Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  It was a very good letter, but I can see now that I done wrong in writing it. I was going to post it to ‘im, but, as I couldn’t find an envelope without the name of the blessed wharf on it, I put it in my pocket till I got ‘ome.

  I got ‘ome at about a quarter to seven, and slept like a child till pretty near four. Then I went downstairs to ‘ave my dinner.

  The moment I opened the door I see there was something wrong. Three times my missis licked ‘er lips afore she could speak. Her face ‘ad gone a dirty white colour, and she was leaning forward with her ‘ands on her ‘ips, trembling all over with temper.

  “Is my dinner ready?” I ses, easy-like. “‘Cos I’m ready for it.”

  “I — I wonder I don’t tear you limb from limb,” she ses, catching her breath.

  “Wot’s the matter?” I ses.

  “And then boil you,” she ses, between her teeth. “You in one pot and your precious Dorothy in another.”

  If anybody ‘ad offered me five pounds to speak then, I couldn’t ha’ done it. I see wot I’d done in a flash, and I couldn’t say a word; but I kept my presence o’ mind, and as she came round one side o’ the table I went round the other.

  “Wot ‘ave you got to say for yourself?” she ses, with a scream.

  “Nothing,” I ses, at last. “It’s all a mistake.”

  “Mistake?” she ses. “Yes, you made a mistake leaving it in your pocket; that’s all the mistake you’ve made. That’s wot you do, is it, when you’re supposed to be at the wharf? Go about with a blue ‘at with red roses in it! At your time o’ life, and a wife at ‘ome working herself to death to make both ends meet and keep you respectable!”

  “It’s all a mistake,” I ses. “The letter wasn’t for me.”

  “Oh, no, o’ course not,” she ses. “That’s why you’d got it in your pocket, I suppose. And I suppose you’ll say your name ain’t Bill next.”

  “Don’t say things you’ll be sorry for,” I ses.

  “I’ll take care o’ that,” she ses. “I might be sorry for not saying some things, but I don’t think I shall.”

  I don’t think she was. I don’t think she forgot anything, and she raked up things that I ‘ad contradicted years ago and wot I thought was all forgot. And every now and then, when she stopped for breath, she’d try and get round to the same side of the table I was.

  She follered me to the street door when I went and called things up the road arter me. I ‘ad a snack at a coffee-shop for my dinner, but I ‘adn’t got much appetite for it; I was too full of trouble and finding fault with myself, and I went off to my work with a ‘art as heavy as lead.

  I suppose I ‘adn’t been on the wharf ten minutes afore Cap’n Smithers came sidling up to me, but I got my spoke in fust.

  “Look ‘ere,” I ses, “if you’re going to talk about that forward hussy wot’s been writing to you, I ain’t. I’m sick and tired of ‘er.”

  “Forward hussy!” he ses. “Forward hussy!” And afore I could drop my broom he gave me a punch in the jaw that pretty near broke it. “Say another word against her,” he ses, “and I’ll knock your ugly ‘ead off. How dare you insult a lady?”

  I thought I should ‘ave gone crazy at fust, but I went off into the office without a word. Some men would ha’ knocked ‘im down for it, but I made allowances for ‘is state o’ mind, and I stayed inside until I see ‘im get aboard agin.

  He was sitting on deck when I went out, and his missis too, but neither of ’em spoke a word. I picked up my broom and went on sweeping, when suddenly I ‘eard a voice at the gate I thought I knew, and in came my wife.

  “Ho!” she ses, calling out. “Ain’t you gone to meet that gal at Cleopatra’s Needle yet? You ain’t going to keep ‘er waiting, are you?”

  “H’sh!” I ses.

  “H’sh! yourself,” she ses, shouting. “I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. I don’t go to meet other people’s husbands in a blue ‘at with red roses. I don’t write ’em love-letters, and say ‘H’sh!’ to my wife when she ventures to make a remark about it. I may work myself to skin and bone for a man wot’s old enough to know better, but I’m not going to be trod on. Dorothy, indeed! I’ll Dorothy ‘er if I get the chance.”

  Mrs. Smithers, wot ‘ad been listening with all her ears, jumped up, and so did the skipper, and Mrs. Smithers came to the side in two steps.

  “Did you say ‘Dorothy,’ ma’am?” she ses to my missis.

