Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  Twice I stopped and spoke to ‘er, but it was no good. Other people stopped too, and I ‘ad to move on agin; and every step was bringing me nearer to my house and the missus.

  I turned into our street, arter passing it three times, and the first thing I saw was my missus standing on the doorstep ‘aving a few words with the lady next door. Then she ‘appened to look up and see us, just as that silly woman was trying to walk arm-in-arm.

  Twice I knocked her ‘and away, and then, right afore my wife and the party next door, she put her arm round my waist. By the time I got to the ‘ouse my legs was trembling so I could hardly stand, and when I got into the passage I ‘ad to lean up against the wall for a bit.

  “Keep ‘er out,” I ses.

  “Wot do you want?” ses my missus, trembling with passion. “Wot do you think you’re doing?”

  “I want my ‘usband, Bill,” ses the woman.

  My missus put her ‘and to her throat and came in without a word, and the woman follered ‘er. If I hadn’t kept my presence o’ mind and shut the door two or three more would ‘ave come in too.

  I went into the kitchen about ten minutes arterwards to see ‘ow they was getting on. Besides which they was both calling for me.

  “Now then!” ses my missus, who was leaning up against the dresser with ‘er arms folded, “wot ‘ave you got to say for yourself walking in as bold as brass with this hussy?”

  “Bill!” ses the woman, “did you hear wot she called me?”

  She spoke to me like that afore my wife, and in two minutes they was at it, hammer and tongs.

  Fust of all they spoke about each other, and then my missus started speaking about me. She’s got a better memory than most people, because she can remember things that never ‘appened, and every time I coughed she turned on me like a tiger.

  “And as for you,” she ses, turning to the woman, “if you did marry ‘im you should ha’ made sure that he ‘adn’t got a wife already.”

  “He married me fust,” ses the woman.

  “When?” ses my wife. “Wot was the date?”

  “Wot was the date you married ‘im?” ses the other one.

  They stood looking at each other like a couple o’ game-cocks, and I could see as plain as a pike-staff ‘ow frightened both of ’em was o’ losing me.

  “Look here!” I ses at last, to my missus, “talk sense. ‘Ow could I be married to ‘er? When I was at sea I was at sea, and when I was ashore I was with you.”

  “Did you use to go down to the ship to see ‘im off?” ses the woman.

  “No,” ses my wife. “I’d something better to do.”

  “Neither did I,” ses the woman. “P’raps that’s where we both made a mistake.”

  “You get out of my ‘ouse!” ses my missus, very sudden. “Go on, afore I put you out.”

  “Not without my Bill,” ses the woman. “If you lay a finger on me I’ll scream the house down.”

  “You brought her ‘ere,” ses my wife, turning to me, “now you can take ‘er away?”

  “I didn’t bring ‘er,” I ses. “She follered me.”

  “Well, she can foller you agin,” she ses. “Go on!” she ses, trembling all over. “Git out afore I start on you.”

  I was in such a temper that I daren’t trust myself to stop. I just gave ‘er one look, and then I drew myself up and went out. ‘Alf the fools in our street was standing in front of the ‘ouse, ‘umming like bees, but I took no notice. I held my ‘ead up and walked through them with that woman trailing arter me.

  I was in such a state of mind that I went on like a man in a dream. If it had ha’ been a dream I should ha’ pushed ‘er under an omnibus, but you can’t do things like that in real life.

  “Penny for your thoughts, Bill,” she ses. I didn’t answer her.

  “Why don’t you speak to me?” she ses.

  “You don’t know wot you’re asking for,” I ses.

  I was hungry and sleepy, and ‘ow I was going to get through the day I couldn’t think. I went into a pub and ‘ad a couple o’ pints o’ stout and a crust o’ bread and cheese for brekfuss. I don’t know wot she ‘ad, but when the barman tried to take for it out o’ my money, I surprised ‘im.

  We walked about till I was ready to drop. Then we got to Victoria Park, and I ‘ad no sooner got on to the grass than I laid down and went straight off to sleep. It was two o’clock when I woke, and, arter a couple o’ pork-pies and a pint or two, I sat on a seat in the Park smoking, while she kep’ dabbing ‘er eyes agin and asking me to come ‘ome.

