“Nobody would mistake you for a lord,” said Miss Rose, cruelly. “Why, I
shouldn’t think that you had ever seen one. You didn’t do it at all
properly. Why, your uncle Cray would have done it better.” Mr. Cray’s
nephew fell back in consternation and eyed her dumbly as she laughed.
All mirth is not contagious, and he was easily able to refrain from
joining in this.
“I can’t understand,” said Miss Rose, as she wiped a tear-dimmed eye—“I
can’t understand how you could have thought I should be so stupid.”
“I’ve been a fool,” said the other, bitterly, as he retreated to the
door. “Good-by.”
“Good-by,” said Jane. She looked him full in the face, and the blushes
for which she had been waiting came in force. “You needn’t go, unless
you want to,” she said, softly. “I like fools better than lords.”
[Illustration: “‘I like fools better than lords.’”]
ALF’S DREAM
[Illustration]
ALF’S DREAM
“I’ve just been drinking a man’s health,” said the night watchman,
coming slowly on to the wharf and wiping his mouth with the back of his
hand; “he’s come in for a matter of three ’undred and twenty pounds,
and he stood me arf a pint—arf a pint!”
He dragged a small empty towards him, and after planing the surface
with his hand sat down and gazed scornfully across the river.
“Four ale,” he said, with a hard laugh; “and when I asked ’im—just for
the look of the thing, and to give ’im a hint—whether he’d ’ave
another, he said ‘yes.’”
The night watchman rose and paced restlessly up and down the jetty.
“Money,” he said, at last, resuming his wonted calm and lowering
himself carefully to the box again—“money always gets left to the wrong
people; some of the kindest-’arted men I’ve ever known ’ave never had a
ha’penny left ’em, while teetotaler arter teetotaler wot I’ve heard of
’ave come in for fortins.”
It’s ’ard lines though, sometimes, waiting for other people’s money. I
knew o’ one chap that waited over forty years for ’is grandmother to
die and leave ’im her money; and she died of catching cold at ’is
funeral. Another chap I knew, arter waiting years and years for ’is
rich aunt to die, was hung because she committed suicide.
It’s always risky work waiting for other people to die and leave you
money. Sometimes they don’t die; sometimes they marry agin; and
sometimes they leave it to other people instead.
Talking of marrying agin reminds me o’ something that ’appened to a
young fellow I knew named Alf Simms. Being an orphan ’e was brought up
by his uncle, George Hatchard, a widowed man of about sixty. Alf used
to go to sea off and on, but more off than on, his uncle ’aving quite a
tidy bit of ’ouse property, and it being understood that Alf was to
have it arter he ’ad gone. His uncle used to like to ’ave him at ’ome,
and Alf didn’t like work, so it suited both parties.
I used to give Alf a bit of advice sometimes, sixty being a dangerous
age for a man, especially when he ’as been a widower for so long he ’as
had time to forget wot being married’s like; but I must do Alf the
credit to say it wasn’t wanted. He ’ad got a very old ’ead on his
shoulders, and always picked the housekeeper ’imself to save the old
man the trouble. I saw two of ’em, and I dare say I could ’ave seen
more, only I didn’t want to.
Cleverness is a good thing in its way, but there’s such a thing as
being too clever, and the last ’ousekeeper young Alf picked died of old
age a week arter he ’ad gone to sea. She passed away while she was
drawing George Hatchard’s supper beer, and he lost ten gallons o’ the
best bitter ale and his ’ousekeeper at the same time.
It was four months arter that afore Alf came ’ome, and the fust sight
of the new ’ousekeeper, wot opened the door to ’im, upset ’im terrible.
She was the right side o’ sixty to begin with, and only ordinary plain.
Then she was as clean as a new pin, and dressed up as though she was
going out to tea.
“Oh, you’re Alfred, I s’pose?” she ses, looking at ’im.
“Mr. Simms is my name,” ses young Alf, starting and drawing hisself up.
“I know you by your portrait,” ses the ’ousekeeper. “Come in. ’Ave you
’ad a pleasant v’y’ge? Wipe your boots.”
Alfred wiped ’is boots afore he thought of wot he was doing. Then he
drew hisself up stiff agin and marched into the parlor.
“Sit down,” ses the ’ousekeeper, in a kind voice.