  “I did,” ses my wife. “She’s been writing to my husband.”

  “It must be the same one,” ses Mrs. Smithers. “She’s been writing to mine too.”

  The two of ’em stood there looking at each other for a minute, and then my wife, holding the letter between ‘er finger and thumb as if it was pison, passed it to Mrs. Smithers.

  “It’s the same,” ses Mrs. Smithers. “Was the envelope marked ‘Private’?”

  “I didn’t see no envelope,” ses my missis. “This is all I found.”

  Mrs. Smithers stepped on to the wharf and, taking ‘old of my missis by the arm, led her away whispering. At the same moment the skipper walked across the deck and whispered to me.

  “Wot d’ye mean by it?” he ses. “Wot d’ye mean by ‘aving letters from Dorothy and not telling me about it?”

  “I can’t help ‘aving letters any more than you can,” I ses. “Now p’r’aps you’ll understand wot I meant by calling ‘er a forward hussy.”

  “Fancy ‘er writing to you!” he ses, wrinkling ‘is forehead. “Pph! She must be crazy.”

  “P’r’aps it ain’t a gal at all,” I ses. “My belief is somebody is ‘aving a game with us.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” he ses. “I’d like to see the party as would make a fool of me like that. Just see ‘im and get my ‘ands on him. He wouldn’t want to play any more games.”

  It was no good talking to ‘im. He was ‘arf crazy with temper. If I’d said the letter was meant for ‘im he’d ‘ave asked me wot I meant by opening it and getting ‘im into more trouble with ‘is missis, instead of giving it to ‘im on the quiet. I just stood and suffered in silence, and thought wot a lot of ‘arm eddication did for people.

  “I want some money,” ses my missis, coming back at last with Mrs. Smithers.

  That was the way she always talked when she’d got me in ‘er power. She took two-and-tenpence — all I’d got — and then she ordered me to go and get a cab.

  “Me and this lady are going to meet her,” she ses, sniffing at me.

  “And tell her wot we think of ‘er,” ses Mrs. Smithers, sniffing too.

  “And wot we’ll do to ‘er,” ses my missis.

  I left ’em standing side by side, looking at the skipper as if ‘e was a waxworks, while I went to find a cab. When I came back they was in the same persition, and ‘e was smoking with ‘is eyes shut.

  They went off side by side in the cab, both of ’em sitting bolt-upright, and only turning their ‘eads at the last moment to give us looks we didn’t want.

  “I don’t wish her no ‘arm,” ses the skipper, arter thinking for a long time. “Was that the fust letter you ‘ad from ‘er, Bill?”

  “Fust and last,” I ses, grinding my teeth.

  “I’ve been married longer than wot you have,” I ses, “and I tell you one thing. It won’t make no difference to us whether they do or they don’t,” I ses.

  And it didn’t.

  THE VIGIL

  I’m the happiest man in the world,” said Mr. Farrer, in accents of dreamy tenderness.

  Miss Ward sighed. “Wait till father comes in,” she said.

  Mr. Farrer peered through the plants which formed a welcome screen to the window and listened with some uneasiness. He was waiting for the firm, springy step that should herald the approach of ex-Sergeant-Major Ward. A squeeze of Miss Ward’s hand renewed his courage.

  “Perhaps I had better light the lamp,” said the girl, after a long pause. “I wonder where mother’s got to?”

  “She’s on my
side, at any rate,” said Mr. Farrer.

  “Poor mother!” said the girl. “She daren’t call her soul her own. I expect she’s sitting in her bedroom with the door shut. She hates unpleasantness. And there’s sure to be some.”

  “So do I,” said the young man, with a slight shiver. “But why should there be any? He doesn’t want you to keep single all your life, does he?”

  “He’d like me to marry a soldier,” said Miss Ward. “He says that the young men of the present day are too soft. The only thing he thinks about is courage and strength.”

  She rose and, placing the lamp on the table, removed the chimney, and then sought round the room for the matches. Mr. Farrer, who had two boxes in his pocket, helped her.

  They found a box at last on the mantelpiece, and Mr. Farrer steadied her by placing one arm round her waist while she lit the lamp. A sudden exclamation from outside reminded them that the blind was not yet drawn, and they sprang apart in dismay as a grizzled and upright old warrior burst into the room and confronted them.