  At five o’clock I got up to go back to the wharf, and, taking no notice of ‘er, I walked into the street and jumped on a ‘bus that was passing. She jumped too, and, arter the conductor had ‘elped ‘er up off of ‘er knees and taken her arms away from his waist, I’m blest if he didn’t turn on me and ask me why I ‘adn’t left her at ‘ome.

  We got to the wharf just afore six. The John Henry ‘ad gorn, but the skipper ‘ad done all the ‘arm he could afore he sailed, and, if I ‘adn’t kept my temper, I should ha’ murdered arf a dozen of ’em.

  The woman wanted to come on to the wharf, but I ‘ad a word or two with one o’ the fore-men, who owed me arf-a-dollar, and he made that all right.

  “We all ‘ave our faults, Bill,” he ses as ‘e went out, “and I suppose she was better looking once upon a time?”

  I didn’t answer ‘im. I shut the wicket arter ‘im, quick, and turned the key, and then I went on with my work. For a long time everything was as quiet as the grave, and then there came just one little pull at the bell. Five minutes arterwards there was another.

  I thought it was that woman, but I ‘ad to make sure. When it came the third time I crept up to the gate.

  “Halloa!” I ses. “Who is it?”

  “Me, darling,” ses a voice I reckernized as the potman’s. “Your missus wants to come in and sit down.”

  I could ‘ear several people talking, and it seemed to me there was quite a crowd out there, and by and by that bell was going like mad. Then people started kicking the gate, and shouting, but I took no notice until, presently, it left off all of a sudden, and I ‘eard a loud voice asking what it was all about. I suppose there was about fifty of ’em all telling it at once, and then there was the sound of a fist on the gate.

  “Who is it?” I ses.

  “Police,” ses the voice.

  I opened the wicket then and looked out. A couple o’ policemen was standing by the gate and arf the riff-raff of Wapping behind ’em.

  “Wot’s all this about?” ses one o’ the policemen.

  I shook my ‘ead. “Ask me another,” I ses. “Your missus is causing a disturbance,” he ses.

  “She’s not my missus,” I ses; “she’s a complete stranger to me.”

  “And causing a crowd to collect and refusing to go away,” ses the other policeman.

  “That’s your business,” I ses. “It’s nothing to do with me.”

  They talked to each other for a moment, and then they spoke to the woman. I didn’t ‘ear wot she said, but I saw her shake her ‘ead, and a’most direckly arterwards she was marching away between the two policemen with the crowd follering and advising ‘er where to kick ’em.

  I was a bit worried at fust — not about her — and then I began to think that p’raps it was the best thing that could have ‘appened.

  I went ‘ome in the morning with a load lifted off my mind; but I ‘adn’t been in the ‘ouse two seconds afore my missus started to put it on agin. Fust of all she asked me ‘ow I dared to come into the ‘ouse, and then she wanted to know wot I meant by leaving her at ‘ome and going out for the day with another woman.

  “You told me to,” I ses.

  “Oh, yes,” she ses, trembling with temper. “You always do wot I tell you, don’t you? Al-ways ‘ave, especially when it’s anything you like.”

  She fetched a bucket o’ water and scrubbed the kitchen while I was having my brekfuss, but I kept my eye on ‘er, and, t
he moment she ‘ad finished, I did the perlite and emptied the bucket for ‘er, to prevent mistakes.

  I read about the case in the Sunday paper, and I’m thankful to say my name wasn’t in it. All the magistrate done was to make ‘er promise that she wouldn’t do it again, and then he let ‘er go. I should ha’ felt more comfortable if he ‘ad given ‘er five years, but, as it turned out, it didn’t matter. Her ‘usband happened to read it, and, whether ‘e was tired of living alone, or whether he was excited by ‘caring that she ‘ad got a little general shop, ‘e went back to her.

  The fust I knew about it was they came round to the wharf to see me. He ‘ad been a fine-looking chap in ‘is day, and even then ‘e was enough like me for me to see ‘ow she ‘ad made the mistake; and all the time she was telling me ‘ow it ‘appened, he was looking me up and down and sniffing.

  “‘Ave you got a cold?” I ses, at last.

  “Wot’s that got to do with you?” he ses. “Wot do you mean by walking out with my wife? That’s what I’ve come to talk about.”