Alfred sat down afore he thought wot ’e was doing agin.
“I always like to see people comfortable,” ses the ’ousekeeper; “it’s
my way. It’s warm weather for the time o’ year, ain’t it? George is
upstairs, but he’ll be down in a minute.”
“_Who?_” ses Alf, hardly able to believe his ears.
“George,” ses the ’ousekeeper.
“George? George who?” ses Alfred, very severe.
“Why your uncle, of course,” ses the ’ousekeeper. “Do you think I’ve
got a houseful of Georges?”
Young Alf sat staring at her and couldn’t say a word. He noticed that
the room ’ad been altered, and that there was a big photygraph of her
stuck up on the mantelpiece. He sat there fidgeting with ’is feet—until
the ’ousekeeper looked at them—and then ’e got up and walked upstairs.
His uncle, wot was sitting on his bed when ’e went into the room and
pretended that he ’adn’t heard ’im come in, shook hands with ’im as
though he’d never leave off.
“I’ve got something to tell you, Alf,” he ses, arter they ’ad said “How
d’ye do?” and he ’ad talked about the weather until Alf was fair tired
of it.
“I’ve been and gone and done a foolish thing, and ’ow you’ll take it I
don’t know.”
“Been and asked the new ’ousekeeper to marry you, I s’pose?” ses Alf,
looking at ’im very hard.
His uncle shook his ’ead. “I never asked ’er; I’d take my Davy I
didn’t,” he ses.
“Well, you ain’t going to marry her, then?” ses Alf, brightening up.
His uncle shook his ’ead agin. “She didn’t want no asking,” he ses,
speaking very slow and mournful. “I just ’appened to put my arm round
her waist by accident one day and the thing was done.”
“Accident? How could you do it by accident?” ses Alf, firing up.
“How can I tell you that?” ses George Hatchard. “If I’d known ’ow, it
wouldn’t ’ave been an accident, would it?”
“Don’t you want to marry her?” ses Alf, at last. “You needn’t marry ’er
if you don’t want to.”
George Hatchard looked at ’im and sniffed. “When you know her as well
as I do you won’t talk so foolish,” he ses. “We’d better go down now,
else she’ll think we’ve been talking about ’er.”
They went downstairs and ’ad tea together, and young Alf soon see the
truth of his uncle’s remarks. Mrs. Pearce—that was the ’ousekeeper’s
name—called his uncle “dear” every time she spoke to ’im, and arter tea
she sat on the sofa side by side with ’im and held his ’and.
Alf lay awake arf that night thinking things over and ’ow to get Mrs.
Pearce out of the house, and he woke up next morning with it still on
’is mind. Every time he got ’is uncle alone he spoke to ’im about it,
and told ’im to pack Mrs. Pearce off with a month’s wages, but George
Hatchard wouldn’t listen to ’im.
“She’d ’ave me up for breach of promise and ruin me,” he ses. “She
reads the paper to me every Sunday arternoon, mostly breach of promise
cases, and she’d ’ave me up for it as soon as look at me. She’s got
’eaps and ’eaps of love-letters o’ mine.”
“Love-letters!” ses Alf, staring. “Love-letters when you live in the
same house!”
“She started it,” ses his uncle; “she pushed one under my door one
morning, and I ’ad to answer it. She wouldn’t come down and get my
breakfast till I did. I have to send her one every morning.”
“Do you sign ’em with your own name?” ses Alf, arter thinking a bit.
“No,” ses ’is uncle, turning red.
“Wot do you sign ’em, then?” ses Alf.
“Never you mind,” ses his uncle, turning redder. “It’s my handwriting,
and that’s good enough for her. I did try writing backwards, but I only
did it once. I wouldn’t do it agin for fifty pounds. You ought to ha’
heard ’er.”
“If ’er fust husband was alive she couldn’t marry you,” ses Alf, very
slow and thoughtful.
“No,” ses his uncle, nasty-like; “and if I was an old woman she
couldn’t marry me. You know as well as I do that he went down with the
_Evening Star_ fifteen years ago.”
“So far as she knows,” ses Alf; “but there was four of them saved, so
why not five? Mightn’t ’e have floated away on a spar or something and
been picked up? Can’t you dream it three nights running, and tell ’er
that you feel certain sure he’s alive?”
