the best of us.”
“You take a good look at him,” urged her brother, “and don't forget that
it's four years since you saw him. Isn't that Bert's nose?”
“No,” said the girl, glancing at the feature in question, “not a bit
like it. Bert had a beautiful nose.”
“Look at his eyes,” said Jim.
Miss Evans looked, and meeting Mr. Carter's steady gaze tossed her head
scornfully and endeavored to stare him down. Realizing too late the
magnitude of the task, but unwilling to accept defeat, she stood
confronting him with indignant eyes.
“Well?” said Mr. Evans, misunderstanding.
“Not a bit like,” said his daughter, turning thankfully. “And if you
don't like Bert, you needn't insult him.”
She sat down with her back towards Mr. Carter and looked out at the
window.
“Well, I could ha' sworn it was Bert Simmons,” said the discomfited Mr.
Evans.
“Me, too,” said his son. “I'd ha' sworn to him anywhere. It's the most
extraordinary likeness I've ever seen.”
He caught his father's eye, and with a jerk of his thumb telegraphed for
instructions as to the disposal of Mr. Carter.
“He can go,” said Mr. Evans, with an attempt at dignity; “he can go this
time, and I hope that this'll be a lesson to him not to go about looking
like other people. If he does, next time, p'r'aps, he won't escape so
easy.”
“You're quite right,” said Mr. Carter, blandly. “I'll get a new face
first thing to-morrow morning. I ought to have done it before.”
He crossed to the door and, nodding to the fermenting Mr. Evans, bowed
to the profile of Miss Evans and walked slowly out. Envy of Mr. Simmons
was mingled with amazement at his deplorable lack of taste and common
sense. He would willingly have changed places with him. There was
evidently a strong likeness, and——
Busy with his thoughts he came to a standstill in the centre of the
footpath, and then, with a sudden air of determination, walked slowly
back to the house.
“Yes?” said Mr. Evans, as the door opened and the face of Mr. Carter was
thrust in. “What have you come back for?”
The other stepped into the room and closed the door softly behind him.
“I have come back,” he said, slowly—“I have come back because I feel
ashamed of myself.”
“Ashamed of yourself?” repeated Mr. Evans, rising and confronting him.
Mr. Carter hung his head and gazed nervously in the direction of the
girl. “I can't keep up this deception,” he said, in a low but distinct
voice. “I am Bert Simmons. At least, that is the name I told you four
years ago.”
“I knew I hadn't made a mistake,” roared Mr. Evans to his son. “I knew
him well enough. Shut the door, Jim. Don't let him go.”
“I don't want to go,” said Mr. Carter, with a glance in the direction of
Nancy. “I have come back to make amends.”
“Fancy Nancy not knowing him!” said Jim, gazing at the astonished Miss
Evans.
“She was afraid of getting me into trouble,” said Mr. Carter, “and I
just gave her a wink not to recognize me; but she knew me well enough,
bless her.”
“How dare you!” said the girl, starting up. “Why, I've never seen you
before in my life.”
“All right, Nan,” said the brazen Mr. Carter; “but it's no good keeping
it up now. I've come back to act fair and square.”
Miss Evans struggled for breath.
“There he is, my girl,” said her father, patting her on the back. “He's
not much to look at, and he treated you very shabby, but if you want him
I suppose you must have him.”
“Want him?” repeated the incensed Miss Evans. “Want him? I tell you it's
not Bert. How dare he come here and call me Nan?”
“You used not to mind it,” said Mr. Carter, plaintively.
“I tell you,” said Miss Evans, turning to her father and brother, “it's
not Bert. Do you think I don't know?”
“Well, he ought to know who he is,” said her father, reasonably.
“Of course I ought,” said Mr. Carter, smiling at her. “Besides, what
reason should I have for saying I am Bert if I am not?”
“That's a fair question,” said Jim, as the girl bit her lip. “Why should
he?”
“Ask him,” said the girl, tartly.