  For a moment I thought that his bad luck ‘ad turned ‘is brain. “You’ve got it wrong,” I ses, as soon as I could speak. “She walked out with me.”

  “Cos she thought you was her ‘usband,” he ses, “but you didn’t think you was me, did you?”

  “‘Course I didn’t,” I ses.

  “Then ‘ow dare you walk out with ‘er?” he ses.

  “Look ‘ere!” I ses. “You get off ‘ome as quick as you like. I’ve ‘ad about enough of your family. Go on, hook it.”

  Afore I could put my ‘ands up he ‘it me hard in the mouth, and the next moment we was at it as ‘ard as we could go. Nearly every time I hit ‘im he wasn’t there, and every time ‘e hit me I wished I hadn’t ha’ been. When I said I had ‘ad enough, ‘e contradicted me and kept on, but he got tired of it at last, and, arter telling me wot he would do if I ever walked ‘is wife out agin, they went off like a couple o’ love-birds.

  By the time I got ‘ome next morning my eyes was so swelled up I could ‘ardly see, and my nose wouldn’t let me touch it. I was so done up I could ‘ardly speak, but I managed to tell my missus about it arter I had ‘ad a cup o’ tea. Judging by her face anybody might ha’ thought I was telling ‘er something funny, and, when I ‘ad finished, she looks up at the ceiling and ses:

  “I ‘ope it’ll be a lesson to you,” she ses.

  FAMILY CARES

  Mr. Jernshaw, who was taking the opportunity of a lull in business to weigh out pound packets of sugar, knocked his hands together and stood waiting for the order of the tall bronzed man who had just entered the shop — a well-built man of about forty — who was regarding him with blue eyes set in quizzical wrinkles.

  “What, Harry!” exclaimed Mr. Jernshaw, in response to the wrinkles. “Harry Barrett!”

  “That’s me,” said the other, extending his hand. “The rolling stone come home covered with moss.”

  Mr. Jernshaw, somewhat excited, shook hands, and led the way into the little parlour behind the shop.

  “Fifteen years,” said Mr. Barrett, sinking into a chair, “and the old place hasn’t altered a bit.”

  “Smithson told me he had let that house in Webb Street to a Barrett,” said the grocer, regarding him, “but I never thought of you. I suppose you’ve done well, then?”

  Mr. Barrett nodded. “Can’t grumble,” he said modestly. “I’ve got enough to live on. Melbourne’s all right, but I thought I’d come home for the evening of my life.”

  “Evening!” repeated his friend. “Forty-three,” said Mr. Barrett, gravely. “I’m getting on.”

  “You haven’t changed much,” said the grocer, passing his hand through his spare grey whiskers. “Wait till you have a wife and seven youngsters. Why, boots alone — —”

  Mr. Barrett uttered a groan intended for sympathy. “Perhaps you could help me with the furnishing,” he said, slowly. “I’ve never had a place of my own before, and I don’t know much about it.”

  “Anything I can do,” said his friend. “Better not get much yet; you might marry, and my taste mightn’t be hers.”

  Mr. Barrett laughed. “I’m not marrying,” he said, with conviction.

  “Seen anything of Miss Prentice yet?” inquired Mr. Jernshaw.

  “No,” said the other, with a slight flush. “Why?”

  “She’s still single,” said the grocer.

  “What of it?” demanded Mr. Barrett, with warmth. “What of it?”

  “Nothing,” said Mr. Jernshaw, slowly. “Nothing; only I — —”

  “Well?” said the other, as he paused.

  “I — there was an idea that you went to Australia to — to better your condition,” murmured the grocer. “That — that you were not in a position to marry — that — —”

  “Boy and girl nonsense,” said Mr. Barrett, sharply. “Why, it’s fifteen years ago. I don’t suppose I should know her if I saw her. Is her mother alive?”

  “Rather!” said Mr. Jernshaw, with emphasis. “Louisa is something like what her mother was when you went away.”

  Mr. Barrett shivered.

  “But you’ll see for yourself,” continued the other. “You’ll have to go and see them. They’ll wonder you haven’t been before.”

  “Let ’em wonder,” said the embarrassed Mr. Barrett. “I shall go and see all my old friends in their turn; casual-like. You might let ’em hear that I’ve been to see you before seeing them, and then, if they’re thinking any nonsense, it’ll be a hint. I’m stopping in town while the house is being decorated; next time I come down I’ll call and see somebody else.”