“If I dreamt it fifty times it wouldn’t make any difference,” ses
George Hatchard. “Here! wot are you up to? ’Ave you gone mad, or wot?
You poke me in the ribs like that agin if you dare.”
“Her fust ’usband’s alive,” ses Alf, smiling at ’im.
“_Wot?_” ses his uncle.
“He floated away on a bit o’ wreckage,” ses Alf, nodding at ’im, “just
like they do in books, and was picked up more dead than alive and took
to Melbourne. He’s now living up-country working on a sheep station.”
“Who’s dreaming now?” ses his uncle.
“It’s a fact,” ses Alf. “I know a chap wot’s met ’im and talked to ’im.
She can’t marry you while he’s alive, can she?”
“Certainly _not_,” ses George Hatchard, trembling all over; “but are
you sure you ’aven’t made a mistake?”
“Certain sure,” ses Alf.
“It’s too good to be true,” ses George Hatchard.
“O’ course it is,” ses Alf, “but she won’t know that. Look ’ere; you
write down all the things that she ’as told you about herself and give
it to me, and I’ll soon find the chap I spoke of wot’s met ’im. He’d
meet a dozen men if it was made worth his while.”
George Hatchard couldn’t understand ’im at fust, and when he did he
wouldn’t ’ave a hand in it because it wasn’t the right thing to do, and
because he felt sure that Mrs. Pearce would find it out. But at last ’e
wrote out all about her for Alf; her maiden name, and where she was
born, and everything; and then he told Alf that, if ’e dared to play
such a trick on an unsuspecting, loving woman, he’d never forgive ’im.
“I shall want a couple o’ quid,” ses Alf.
“Certainly not,” ses his uncle. “I won’t ’ave nothing to do with it, I
tell you.”
“Only to buy chocolates with,” ses Alf.
“Oh, all right,” ses George Hatchard; and he went upstairs to ’is
bedroom and came down with three pounds and gave ’im. “If that ain’t
enough,” he ses, “let me know, and you can ’ave more.”
Alf winked at ’im, but the old man drew hisself up and stared at ’im,
and then ’e turned and walked away with his ’ead in the air.
He ’ardly got a chance of speaking to Alf next day, Mrs. Pearce being
’ere, there, and everywhere, as the saying is, and finding so many
little odd jobs for Alf to do that there was no time for talking. But
the day arter he sidled up to ’im when the ’ouse-keeper was out of the
room and asked ’im whether he ’ad bought the chocolates.
“Yes,” ses Alfred, taking one out of ’is pocket and eating it, “some of
’em.”
George Hatchard coughed and fidgeted about. “When are you going to buy
the others?” he ses.
“As I want ’em,” ses Alf. “They’d spoil if I got ’em all at once.”
George Hatchard coughed agin. “I ’ope you haven’t been going on with
that wicked plan you spoke to me about the other night,” he ses.
“Certainly not,” ses Alf, winking to ’imself; “not arter wot you said.
How could I?”
“That’s right,” ses the old man. “I’m sorry for this marriage for your
sake, Alf. O’ course, I was going to leave you my little bit of ’ouse
property, but I suppose now it’ll ’ave to be left to her. Well, well, I
s’pose it’s best for a young man to make his own way in the world.”
“I s’pose so,” ses Alf.
“Mrs. Pearce was asking only yesterday when you was going back to sea
agin,” ses his uncle, looking at ’im.
“Oh!” ses Alf.
“She’s took a dislike to you, I think,” ses the old man. “It’s very
’ard, my fav’rite nephew, and the only one I’ve got. I forgot to tell
you the other day that her fust ’usband, Charlie Pearce, ’ad a kind of
a wart on ’is left ear. She’s often spoke to me about it.”
“In—deed!” ses Alf.
“Yes,” ses his uncle, “_left_ ear, and a scar on his forehead where a
friend of his kicked ’im one day.”
Alf nodded, and then he winked at ’im agin. George Hatchard didn’t wink
back, but he patted ’im on the shoulder and said ’ow well he was
filling out, and ’ow he got more like ’is pore mother every day he
lived.
[Illustration: “He patted ’im on the shoulder and said ’ow well he
was filling out.”]