  “Pull that blind down!” he roared. “Not you,” he continued, as Mr. Farrer hastened to help. “What do you mean by touching my blind? What do you mean by embracing my daughter? Eh? Why don’t you answer?”

  “We — we are going to be married,” said Mr. Farrer, trying to speak boldly.

  The sergeant-major drew himself up, and the young man gazed in dismay at a chest which seemed as though it would never cease expanding.

  “Married!” exclaimed the sergeant-major, with a grim laugh. “Married to a little tame bunny-rabbit! Not if I know it. Where’s your mother?” he demanded, turning to the girl.

  “Upstairs,” was the reply.

  Her father raised his voice, and a nervous reply came from above. A minute later Mrs. Ward, pale of cheek, entered the room.

  “Here’s fine goings-on!” said the sergeant major, sharply. “I go for a little walk, and when I come back this — this infernal cockroach has got its arm round my daughter’s waist. Why don’t you look after her? Do you know anything about it?”

  His wife shook her head.

  “Five feet four and about thirty round the chest, and wants to marry my daughter!” said the sergeant-major, with a sneer. “Eh? What’s that? What did you say? What?”

  “I said that’s a pretty good size for a cockroach,” murmured Mr. Farrer, defiantly. “Besides, size isn’t everything. If it was, you’d be a general instead of only a sergeant-major.”

  “You get out of my house,” said the other, as soon as he could get his breath. “Go on Sharp with it.”

  “I’m going,” said the mortified Mr. Farrer. “I’m sorry if I was rude. I came on purpose to see you to-night. Bertha — Miss Ward, I mean — told me your ideas, but I couldn’t believe her. I said you’d got more common sense than to object to a man just because he wasn’t a soldier.”

  “I want a man for a son-in-law,” said the other. “I don’t say he’s got to be a soldier.”

  “Just so,” said Mr. Farrer. “You’re a man, ain’t you? Well, I’ll do anything that you’ll do.”

  “Pph!” said the sergeant-major. “I’ve done my little lot. I’ve been in action four times, and wounded in three places. That’s my tally.”

  “The colonel said once that my husband doesn’t know what fear is,” said Mrs. Ward, timidly. “He’s afraid of nothing.”

  “Except ghosts,” remarked her daughter, softly.

  “Hold your tongue, miss,” said her father, twisting his moustache. “No sensible man is afraid of what doesn’t exist.”

  “A lot of people believe they do, though,” said Mr. Farrer, breaking in. “I heard the other night that old Smith’s ghost has been seen again swinging from the apple tree. Three people have seen it.”

  “Rubbish!” said the sergeant-major.

  “Maybe,” said the young man; “but I’ll bet you, Mr. Ward, for all your courage, that you won’t go up there alone at twelve o’clock one night to see.”

  “I thought I ordered you out of my house just now,” said the sergeant-major, glaring at him.

  “Going into action,” said Mr. Farrer, pausing at the door, “is one thing — you have to obey orders and you can’t help yourself; but going to a lonely cottage two miles off to see the ghost of a man that hanged himself is another.”

  “Do you mean to say I’m afraid?” blustered the other.

  Mr. Farrer shook his head. “I don’t say anything,” he remarked; “but even a cockroach does a bit of thinking sometimes.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to go,” said the sergeant-major.

  “I don’t mind,” said the young man; “and perhaps you’ll think a little better of me, Mr. Ward. If I do what you’re afraid to do—”

  Mrs. Ward and her daughter flung themselves hastily between the sergeant-major and his intended sacrifice. Mr. Farrer, pale but determined, stood his ground.

  “I’ll dare you to go up and spend a night there alone,” he said.

  “I’ll dare you,” said the incensed warrior, weakly.

  “All right; I’ll spend Wednesday night there,” said Mr. Farrer, “and I’ll come round on Thursday and let you know how I got on.”

  “I dare say,” said the other; “but I don’t want you here, and, what’s more, I won’t have you. You can go to Smith’s cottage on Wednesday at twelve o’clock if you like, and I’ll go up any time between twelve and three and make sure you’re there. D’ye understand? I’ll show you whether I’m afraid or not.”