“Look here, my girl,” said Mr. Evans, in ominous accents. “For four
years you've been grieving over Bert, and me and Jim have been hunting
high and low for him. We've got him at last, and now you've got to have
him.”
“If he don't run away again,” said Jim. “I wouldn't trust him farther
than I could see him.”
Mr. Evans sat and glowered at his prospective son-in-law as the
difficulties of the situation developed themselves. Even Mr. Carter's
reminders that he had come back and surrendered of his own free will
failed to move him, and he was hesitating between tying him up and
locking him in the attic and hiring a man to watch him, when Mr. Carter
himself suggested a way out of the difficulty.
“I'll lodge with you,” he said, “and I'll give you all my money and
things to take care of. I can't run away without money.”
He turned out his pockets on the table. Seven pounds eighteen shillings
and fourpence with his return ticket made one heap; his watch and
chain, penknife, and a few other accessories another. A suggestion
of Jim's that he should add his boots was vetoed by the elder man as
unnecessary.
“There you are,” said Mr. Evans, sweeping the things into his own
pockets; “and the day you are married I hand them back to you.”
His temper improved as the evening wore on. By the time supper was
finished and his pipe alight he became almost jocular, and the coldness
of Miss Evans was the only drawback to an otherwise enjoyable evening.
“Just showing off a little temper,” said her father, after she had
withdrawn; “and wants to show she ain't going to forgive you too easy.
Not but what you behaved badly; however, let bygones be bygones, that's
my idea.”
The behavior of Miss Evans was so much better next day that it really
seemed as though her father's diagnosis was correct. At dinner, when the
men came home from work, she piled Mr. Carter's plate up so generously
that her father and brother had ample time at their disposal to watch
him eat. And when he put his hand over his glass she poured half a
pint of good beer, that other men would have been thankful for, up his
sleeve.
'She Piled Mr. Carter's Plate up So Generously That Her Father and
Brother Had Ample Time at Their Disposal to Watch Him Eat.'
She was out all the afternoon, but at tea time she sat next to Mr.
Carter, and joined brightly in the conversation concerning her marriage.
She addressed him as Bert, and when he furtively pressed her hand
beneath the table-cloth she made no attempt to withdraw it.
“I can't think how it was you didn't know him at first,” said her
father. “You're usually wide-awake enough.”
“Silly of me,” said Nancy; “but I am silly sometimes.”
Mr. Carter pressed her hand again, and gazing tenderly into her eyes
received a glance in return which set him thinking. It was too cold and
calculating for real affection; in fact, after another glance, he began
to doubt if it indicated affection at all.
“It's like old times, Bert,” said Miss Evans, with an odd smile. “Do you
remember what you said that afternoon when I put the hot spoon on your
neck?”
“Yes,” was the reply.
“What was it?” inquired the girl.
“I won't repeat it,” said Mr. Carter, firmly.
He was reminded of other episodes during the meal, but, by the exercise
of tact and the plea of a bad memory, did fairly well. He felt that
he had done very well indeed when, having cleared the tea-things away,
Nancy came and sat beside him with her hand in his. Her brother grunted,
but Mr. Evans, in whom a vein of sentiment still lingered, watched them
with much satisfaction.
Mr. Carter had got possession of both hands and was murmuring fulsome
flatteries when the sound of somebody pausing at the open door caused
them to be hastily withdrawn.
“Evening, Mr. Evans,” said a young man, putting his head in. “Why,
halloa! Bert! Well, of all the——”
“Halloa!” said Mr. Carter, with attempted enthusiasm, as he rose from
his chair.
“I thought you was lost,” said the other, stepping in and gripping his
hand. “I never thought I was going to set eyes on you again. Well, this
is a surprise. You ain't forgot Joe Wilson, have you?”
“Course I haven't, Joe,” said Mr. Carter. “I'd have known you anywhere.”
He shook hands effusively, and Mr. Wilson, after a little pretended
hesitation, accepted a chair and began to talk about old times.
“I lay you ain't forgot one thing, Bert,” he said at last.
“What's that?” inquired the other.