“I ’ad a dream last night,” ses Alf. “I dreamt that a man I know named
Bill Flurry, but wot called ’imself another name in my dream, and
didn’t know me then, came ’ere one evening when we was all sitting down
at supper, Joe Morgan and ’is missis being here, and said as ’ow Mrs.
Pearce’s fust husband was alive and well.”
“That’s a very odd dream,” ses his uncle; “but wot was Joe Morgan and
his missis in it for?”
“Witnesses,” ses Alf.
George Hatchard fell over a footstool with surprise. “Go on,” he ses,
rubbing his leg. “It’s a queer thing, but I was going to ask the
Morgans ’ere to spend the evening next Wednesday.”
“Or was it Tuesday?” ses Alf, considering.
“I said Tuesday,” ses his uncle, looking over Alf’s ’ead so that he
needn’t see ’im wink agin. “Wot was the end of your dream, Alf?”
“The end of it was,” ses Alf, “that you and Mrs. Pearce was both very
much upset, as o’ course you couldn’t marry while ’er fust was alive,
and the last thing I see afore I woke up was her boxes standing at the
front door waiting for a cab.”
George Hatchard was going to ask ’im more about it, but just then Mrs.
Pearce came in with a pair of Alf’s socks that he ’ad been untidy
enough to leave in the middle of the floor instead of chucking ’em
under the bed. She was so unpleasant about it that, if it hadn’t ha’
been for the thought of wot was going to ’appen on Tuesday, Alf
couldn’t ha’ stood it.
For the next day or two George Hatchard was in such a state of
nervousness and excitement that Alf was afraid that the ’ousekeeper
would notice it. On Tuesday morning he was trembling so much that she
said he’d got a chill, and she told ’im to go to bed and she’d make ’im
a nice hot mustard poultice. George was afraid to say “no,” but while
she was in the kitchen making the poultice he slipped out for a walk
and cured ’is trembling with three whiskies. Alf nearly got the
poultice instead, she was so angry.
She was unpleasant all dinner-time, but she got better in the
arternoon, and when the Morgans came in the evening, and she found that
Mrs. Morgan ’ad got a nasty sort o’ red swelling on her nose, she got
quite good-tempered. She talked about it nearly all supper-time,
telling ’er what she ought to do to it, and about a friend of hers that
’ad one and ’ad to turn teetotaler on account of it.
“My nose is good enough for me,” ses Mrs. Morgan, at last.
“It don’t affect ’er appetite,” ses George Hatchard, trying to make
things pleasant, “and that’s the main thing.”
Mrs. Morgan got up to go, but arter George Hatchard ’ad explained wot
he didn’t mean she sat down agin and began to talk to Mrs. Pearce about
’er dress and ’ow beautifully it was made. And she asked Mrs. Pearce to
give ’er the pattern of it, because she should ’ave one like it herself
when she was old enough. “I do like to see people dressed suitable,”
she ses, with a smile.
“I think you ought to ’ave a much deeper color than this,” ses Mrs.
Pearce, considering.
“Not when I’m faded,” ses Mrs. Morgan.
Mrs. Pearce, wot was filling ’er glass at the time, spilt a lot of beer
all over the tablecloth, and she was so cross about it that she sat
like a stone statue for pretty near ten minutes. By the time supper was
finished people was passing things to each other in whispers, and when
a bit o’ cheese went the wrong way with Joe Morgan he nearly suffocated
’imself for fear of making a noise.
They ’ad a game o’ cards arter supper, counting twenty nuts as a penny,
and everybody got more cheerful. They was all laughing and talking, and
Joe Morgan was pretending to steal Mrs. Pearce’s nuts, when George
Hatchard held up his ’and.
“Somebody at the street door, I think,” he ses.
Young Alf got up to open it, and they ’eard a man’s voice in the
passage asking whether Mrs. Pearce lived there, and the next moment Alf
came into the room, followed by Bill Flurry.
“Here’s a gentleman o’ the name o’ Smith asking arter you,” he ses,
looking at Mrs. Pearce.
“Wot d’you want?” ses Mrs. Pearce rather sharp.
“It is ’er,” ses Bill, stroking his long white beard and casting ’is
eyes up at the ceiling. “You don’t remember me, Mrs. Pearce, but I used
to see you years ago, when you and poor Charlie Pearce was living down
Poplar way.”
“Well, wot about it?” ses Mrs. Pearce.
“I’m coming to it,” ses Bill Flurry. “I’ve been two months trying to
find you, so there’s no need to be in a hurry for a minute or two.
Besides, what I’ve got to say ought to be broke gently, in case you
faint away with joy.”
“Rubbish!” ses Mrs. Pearce. “I ain’t the fainting sort.”
“I ’ope it’s nothing unpleasant,” ses George Hatchard, pouring ’im out
a glass of whisky.
“Quite the opposite,” ses Bill. “It’s the best news she’s ’eard for
fifteen years.”
“Are you going to tell me wot you want, or ain’t you?” ses Mrs. Pearce.
“I’m coming to it,” ses Bill. “Six months ago I was in Melbourne, and
one day I was strolling about looking in at the shop-winders, when all
at once I thought I see a face I knew. It was a good bit older than
when I see it last, and the whiskers was gray, but I says to myself—”
“I can see wot’s coming,” ses Mrs. Morgan, turning red with excitement
and pinching Joe’s arm.
“I ses to myself,” ses Bill Flurry, “either that’s a ghost, I ses or
else it’s Charlie—”
“Go on,” ses George Hatchard, as was sitting with ’is fists clinched on
the table and ’is eyes wide open, staring at ’im.
“Pearce,” ses Bill Flurry.
You might ’ave heard a pin drop. They all sat staring at ’im, and then
George Hatchard took out ’is handkerchief and ’eld it up to ’is face.
“But he was drownded in the _Evening Star_,” ses Joe Morgan.
Bill Flurry didn’t answer ’im. He poured out pretty near a tumbler of
whisky and offered it to Mrs. Pearce, but she pushed it away, and,
arter looking round in a ’elpless sort of way and shaking his ’ead once
or twice, he finished it up ’imself.
“It couldn’t ’ave been ’im,” ses George Hatchard, speaking through ’is
handkerchief. “I can’t believe it. It’s too cruel.”
“I tell you it was ’im,” ses Bill. “He floated off on a spar when the
ship went down, and was picked up two days arterwards by a bark and
taken to New Zealand. He told me all about it, and he told me if ever I
saw ’is wife to give her ’is kind regards.”
“_Kind regards_!” ses Joe Morgan, starting up. “Why didn’t he let ’is
wife know ’e was alive?”
“That’s wot I said to ’im,” ses Bill Flurry; “but he said he ’ad ’is
reasons.”
“Ah, to be sure,” ses Mrs. Morgan, nodding. “Why, you and her can’t be
married now,” she ses, turning to George Hatchard.
“Married?” ses Bill Flurry with a start, as George Hatchard gave a
groan that surprised ’imself. “Good gracious! what a good job I found
’er!”
“I s’pose you don’t know where he is to be found now?” ses Mrs. Pearce,
in a low voice, turning to Bill.
“I do not, ma’am,” ses Bill, “but I think you’d find ’im somewhere in
Australia. He keeps changing ’is name and shifting about, but I dare
say you’d ’ave as good a chance of finding ’im as anybody.”
“It’s a terrible blow to me,” ses George Hatchard, dabbing his eyes.
“I know it is,” ses Mrs. Pearce; “but there, you men are all alike. I
dare say if this hadn’t turned up you’d ha’ found something else.”
“Oh, ’ow can you talk like that?” ses George Hatchard, very
reproachful. “It’s the only thing in the world that could ’ave
prevented our getting married. I’m surprised at you.”
“Well, that’s all right, then,” ses Mrs. Pearce, “and we’ll get married
after all.”
“But you can’t,” ses Alf.
“It’s bigamy,” ses Joe Morgan.
“You’d get six months,” ses his wife.
“Don’t you worry, dear,” ses Mrs. Pearce, nodding at George Hatchard;
“that man’s made a mistake.”
“Mistake!” ses Bill Flurry. “Why, I tell you I talked to ’im. It was
Charlie Pearce right enough; scar on ’is forehead and a wart on ’is
left ear and all.”
“It’s wonderful,” ses Mrs. Pearce. “I can’t think where you got it all
from.”
“Got it all from?” ses Bill, staring at her. “Why, from ’im.”
“Oh, of course,” ses Mrs. Pearce. “I didn’t think of that; but that
only makes it the more wonderful, doesn’t it?—because, you see, he
didn’t go on the _Evening Star_.”