  “There’s no reason for you to be afraid,” said Mr. Farrer. “I shall be there to protect you. That’s very different to being there alone, as I shall be. But, of course, you can go up the next night by yourself, and wait for me, if you like. If you like to prove your courage, I mean.”

  “When I want to be ordered about,” said the sergeant-major, in a magnificent voice, “I’ll let you know. Now go, before I do anything I might be sorry for afterwards.”

  He stood at the door, erect as a ramrod, and watched the young man up the road. His conversation at the supper-table that night related almost entirely to puppy-dogs and the best way of training them.

  He kept a close eye upon his daughter for the next day or two, but human nature has its limits. He tried to sleep one afternoon in his easy-chair with one eye open, but the exquisite silence maintained by Miss Ward was too much for it. A hum of perfect content arose from the feature below, and five minutes later Miss Ward was speeding in search of Mr. Farrer.

  “I had to come, Ted,” she said, breathlessly, “because to-morrow’s Wednesday. I’ve got something to tell you, but I don’t know whether I ought to.”

  “Tell me and let me decide,” said Mr. Farrer, tenderly.

  “I — I’m so afraid you might be frightened,” said the girl. “I won’t tell you, but I’ll give you a hint. If you see anything awful, don’t be frightened.”

  Mr. Farrer stroked her hand. “The only thing I’m afraid of is your father,” he said, softly.

  “Oh!” said the girl, clasping her hands together. “You have guessed it.”

  “Guessed it?” said Mr. Farrer.

  Miss Ward nodded. “I happened to pass his door this morning,” she said, in a low voice. “It was open a little way, and he was standing up and measuring one of mother’s nightgowns against his chest. I couldn’t think what he was doing it for at first.”

  Mr. Farrer whistled and his face hardened.

  “That’s not fair play,” he said at last. “All right; I’ll be ready for him.”

  “He doesn’t like to be put in the wrong,” said Miss Ward. “He wants to prove that you haven’t got any courage. He’d be disappointed if he found you had.”

  “All right,” said Mr. Farrer again. “You’re an angel for coming to tell me.”

  “Father would call me something else, I expect,” said Miss Ward, with a smile. “Good-bye. I want to get back before he wakes up.”

  She was back in her chair, listening to her father’s slumb
ers, half an hour before he awoke.

  “I’m making up for to-morrow night,” he said, opening his eyes suddenly.

  His daughter nodded.

  “Shows strength of will,” continued the sergeant-major, amiably. “Wellington could go to sleep at any time by just willing it. I’m the same way; I can go to sleep at five minutes’ notice.”

  “It’s a very useful gift,” said Miss Ward, piously, “very.”

  Mr. Ward had two naps the next day. He awoke from the second at twelve-thirty a.m., and in a somewhat disagreeable frame of mind rose and stretched himself. The house was very still. He took a small brown-paper parcel from behind the sofa and, extinguishing the lamp, put on his cap and opened the front door.

  If the house was quiet, the little street seemed dead. He closed the door softly and stepped into the darkness. In terms which would have been understood by “our army in Flanders” he execrated the forefathers, the name, and the upbringing of Mr. Edward Farrer.

  Not a soul in the streets; not a light in a window. He left the little town behind, passed the last isolated house on the road, and walked into the greater blackness of a road between tall hedges. He had put on canvas shoes with rubber soles, for the better surprise of Mr. Farrer, and his own progress seemed to partake of a ghostly nature. Every ghost story he had ever heard or read crowded into his memory. For the first time in his experience even the idea of the company of Mr. Farrer seemed better than no company at all.

  The night was so dark that he nearly missed the turning that led to the cottage. For the first few yards he had almost to feel his way; then, with a greater yearning than ever for the society of Mr. Farrer, he straightened his back and marched swiftly and noiselessly towards the cottage.

  It was a small, tumble-down place, set well back in an overgrown garden. The sergeant-major came to a halt just before reaching the gate, and, hidden by the hedge, unfastened his parcel and shook out his wife’s best nightgown.

  He got it over his head with some difficulty, and, with his arms in the sleeves, tried in vain to get his big hands through the small, lace-trimmed wristbands. Despite his utmost efforts he could only get two or three fingers through, and after a vain search for his cap, which had fallen off in the struggle, he made his way to the gate and stood there waiting. It was at this moment that the thought occurred to him that Mr. Farrer might have failed to keep the appointment.