cigar and regarding him with mild surprise.
“Mr. Tucker is my friend,” interposed Mrs. Bowman. “I am the only
friend he has got in Trimington. It’s natural he should be here.”
Mr. Clark quailed at her glance.
“People are beginning to talk,” he muttered, feebly.
“Talk?” said the widow, with an air of mystification belied by her
color. “What about?”
Mr. Clark quailed again. “About—about our wedding,” he stammered.
Mr. Tucker and the widow exchanged glances. Then the former took his
cigar from his mouth and, with a hopeless gesture threw it into the
grate.
“Plenty of time to talk about that,” said Mrs. Bowman, after a pause.
“Time is going,” remarked Mr. Clark. “I was thinking, if it was
agreeable to you, of putting up the banns to-morrow.”
“There—there’s no hurry,” was the reply.
“‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure,’” quoted Mr. Tucker, gravely.
“Don’t you want me to put ’em up?” demanded Mr. Clark, turning to Mrs.
Bowman.
“There’s no hurry,” said Mrs. Bowman again. “I—I want time to think.”
Mr. Clark rose and stood over her, and after a vain attempt to meet his
gaze she looked down at the carpet.
“I understand,” he said, loftily. “I am not blind.”
“It isn’t my fault,” murmured the widow, drawing patterns with her toe
on the carpet. “One can’t help their feelings.”
Mr. Clark gave a short, hard laugh. “What about my feelings?” he said,
severely. “What about the life you have spoiled? I couldn’t have
believed it of you.”
“I’m sure I’m very sorry,” murmured Mrs. Bowman, “and anything that I
can do I will. I never expected to see Charles again. And it was so
sudden; it took me unawares. I hope we shall still be friends.”
“Friends!” exclaimed Mr. Clark, with extraordinary vigor. “With _him?_”
He folded his arms and regarded the pair with a bitter smile; Mrs.
Bowman, quite unable to meet his eyes, still gazed intently at the
floor.
“You have made me the laughing-stock of Trimington,” pursued Mr. Clark.
“You have wounded me in my tenderest feelings; you have destroyed my
faith in women. I shall never be the same man again. I hope that you
will never find out what a terrible mistake you’ve made.”
Mrs. Bowman made a noise half-way between a sniff and a sob; Mr.
Tucker’s sniff was unmistakable.
“I will return your presents to-morrow,” said Mr. Clark, rising.
“Good-by, forever!”
He paused at the door, but Mrs. Bowman did not look up. A second later
the front door closed and she heard him walk rapidly away.
For some time after his departure she preserved a silence which Mr.
Tucker endeavored in vain to break. He took a chair by her side, and at
the third attempt managed to gain possession of her hand.
“I deserved all he said,” she cried, at last. “Poor fellow, I hope he
will do nothing desperate.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Tucker, soothingly.
“His eyes were quite wild,” continued the widow. “If anything happens
to him I shall never forgive myself. I have spoilt his life.”
Mr. Tucker pressed her hand and spoke of the well-known refining
influence a hopeless passion for a good woman had on a man. He cited
his own case as an example.
“Disappointment spoilt my life so far as worldly success goes,” he
said, softly, “but no doubt the discipline was good for me.”
Mrs. Bowman smiled faintly, and began to be a little comforted.
Conversation shifted from the future of Mr. Clark to the past of Mr.
Tucker; the widow’s curiosity as to the extent of the latter’s worldly
success remaining unanswered by reason of Mr. Tucker’s sudden
remembrance of a bear-fight.
Their future was discussed after supper, and the advisability of
leaving Trimington considered at some length. The towns and villages of
England were at their disposal; Mr. Tucker’s business, it appeared,
being independent of place. He drew a picture of life in a bungalow
with modern improvements at some seaside town, and, the cloth having
been removed, took out his pocket-book and, extracting an old envelope,
drew plans on the back.
It was a delightful pastime and made Mrs. Bowman feel that she was
twenty and beginning life again. She toyed with the pocket-book and
complimented Mr. Tucker on his skill as a draughtsman.
A letter or two fell out and she replaced them. Then a small newspaper
cutting, which had fluttered out with them, met her eye.
“A little veranda with roses climbing up it,” murmured Mr. Tucker,
still drawing, “and a couple of—”
His pencil was arrested by an odd, gasping noise from the window. He
looked up and saw her sitting stiffly in her chair. Her face seemed to
have swollen and to be colored in patches; her eyes were round and
amazed.
“Aren’t you well?” he inquired, rising in disorder.
Mrs. Bowman opened her lips, but no sound came from them. Then she gave
a long, shivering sigh.
“Heat of the room too much for you?” inquired the other, anxiously.
Mrs. Bowman took another long, shivering breath. Still incapable of
speech, she took the slip of paper in her trembling fingers and an
involuntary exclamation of dismay broke from Mr. Tucker. She dabbed
fiercely at her burning eyes with her handkerchief and read it again.
“TUCKER.—_If this should meet the eye of Charles Tucker, who knew
Amelia Wyborn twenty-five years ago, he will hear of something greatly
to his advantage by communicating with N. C., Royal Hotel, Northtown._”
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.”
[Illustration: “‘I had forgotten it was there,’ he said, nervously.”]
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 Hackbutt,” 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.
HER UNCLE
[Illustration]
HER UNCLE
Mr. Wragg sat in a high-backed Windsor chair at the door of his house,
smoking. Before him the road descended steeply to the harbor, a small
blue patch of which was visible from his door. Children over five were
at school: children under that age, and suspiciously large for their
years, played about in careless disregard of the remarks which Mr.
Wragg occasionally launched at them. Twice a ball had whizzed past him;
and a small but select party, with a tip-cat of huge dimensions and
awesome points, played just out of reach. Mr. Wragg, snapping his eyes
nervously, threatened in vain.
“Morning, old crusty-patch,” said a cheerful voice at his elbow.
Mr. Wragg glanced up at the young fisherman towering above him, and
eyed him disdainfully.
“Why don’t you leave ’em alone?” inquired the young man. “Be cheerful
and smile at ’em. You’d soon be able to smile with a little practice.”
“You mind your business, George Gale, and I’ll mind mine,” said Mr.
Wragg, fiercely; “I’ve ’ad enough of your impudence, and I’m not going
to have any more. And don’t lean up agin my house, ’cos I won’t ’ave
it.”
Mr. Gale laughed. “Got out o’ bed the wrong side again, haven’t you?”
he inquired. “Why don’t you put that side up against the wall?”
Mr. Wragg puffed on in silence and became absorbed in a fishing-boat
gliding past at the bottom of the hill.
“I hear you’ve got a niece coming to live with you?” pursued the young
man.
Mr. Wragg smoked on.
“Poor thing!” said the other, with a sigh. “Does she take after you—in
looks, I mean?”
“If I was twenty years younger nor what I am,” said Mr. Wragg,
sententiously, “I’d give you a hiding, George Gale.”
“It’s what I want,” agreed Mr. Gale, placidly. “Well, so long, Mr.
Wragg. I can’t stand talking to you all day.”
He was about to move off, after pretending to pinch the ear of the
infuriated Mr. Wragg, when he noticed a station-fly, with a big trunk
on the box-seat, crawling slowly up the hill towards them.
“Good riddance,” said Mr. Wragg, suggestively.
The other paid no heed. The vehicle came nearer, and a girl, who
plainly owed none of her looks to Mr. Wragg’s side of the family, came
into view behind the trunk. She waved her hand, and Mr. Wragg, removing
his pipe from his mouth, waved it in return. Mr. Gale edged away about
eighteen inches, and, with an air of assumed carelessness, gazed idly
about him.
He saluted the driver as the fly stopped and gazed hard at the
apparition that descended. Then he caught his breath as the girl,
approaching her uncle, kissed him affectionately. Mr. Wragg, looking up
fiercely at Mr. Gale, was surprised at the expression on that
gentleman’s face.
“Isn’t it lovely here?” said the girl, looking about her; “and isn’t
the air nice?”
She followed Mr. Wragg inside, and the driver, a small man and elderly,
began tugging at the huge trunk. Mr. Gale’s moment had arrived.
“Stand away, Joe,” he said, stepping forward. “I’ll take that in for
you.”
He hoisted the trunk on his shoulders, and, rather glad of his lowered
face, advanced slowly into the house. Uncle and niece had just vanished
at the head of the stairs, and Mr. Gale, after a moment’s hesitation,
followed.
“In ’ere,” said Mr. Wragg, throwing open a door.
“Halloa! What are you doing in my house? Put it down. Put it down at
once; d’ye hear?”
Mr. Gale caught the girl’s surprised glance and, somewhat flustered,
swung round so suddenly that the corner of the trunk took the
gesticulating Mr. Wragg by the side of the head and bumped it against
the wall. Deaf to his outcries, Mr. Gale entered the room and placed
the box on the floor.
“Where shall I put it?” he inquired of the girl, respectfully.
“You go out of my house,” stormed Mr. Wragg, entering with his hand to
his head. “Go on. Out you go.”
The young man surveyed him with solicitude. “I’m very sorry if I hurt
you, Mr. Wragg—” he began.
“Out you go,” repeated the other.
“It was a pure accident,” pleaded Mr. Gale.
“And don’t you set foot in my ’ouse agin,” said the vengeful Mr. Wragg.
“You made yourself officious bringing that box in a-purpose to give me
a clump o’ the side of the head with it.”
Mr. Gale denied the charge so eagerly, and withal so politely, that the
elder man regarded him in amazement. Then his glance fell on his niece,
and he smiled with sudden malice as Mr. Gale slowly and humbly
descended the stairs.
[Illustration: “The corner of the trunk took the gesticulating Mr.
Wragg by the side of the head.”]
“One o’ the worst chaps about here, my dear,” he said, loudly. “Mate o’
one o’ the fishing-boats, and as impudent as they make ’em. Many’s the
time I’ve clouted his head for ’im.”
The girl regarded his small figure with surprised respect.
“When he was a boy, I mean,” continued Mr. Wragg. “Now, there’s your
room, and when you’ve put things to rights, come down and I’ll show you
over the house.”
He glanced at his niece several times during the day, trying hard to
trace a likeness, first to his dead sister and then to himself. Several
times he scrutinized himself in the small glass on the mantelpiece, but
in vain. Even when he twisted his thin beard in his hand and tried to
ignore his mustache, the likeness still eluded him.
His opinion of Miss Miller’s looks was more than shared by the young
men of Waterside. It was a busy youth who could not spare five minutes
to chat with an uncle so fortunate, and in less than a couple of weeks
Mr. Wragg was astonished at his popularity, and the deference accorded
to his opinions.
The most humble of them all was Mr. Gale, and, with a pertinacity which
was almost proof against insult, he strove to force his company upon
the indignant Mr. Wragg. Debarred from that, he took to haunting the
road, on one occasion passing the house no fewer than fifty-seven times
in one afternoon. His infatuation was plain to be seen of all men. Wise
men closed their eyes to it; others had theirs closed for them, Mr.
Gale being naturally incensed to think that there was anything in his
behavior that attracted attention.
His father was at sea, and, to the dismay of the old woman who kept
house for him, he began to neglect his food. A melancholy but not
unpleasing idea that he was slowly fading occurred to him when he found
that he could eat only two herrings for breakfast instead of four. His
particular friend, Joe Harris, to whom he confided the fact,
remonstrated hotly.
“There’s plenty of other girls,” he suggested.
“Not like her,” said Mr. Gale.
“You’re getting to be a by-word in the place,” complained his friend.
Mr. Gale flushed. “I’d do more than that for her sake,” he said,
softly.
“It ain’t the way,” said Mr. Harris, impatiently. “Girls like a man o’
spirit; not a chap who hangs about without speaking, and looks as
though he has been caught stealing the cat’s milk. Why don’t you go
round and see her one afternoon when old Wragg is out?”
Mr. Gale shivered. “I dursen’t,” he confessed.
Mr. Harris pondered. “She was going to be a hospital nurse afore she
came down here,” he said, slowly. “P’r’aps if you was to break your leg
or something she’d come and nurse you. She’s wonderful fond of it, I
understand.”
“But then, you see, I haven’t broken it,” said the other, impatiently.
“You’ve got a bicycle,” said Mr. Harris. “You—wait a minute—” he
half-closed his eyes and waved aside a remark of his friend’s. “Suppose
you ’ad an accident and fell off it, just in front of the house?”
“I never fall off,” said Mr. Gale, simply.
“Old Wragg is out, and me and Charlie Brown carry you into the house,”
continued Mr. Harris, closing his eyes entirely. “When you come to your
senses, she’s bending over you and crying.”
He opened his eyes suddenly and then, closing one, gazed hard at the
bewildered Gale. “To-morrow afternoon at two,” he said, briskly, “me
and Charlie’ll be there waiting.”
“Suppose old Wragg ain’t out?” objected Mr. Gale, after ten minutes’
explanation.
“He’s at the ‘Lobster Pot’ five days out of six at that time,” was the
reply; “if he ain’t there tomorrow, it can’t be helped.”
Mr. Gale spent the evening practising falls in a quiet lane, and by the
time night came had attained to such proficiency that on the way home
he fell off without intending it. It seemed an easier thing than he had
imagined, and next day at two o’clock punctually he put his lessons
into practice.
By a slight error in judgment his head came into contact with Mr.
Wragg’s doorstep, and, half-stunned, he was about to rise, when Mr.
Harris rushed up and forced him down again. Mr. Brown, who was also in
attendance, helped to restore his faculties by a well-placed kick.
“He’s lost his senses,” said Mr. Harris, looking up at Miss Miller, as
she came to the door.
“You could ha’ heard him fall arf a mile away,” added Mr. Brown.
Miss Miller stooped and examined the victim carefully. There was a
nasty cut on the side of his head, and a general limpness of body which
was alarming. She went indoors for some water, and by the time she
returned the enterprising Mr. Harris had got the patient in the
passage.
“I’m afraid he’s going,” he said, in answer to the girl’s glance.
“Run for the doctor,” she said, hastily. “Quick!”
“We don’t like to leave ’im, miss,” said Mr. Harris, tenderly. “I
s’pose it would be too much to ask you to go?”
Miss Miller, with a parting glance at the prostrate man, departed at
once.
“What did you do that for?” demanded Mr. Gale, sitting up. “I don’t
want the doctor; he’ll spoil everything. Why didn’t you go away and
leave us?”
“I sent ’er for the doctor,” said Mr. Harris, slowly. “I sent ’er for
the doctor so as we can get you to bed afore she comes back.”
“_Bed_?” exclaimed Mr. Gale.
“Up you go,” said Mr. Harris, briefly. “We’ll tell _her_ we carried you
up. Now, don’t waste time.”
Pushed by his friends, and stopping to expostulate at every step, Mr.
Gale was thrust at last into Mr. Wragg’s bedroom.
“Off with your clothes,” said the leading spirit. “What’s the matter
with you, Charlie Brown?”
“Don’t mind me; I’ll be all right in a minute,” said that gentleman,
wiping his eyes. “I’m thinking of old Wragg.”
[Illustration: “‘What did you do that for?’ demanded Mr. