of deep seriousness, only to give way the next moment to one of the blankest amazement. In front of him, and approaching with faltering steps, was Mr. Clark, and leaning trustfully on his arm the comfortable figure of Mrs. Bowman. Her brow was unruffled and her lips smiling.

  “Beautiful morning,” she said, pleasantly, as they met.

  “Lovely!” murmured the wondering Mr. Tucker, trying, but in vain, to catch the eye of Mr. Clark.

  “I have been paying an early visit,” said the widow, still smiling. “I surprised you, didn’t I, Nathaniel?”

  “You did,” said Mr. Clark, in an unearthly voice.

  “We got talking about last night,” continued the widow, “and Nathaniel started pleading with me to give him another chance. I suppose that I am softhearted, but he was so miserable — You were never so miserable in your life before, were you, Nathaniel?”

  “Never,” said Mr. Clark, in the same strange voice.

  “He was so wretched that at last I gave way,” said Mrs. Bowman, with a simper. “Poor fellow, it was such a shock to him that he hasn’t got back his cheerfulness yet.”

  Mr. Tucker said, “Indeed!”

  “He’ll be all right soon,” said Mrs. Bowman, in confidential tones. “We are on the way to put our banns up, and once that is done he will feel safe. You are not really afraid of losing me again, are you, Nathaniel?”

  Mr. Clark shook his head, and, meeting the eye of Mr. Tucker in the process, favored him with a glance of such utter venom that the latter was almost startled.

  “Good-by, Mr. Tucker,” said the widow, holding out her hand. “Nathaniel did think of inviting you to come to my wedding, but perhaps it is best not. However, if I alter my mind, I will get him to advertise for you again. Good-by.”

  She placed her arm in Mr. Clark’s again, and led him slowly away. Mr. Tucker stood watching them for some time, and then, with a glance in the direction of the “George,” where he had left a very small portmanteau, he did a hasty sum in comparative values and made his way to the railway-station.

  THE DREAMER

  DREAMS and warnings are things I don’t believe in, said the night watchman. The only dream I ever ‘ad that come anything like true was once when I dreamt I came in for a fortune, and next morning I found half a crown in the street, which I sold to a man for fourpence. And once, two days arter my missis ‘ad dreamt she ‘ad spilt a cup of tea down the front of ‘er Sunday dress, she spoilt a pot o’ paint of mine by sitting in it.

  The only other dream I know of that come true happened to the cook of a bark I was aboard of once, called the Southern Belle. He was a silly, pasty-faced sort o’ chap, always giving hisself airs about eddication to sailormen who didn’t believe in it, and one night, when we was homeward-bound from Sydney, he suddenly sat up in ‘is bunk and laughed so loud that he woke us all up.

  “Wot’s wrong, cookie?” ses one o’ the chaps.

  “I was dreaming,” ses the cook, “such a funny dream. I dreamt old Bill Foster fell out o’ the foretop and broke ‘is leg.”

  “Well, wot is there to laugh at in that?” ses old Bill, very sharp.

  “It was funny in my dream,” ses the cook. “You looked so comic with your leg
doubled up under you, you can’t think. It would ha’ made a cat laugh.”

  Bill Foster said he’d make ‘im laugh the other side of his face if he wasn’t careful, and then we went off to sleep agin and forgot all about it.

  If you’ll believe me, on’y three days arterwards pore Bill did fall out o’ the foretop and break his leg. He was surprised, but I never see a man so surprised as the cook was. His eyes was nearly starting out of ‘is head, but by the time the other chaps ‘ad picked Bill up and asked ‘im whether he was hurt, cook ‘ad pulled ‘imself together agin and was giving himself such airs it was perfectly sickening.

  “My dreams always come true,” he ses. “It’s a kind o’ second sight with me. It’s a gift, and, being tender-’arted, it worries me terrible sometimes.”

  He was going on like that, taking credit for a pure accident, when the second officer came up and told ’em to carry Bill below. He was in agony, of course, but he kept ‘is presence of mind, and as they passed the cook he gave ‘im such a clip on the side of the ‘ead as nearly broke it.

  “That’s for dreaming about me,” he ses.

  The skipper and the fust officer and most of the hands set ‘is leg between them, and arter the skipper ‘ad made him wot he called comfortable, but wot Bill called something that I won’t soil my ears by repeating, the officers went off and the cook came and sat down by the side o’ Bill and talked about his gift.

  “I don’t talk about it as a rule,” he ses, “‘cos it frightens people.”

  “It’s a wonderful gift, cookie,” ses Charlie Epps.

  All of ’em thought the same, not knowing wot a fust-class liar the cook was, and he sat there and lied to ’em till he couldn’t ‘ardly speak, he was so ‘oarse.

  “My grandmother was a gypsy,” he ses, “and it’s in the family. Things that are going to ‘appen to people I know come to me in dreams, same as pore Bill’s did. It’s curious to me sometimes when I look round at you chaps, seeing you going about ‘appy and comfortable, and knowing all the time ‘orrible things that is going to ‘appen to you. Sometimes it gives me the fair shivers.”

  “Horrible things to us, slushy?” ses Charlie, staring.

  “Yes,” ses the cook, nodding. “I never was on a ship afore with such a lot of unfortunit men aboard. Never. There’s two pore fellers wot’ll be dead corpses inside o’ six months, sitting ‘ere laughing and talking as if they was going to live to ninety. Thank your stars you don’t ‘ave such dreams.”

  “Who — who are the two, cookie?” ses Charlie, arter a bit.

  “Never mind, Charlie,” ses the cook, in a sad voice; “it would do no good if I was to tell you. Nothing can alter it.”

  “Give us a hint,” ses Charlie.

  “Well, I’ll tell you this much,” ses the cook, arter sitting with his ‘ead in his ‘ands, thinking; “one of ’em is nearly the ugliest man in the fo’c’s’le and the other ain’t.”

  O’ course, that didn’t ‘elp ’em much, but it caused a lot of argufying, and the ugliest man aboard, instead o’ being grateful, behaved more like a wild beast than a Christian when it was pointed out to him that he was safe.

  Arter that dream about Bill, there was no keeping the cook in his place. He ‘ad dreams pretty near every night, and talked little bits of ’em in his sleep. Little bits that you couldn’t make head nor tail of, and when we asked ‘im next morning he’d always shake his ‘ead and say, “Never mind.” Sometimes he’d mention a chap’s name in ‘is sleep and make ‘im nervous for days.

  It was an unlucky v’y’ge that, for some of ’em. About a week arter pore Bill’s accident Ted Jones started playing catch-ball with another chap and a empty beer-bottle, and about the fifth chuck Ted caught it with his face. We thought ‘e was killed at fust — he made such a noise; but they got ‘im down below, and, arter they ‘ad picked out as much broken glass as Ted would let ’em, the second officer did ‘im up in sticking-plaster and told ‘im to keep quiet for an hour or two.

  Ted was very proud of ‘is looks, and the way he went on was alarming. Fust of all he found fault with the chap ‘e was playing with, and then he turned on the cook.

  “It’s a pity you didn’t see that in a dream,” he ses, tryin’ to sneer, on’y the sticking-plaster was too strong for ‘im.

  “But I did see it,” ses the cook, drawin’ ‘imself up.

  “Wot?” ses Ted, starting.

  “I dreamt it night afore last, just exactly as it ‘appened,” ses the cook, in a offhand way.

  “Why didn’t you tell me, then?” ses Ted choking.

  “It ‘ud ha’ been no good,” ses the cook, smiling and shaking his ‘ead. “Wot I see must ‘appen. I on’y see the future, and that must be.”

  “But you stood there watching me chucking the bottle about,” ses Ted, getting out of ‘is bunk. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

  “You don’t understand,” ses the cook. “If you’d ‘ad more eddication—”

  He didn’t ‘ave time to say any more afore Ted was on him, and cookie, being no fighter, ‘ad to cook with one eye for the next two or three days. He kept quiet about ‘is dreams for some time arter that, but it was no good, because George Hall, wot was a firm believer, gave ‘im a licking for not warning ‘im of a sprained ankle he got skylarking, and Bob Law took it out of ‘im for not telling ‘im that he was going to lose ‘is suit of shore-going togs at cards.

  The only chap that seemed to show any good feeling for the cook was a young feller named Joseph Meek, a steady young chap wot was goin’ to be married to old Bill Foster’s niece as soon as we got ‘ome. Nobody else knew it, but he told the cook all about it on the quiet. He said she was too good for ‘im, but, do all he could, he couldn’t get her to see it. “My feelings ‘ave changed,” he ses.

  “P’r’aps they’ll change agin,” ses the cook, trying to comfort ‘im.

  Joseph shook his ‘ead. “No, I’ve made up my mind,” he ses, very slow. “I’m young yet, and, besides, I can’t afford it; but ‘ow to get out of it I don’t know. Couldn’t you ‘ave a dream agin it for me?”

  “Wot d’ye mean?” ses the cook, firing up. “Do you think I make my dreams up?”

  “No, no; cert’inly not,” ses Joseph, patting ‘im on the shoulder; “but couldn’t you do it just for once? ‘Ave a dream that me and Emily are killed a few days arter the wedding. Don’t say in wot way, ‘cos she might think we could avoid it; just dream we are killed. Bill’s always been a superstitious man, and since you dreamt about his leg he’d believe anything; and he’s that fond of Emily I believe he’d ‘ave the wedding put off, at any rate — if I put him up to it.”

  It took ‘im three days and a silver watch-chain to persuade the cook, but he did at last; and one arternoon, when old Bill, who was getting on fust-class, was resting ‘is leg in ‘is bunk, the cook went below and turned in for a quiet sleep.

  For ten minutes he was as peaceful as a lamb, and old Bill, who ‘ad been laying in ‘is bunk with an eye open watching ‘im, was just dropping off ‘imself, when the cook began to talk in ‘is sleep, and the very fust words made Bill sit up as though something ‘ad bit ‘im.

  “There they go,” ses the cook, “Emily Foster and Joseph Meek — and there’s old Bill, good old Bill, going to give the bride away. How ‘appy they all look, especially Joseph!”

  Old Bill put his ‘and to his ear and leaned out of his bunk.

  “There they go,” ses the cook agin; “but wot is that ‘orrible black thing with claws that’s ‘anging over Bill?”

  Pore Bill nearly fell out of ‘is bunk, but he saved ‘imself at the last moment and lay there as pale as death, listening.

  “It must be meant for Bill,” ses the cook, “Well, pore Bill; he won’t know of it, that’s one thing. Let’s ‘ope it’ll be sudden.”

  He lay quiet for some time and then he began again.

  “No,” he ses, “it isn’t Bill; it’s Joseph and Emily, stark and stiff, and they’ve on’y been married
a week. ‘Ow awful they look! Pore things. Oh! oh! o-oh!”

  He woke up with a shiver and began to groan and then ‘e sat up in his bunk and saw old Bill leaning out and staring at ‘im.

  “You’ve been dreaming, cook,” ses Bill, in a trembling voice.

  “‘Ave I?” ses the cook. “How do you know?”

  “About me and my niece,” ses Bill; “you was talking in your sleep.”

  “You oughtn’t to ‘ave listened,” ses the cook, getting out of ‘is bunk and going over to ‘im. “I ‘ope you didn’t ‘ear all I dreamt. ‘Ow much did you hear?”

  Bill told ‘im, and the cook sat there, shaking his ‘ead. “Thank goodness, you didn’t ‘ear the worst of it,” he ses.

  “Worst!” ses Bill. “Wot, was there any more of it?”

  “Lot’s more,” ses the cook. “But promise me you won’t tell Joseph, Bill. Let ‘im be happy while he can; it would on’y make ‘im miserable, and it wouldn’t do any good.”

  “I don’t know so much about that,” ses Bill, thinking about the arguments some of them had ‘ad with Ted about the bottle. “Was it arter they was married, cookie, that it ‘appened? Are you sure?”

  “Certain sure. It was a week arter,” ses the cook.

  “Very well, then,” ses Bill, slapping ‘is bad leg by mistake; “if they didn’t marry, it couldn’t ‘appen, could it?”

  “Don’t talk foolish,” ses the cook; “they must marry. I saw it in my dream.”

  “Well, we’ll see,” ses Bill. “I’m going to ‘ave a quiet talk with Joseph about it, and see wot he ses. I ain’t a-going to ‘ave my pore gal murdered just to please you and make your dreams come true.”

  He ‘ad a quiet talk with Joseph, but Joseph wouldn’t ‘ear of it at fust. He said it was all the cook’s nonsense, though ‘e owned up that it was funny that the cook should know about the wedding and Emily’s name, and at last he said that they would put it afore Emily and let her decide.