“That arf-quid I lent you,” said Mr. Wilson.
Mr. Carter, after the first shock of surprise, pretended to think, Mr.
Wilson supplying him with details as to time and place, which he was in
no position to dispute. He turned to Mr. Evans, who was still acting
as his banker, and, after a little hesitation, requested him to pay the
money. Conversation seemed to fail somewhat after that, and Mr. Wilson,
during an awkward pause, went off whistling.
“Same old Joe,” said Mr. Carter, lightly, after he had gone. “He hasn't
altered a bit.”
Miss Evans glanced at him, but said nothing. She was looking instead
towards a gentleman of middle age who was peeping round the door
indulging in a waggish game of peep-bo with the unconscious Mr. Carter.
Finding that he had at last attracted his attention, the gentleman came
inside and, breathing somewhat heavily after his exertions, stood before
him with outstretched hand.
'A Gentleman of Middle Age Was Peeping Round the Door.'
“How goes it?” said Mr. Carter, forcing a smile and shaking hands.
“He's grown better-looking than ever,” said the gentleman, subsiding
into a chair.
“So have you,” said Mr. Carter. “I should hardly have known you.”
“Well, I' m glad to see you again,” said the other in a more subdued
fashion. “We're all glad to see you back, and I 'ope that when the
wedding cake is sent out there'll be a bit for old Ben Prout.”
“You'll be the first, Ben,” said Mr. Carter, quickly.
Mr. Prout got up and shook hands with him again. “It only shows what
mistakes a man can make,” he said, resuming his seat. “It only shows how
easy it is to misjudge one's fellow-creeturs. When you went away sudden
four years ago, I says to myself, 'Ben Prout,' I says, 'make up your
mind to it, that two quid has gorn.'”
The smile vanished from Mr. Carter's face, and a sudden chill descended
upon the company.
“Two quid?” he said, stiffly. “What two quid?”
“The two quid I lent you,” said Mr. Prout, in a pained voice.
“When?” said Mr. Carter, struggling.
“When you and I met him that evening on the pier,” said Miss Evans, in a
matter-of-fact voice.
Mr. Carter started, and gazed at her uneasily. The smile on her lip and
the triumphant gleam in her eye were a revelation to him. He turned to
Mr. Evans and in as calm a voice as he could assume, requested him to
discharge the debt. Mr. Prout, his fingers twitching, stood waiting
“Well, it's your money,” said Mr. Evans, grudgingly extracting a purse
from his trouser-pocket; “and I suppose you ought to pay your debts;
still——”
He put down two pounds on the table and broke off in sudden amazement
as Mr. Prout, snatching up the money, bolted headlong from the room.
His surprise was shared by his son, but the other two made no sign. Mr.
Carter was now prepared for the worst, and his voice was quite calm as
he gave instructions for the payment of the other three gentlemen who
presented claims during the evening endorsed by Miss Evans. As the last
departed Mr. Evans, whose temper had been gradually getting beyond his
control, crossed over and handed him his watch and chain, a few coppers,
and the return half of his railway ticket.
“I think we can do without you, after all,” he said, breathing thickly.
“I've no doubt you owe money all over England. You're a cadger, that's
what you are.”
He pointed to the door, and Mr. Carter, after twice opening his lips
to speak and failing, blundered towards it. Miss Evans watched him
curiously.
“Cheats never prosper,” she said, with gentle severity.
“Good-by,” said Mr. Carter, pausing at the door.
“It's your own fault,” continued Miss Evans, who was suffering from a
slight touch of conscience. “If you hadn't come here pretending to be
Bert Simmons and calling me 'Nan' as if you had known me all my life, I
wouldn't have done it.”
“It doesn't matter,” said Mr. Carter. “I wish I was Bert Simmons, that's
all. Good-by.”
“Wish you was!” said Mr. Evans, who had been listening in open-mouthed
astonishment. “Look here! Man to man—are you Bert Simmons or are you
not?”
“No,” said Mr. Carter.
“Of course not,” said Nancy.
“And you didn't owe that money?”
“Nobody owed it,” said Nancy. “It was done just to punish him.”
Mr. Evans, with a strange cry, blundered towards the door. “I'll have
that money out of 'em,” he roared, “if I have to hold 'em up and shake
it out of their trouser-pockets. You stay here.”
He hurried up the road, and Jim, with the set face of a man going into
action against heavy odds, followed him.
“Your father told me to stay,” said Mr. Carter, coming farther into the
room.
Nancy looked up at him through her eyelashes. “You need not unless you
want to,” she said, very softly.
KEEPING UP APPEARANCES
“Everybody is superstitious,” said the night-watchman, as he gave
utterance to a series of chirruping endearments to a black cat with one
eye that had just been using a leg of his trousers as a serviette; “if
that cat 'ad stole some men's suppers they'd have acted foolish, and
suffered for it all the rest of their lives.”
He scratched the cat behind the ear, and despite himself his face
darkened. “Slung it over the side, they would,” he said, longingly, “and
chucked bits o' coke at it till it sank. As I said afore, everybody is
superstitious, and those that ain't ought to be night-watchmen for a
time—that 'ud cure 'em. I knew one man that killed a black cat, and
arter that for the rest of his life he could never get three sheets in
the wind without seeing its ghost. Spoilt his life for 'im, it did.”
He scratched the cat's other ear. “I only left it a moment, while I
went round to the Bull's Head,” he said, slowly filling his pipe, “and I
thought I'd put it out o' reach. Some men——”
His fingers twined round the animal's neck; then, with a sigh, he rose
and took a turn or two on the jetty.
Superstitiousness is right and proper, to a certain extent, he said,
resuming his seat; but, o' course, like everything else, some people
carry it too far—they'd believe anything. Weak-minded they are, and
if you're in no hurry I can tell you a tale of a pal o' mine, Bill
Burtenshaw by name, that'll prove my words.
'Superstitiousness is Right and Proper, to a Certain Extent.'
His mother was superstitious afore 'im, and always knew when 'er friends
died by hearing three loud taps on the wall. The on'y mistake she ever
made was one night when, arter losing no less than seven friends, she
found out it was the man next door hanging pictures at three o'clock in
the morning. She found it out by 'im hitting 'is thumb-nail.
For the first few years arter he grew up Bill went to sea, and that on'y
made 'im more superstitious than ever. Him and a pal named Silas Winch
went several v'y'ges together, and their talk used to be that creepy
that some o' the chaps was a'most afraid to be left on deck alone of a
night. Silas was a long-faced, miserable sort o' chap, always looking
on the black side o' things, and shaking his 'ead over it. He thought
nothing o' seeing ghosts, and pore old Ben Huggins slept on the floor
for a week by reason of a ghost with its throat cut that Silas saw in
his bunk. He gave Silas arf a dollar and a neck-tie to change bunks with
'im.
When Bill Burtenshaw left the sea and got married he lost sight of Silas
altogether, and the on'y thing he 'ad to remind him of 'im was a piece
o' paper which they 'ad both signed with their blood, promising that
the fust one that died would appear to the other. Bill agreed to it one
evenin' when he didn't know wot he was doing, and for years arterwards
'e used to get the cold creeps down 'is back when he thought of Silas
dying fust. And the idea of dying fust 'imself gave 'im cold creeps all
over.
Bill was a very good husband when he was sober, but 'is money was two
pounds a week, and when a man has all that and on'y a wife to keep out
of it, it's natural for 'im to drink. Mrs. Burtenshaw tried all sorts o'
ways and means of curing 'im, but it was no use. Bill used to think o'
ways, too, knowing the 'arm the drink was doing 'im, and his fav'rite
plan was for 'is missis to empty a bucket o' cold water over 'im every
time he came 'ome the worse for licker. She did it once, but as she 'ad
to spend the rest o' the night in the back yard it wasn't tried again.
Bill got worse as he got older, and even made away with the furniture to
get drink with. And then he used to tell 'is missis that he was drove to
the pub because his 'ome was so uncomfortable.
Just at that time things was at their worst Silas Winch, who 'appened to
be ashore and 'ad got Bill's address from a pal, called to see 'im. It
was a Saturday arternoon when he called, and, o' course, Bill was out,
but 'is missis showed him in, and, arter fetching another chair from the
kitchen, asked 'im to sit down.
Silas was very perlite at fust, but arter looking round the room and
seeing 'ow bare it was, he gave a little cough, and he ses, “I thought
Bill was doing well?” he ses.
'Silas Was Very Perlite at Fust.'
“So he is,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw.
Silas Winch coughed again.
“I suppose he likes room to stretch 'imself about in?” he ses, looking
round.
Mrs. Burtenshaw wiped 'er eyes and then, knowing 'ow Silas had been an
old friend o' Bill's, she drew 'er chair a bit closer and told him 'ow
it was. “A better 'usband, when he's sober, you couldn't wish to see,”
she ses, wiping her eyes agin. “He'd give me anything—if he 'ad it.”
Silas's face got longer than ever. “As a matter o' fact,” he ses, “I'm
a bit down on my luck, and I called round with the 'ope that Bill could
lend me a bit, just till I can pull round.”
Mrs. Burtenshaw shook her 'ead.
“Well, I s'pose I can stay and see 'im?” ses Silas. “Me and 'im used to
be great pals at one time, and many's the good turn I've done him. Wot
time'll he be 'ome?”
“Any time after twelve,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw; “but you'd better not be
here then. You see, 'im being in that condition, he might think you was
your own ghost come according to promise and be frightened out of 'is
life. He's often talked about it.”
Silas Winch scratched his head and looked at 'er thoughtful-like.
“Why shouldn't he mistake me for a ghost?” he ses at last; “the shock
might do 'im good. And, if you come to that, why shouldn't I pretend to
be my own ghost and warn 'im off the drink?”
Mrs. Burtenshaw got so excited at the idea she couldn't 'ardly speak,
but at last, arter saying over and over agin she wouldn't do such a
thing for worlds, she and Silas arranged that he should come in at about
three o'clock in the morning and give Bill a solemn warning. She gave
'im her key, and Silas said he'd come in with his 'air and cap all wet
and pretend he'd been drowned.
“It's very kind of you to take all this trouble for nothing,” ses Mrs.
Burtenshaw as Silas got up to go.
“Don't mention it,” ses Silas. “It ain't the fust time, and I don't
suppose it'll be the last, that I've put myself out to help my
feller-creeturs. We all ought to do wot we can for each other.”
“Mind, if he finds it out,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw, all of a tremble,
“I don't know nothing about it. P'r'aps to make it more life-like I'd
better pretend not to see you.”
“P'r'aps it would be better,” ses Silas, stopping at the street door.
“All I ask is that you'll 'ide the poker and anything else that might be
laying about handy. And you 'ad better oil the lock so as the key won't
make a noise.”
Mrs. Burtenshaw shut the door arter 'im, and then she went in and 'ad
a quiet sit-down all by 'erself to think it over. The only thing that
comforted 'er was that Bill would be in licker, and also that 'e would
believe anything in the ghost line.
It was past twelve when a couple o' pals brought him 'ome, and, arter
offering to fight all six of 'em, one after the other, Bill hit the wall
for getting in 'is way, and tumbled upstairs to bed. In less than ten
minutes 'e was fast asleep, and pore Mrs. Burtenshaw, arter trying her
best to keep awake, fell asleep too.
She was woke up suddenly by a noise that froze the marrer in 'er bones—
the most 'art-rending groan she 'ad ever heard in 'er life; and, raising
her 'ead, she saw Silas Winch standing at the foot of the bed. He 'ad
done his face and hands over with wot is called loominous paint, his cap
was pushed at the back of his 'ead, and wet wisps of 'air was hanging
over his eyes. For a moment Mrs. Burtenshaw's 'art stood still and then
Silas let off another groan that put her on edge all over. It was a
groan that seemed to come from nothing a'most until it spread into a
roar that made the room tremble and rattled the jug in the wash-stand
basin. It shook everything in the room but Bill, and he went on sleeping
like an infant. Silas did two more groans, and then 'e leaned over the
foot o' the bed, and stared at Bill, as though 'e couldn't believe his
eyesight.
'She Saw Silas Winch Standing at the Foot of The Bed.'
“Try a squeaky one,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw.
Silas tried five squeaky ones, and then he 'ad a fit o' coughing that
would ha' woke the dead, as they say, but it didn't wake Bill.
“Now some more deep ones,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw, in a w'isper.
Silas licked his lips—forgetting the paint—and tried the deep ones agin.
“Now mix 'em a bit,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw.
Silas stared at her. “Look 'ere,” he ses, very short, “do you think I'm
a fog-horn, or wot?”
He stood there sulky for a moment, and then 'e invented a noise that
nothing living could miss hearing; even Bill couldn't. He moved in 'is
sleep, and arter Silas 'ad done it twice more he turned and spoke to 'is
missis about it. “D'ye hear?” he ses; “stop it. Stop it at once.”
Mrs. Burtenshaw pretended to be asleep, and Bill was just going to turn
over agin when Silas let off another groan. It was on'y a little one
this time, but Bill sat up as though he 'ad been shot, and he no sooner
caught sight of Silas standing there than 'e gave a dreadful 'owl and,
rolling over, wropped 'imself up in all the bed-clothes 'e could lay his
'ands on. Then Mrs. Burtenshaw gave a 'owl and tried to get some of 'em
back; but Bill, thinking it was the ghost, only held on tighter than
ever.
“Bill!” ses Silas Winch, in an awful voice.
Bill gave a kick, and tried to bore a hole through the bed.
“Bill,” ses Silas agin, “why don't you answer me? I've come all the way
from the bottom of the Pacific Ocean to see you, and this is all I get
for it. Haven't you got anything to say to me?”
“Good-by,” ses Bill, in a voice all smothered with the bed-clothes.
Silas Winch groaned agin, and Bill, as the shock 'ad made a'most sober,
trembled all over.
“The moment I died,” ses Silas, “I thought of my promise towards you.
'Bill's expecting me,' I ses, and, instead of staying in comfort at
the bottom of the sea, I kicked off the body of the cabin-boy wot was
clinging round my leg, and 'ere I am.”
“It was very—t-t-thoughtful—of you—Silas,” ses Bill; “but you always—
w-w-was—thoughtful. Good-by.”
Afore Silas could answer, Mrs. Burtenshaw, who felt more comfortable,
'aving got a bit o' the clothes back, thought it was time to put 'er
spoke in.
“Lor' bless me, Bill,” she ses. “Wotever are you a-talking to yourself
like this for? 'Ave you been dreaming?”
“Dreaming!” ses pore Bill, catching hold of her 'and and gripping it
till she nearly screamed. “I wish I was. Can't you see it?”
“See it?” ses his wife. “See wot?”
“The ghost,” ses Bill, in a 'orrible whisper; “the ghost of my dear,
kind old pal, Silas Winch. The best and noblest pal a man ever 'ad. The
kindest-'arted——”
“Rubbish,” ses Mrs. Burtenshaw. “You've been dreaming. And as for the
kindest-'arted pal, why I've often heard you say—”
“H'sh!” ses Bill. “I didn't. I'll swear I didn't. I never thought of
such a thing.”
“You turn over and go to sleep,” ses his wife, “hiding your 'ead under
the clothes like a child that's afraid o' the dark! There's nothing
there, I tell you. Wot next will you see, I wonder? Last time it was a
pink rat.”
“This is fifty million times worse than pink rats,” ses Bill. “I on'y
wish it was a pink rat.”
“I tell you there is nothing there,” ses his wife. “Look!”
Bill put his 'ead up and looked, and then 'e gave a dreadful scream and
dived under the bed-clothes agin.