  “That’ll be another hint,” assented Mr. Jernshaw. “Not that hints are much good to Mrs. Prentice.”

  “We’ll see,” said Mr. Barrett.

  In accordance with his plan his return to his native town was heralded by a few short visits at respectable intervals. A sort of human butterfly, he streaked rapidly across one or two streets, alighted for half an hour to resume an old friendship, and then disappeared again. Having given at least half-a-dozen hints of this kind, he made a final return to Ramsbury and entered into occupation of his new house.

  “It does you credit, Jernshaw,” he said, gratefully. “I should have made a rare mess of it without your help.”

  “It looks very nice,” admitted his friend. “Too nice.”

  “That’s all nonsense,” said the owner, irritably.

  “All right,” said Mr. Jernshaw. “I don’t know the sex, then, that’s all. If you think that you’re going to keep a nice house like this all to yourself, you’re mistaken. It’s a home; and where there’s a home a woman comes in, somehow.”

  Mr. Barrett grunted his disbelief.

  “I give you four days,” said Mr. Jernshaw.

  As a matter of fact, Mrs. Prentice and her daughter came on the fifth. Mr. Barrett, who was in an easy-chair, wooing slumber with a handkerchief over his head, heard their voices at the front door and the cordial invitation of his housekeeper. They entered the room as he sat hastily smoothing his rumpled hair.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, shaking hands.

  Mrs. Prentice returned the greeting in a level voice, and, accepting a chair, gazed around the room.

  “Nice weather,” said Mr. Barrett.

  “Very,” said Mrs. Prentice.

  “It’s — it’s quite a pleasure to see you again,” said Mr. Barrett.

  “We thought we should have seen you before,” said Mrs. Prentice, “but I told Louisa that no doubt you were busy, and wanted to surprise her. I like the carpet; don’t you, Louisa?”

  Miss Prentice said she did.

  “The room is nice and airy,” said Mrs. Prentice, “but it’s a pity you didn’t come to me before deciding. I could have told you of a better house for the same money.”

  “I’m very well satisfied with this,” said Mr. Barrett. “It’s all I want.”

  “It’s well enough,” conceded Mrs. Prentice, amiably. “And how h
ave you been all these years?”

  Mr. Barrett, with some haste, replied that his health and spirits had been excellent.

  “You look well,” said Mrs. Prentice. “Neither of you seem to have changed much,” she added, looking from him to her daughter. “And I think you did quite well not to write. I think it was much the best.”

  Mr. Barrett sought for a question: a natural, artless question, that would neutralize the hideous suggestion conveyed by this remark, but it eluded him. He sat and gazed in growing fear at Mrs. Prentice.

  “I — I couldn’t write,” he said at last, in desperation; “my wife — —”

  “Your what?” exclaimed Mrs. Prentice, loudly.

  “Wife,” said Mr. Barrett, suddenly calm now that he had taken the plunge. “She wouldn’t have liked it.”

  Mrs. Prentice tried to control her voice. “I never heard you were married!” she gasped. “Why isn’t she here?”

  “We couldn’t agree,” said the veracious Mr. Barrett. “She was very difficult; so I left the children with her and — —”

  “Chil — —” said Mrs. Prentice, and paused, unable to complete the word.

  “Five,” said Mr. Barrett, in tones of resignation. “It was rather a wrench, parting with them, especially the baby. He got his first tooth the day I left.”

  The information fell on deaf ears. Mrs. Prentice, for once in her life thoroughly at a loss, sat trying to collect her scattered faculties. She had come out prepared for a hard job, but not an impossible one. All things considered, she took her defeat with admirable composure.

  “I have no doubt it is much the best thing for the children to remain with their mother,” she said, rising.

  “Much the best,” agreed Mr. Barrett. “Whatever she is like,” continued the old lady. “Are you ready, Louisa?”

  Mr. Barrett followed them to the door, and then, returning to the room, watched, with glad eyes, their progress up the street.

  “Wonder whether she’ll keep it to herself?” he muttered.

  His doubts were set at rest next day. All Ramsbury knew by then of his matrimonial complications, and seemed anxious to talk about them; complications which tended to increase until Mr. Barrett wrote out a list of his children’s names and ages and learnt it off by heart.