“_Wot_?” ses George Hatchard. “Why you told me yourself—”
“I know I did,” ses Mrs. Pearce, “but that was only just to spare your
feelings. Charlie _was_ going to sea in her, but he was prevented.”
“Prevented?” ses two or three of ’em.
“Yes,” ses Mrs. Pearce; “the night afore he was to ’ave sailed there
was some silly mistake over a diamond ring, and he got five years. He
gave a different name at the police-station, and naturally everybody
thought ’e went down with the ship. And when he died in prison I didn’t
undeceive ’em.”
She took out her ’andkerchief, and while she was busy with it Bill
Flurry got up and went out on tiptoe. Young Alf got up a second or two
arterwards to see where he’d gone; and the last Joe Morgan and his
missis see of the happy couple they was sitting on one chair, and
George Hatchard was making desprit and ’artrending attempts to smile.
A DISTANT RELATIVE
[Illustration]
A DISTANT RELATIVE
Mr. Potter had just taken Ethel Spriggs into the kitchen to say
good-by; in the small front room Mr. Spriggs, with his fingers already
fumbling at the linen collar of ceremony, waited impatiently.
“They get longer and longer over their good-bys,” he complained.
“It’s only natural,” said Mrs. Spriggs, looking up from a piece of fine
sewing. “Don’t you remember—”
“No, I don’t,” said her husband, doggedly. “I know that your pore
father never ’ad to put on a collar for me; and, mind you, I won’t wear
one after they’re married, not if you all went on your bended knees and
asked me to.”
He composed his face as the door opened, and nodded good-night to the
rather over-dressed young man who came through the room with his
daughter.
The latter opened the front-door and passing out with Mr. Potter, held
it slightly open. A penetrating draught played upon the exasperated Mr.
Spriggs. He coughed loudly.
“Your father’s got a cold,” said Mr. Potter, in a concerned voice.
“No; it’s only too much smoking,” said the girl. “He’s smoking all day
long.”
The indignant Mr. Spriggs coughed again; but the young people had found
a new subject of conversation. It ended some minutes later in a playful
scuffle, during which the door acted the part of a ventilating fan.
“It’s only for another fortnight,” said Mrs. Spriggs, hastily, as her
husband rose.
“After they’re spliced,” said the vindictive Mr. Spriggs, resuming his
seat, “I’ll go round and I’ll play about with their front-door till—”
He broke off abruptly as his daughter, darting into the room, closed
the door with a bang that nearly extinguished the lamp, and turned the
key. Before her flushed and laughing face Mr. Spriggs held his peace.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, eying him. “What are you looking like
that for?”
“Too much draught—for your mother,” said Mr. Spriggs, feebly. “I’m
afraid of her asthma agin.”
He fell to work on the collar once more, and, escaping at last from the
clutches of that enemy, laid it on the table and unlaced his boots. An
attempt to remove his coat was promptly frustrated by his daughter.
“You’ll get doing it when you come round to see us,” she explained.
Mr. Spriggs sighed, and lighting a short clay pipe—forbidden in the
presence of his future son-in-law—fell to watching mother and daughter
as they gloated over dress materials and discussed double-widths.
“Anybody who can’t be ’appy with her,” he said, half an hour later, as
his daughter slapped his head by way of bidding him good-night, and
retired, “don’t deserve to be ’appy.”
“I wish it was over,” whispered his wife. “She’ll break her heart if
anything happens, and—and Gussie will be out now in a day or two.”
“A gal can’t ’elp what her uncle does,” said Mr. Spriggs, fiercely; “if
Alfred throws her over for that, he’s no man.”
“Pride is his great fault,” said his wife, mournfully.
“It’s no good taking up troubles afore they come,” observed Mr.
Spriggs. “P’r’aps Gussie won’t come ’ere.”
“He’ll come straight here,” said his wife, with conviction; “he’ll come
straight here and try and make a fuss of me, same as he used to do when
we was children and I’d got a ha’penny. I know him.”
“Cheer up, old gal,” said Mr. Spriggs; “if he does, we must try and get
rid of ’im; and, if he won’t go, we must tell Alfred that he’s been to
Australia, same as we did Ethel.”
His wife smiled faintly.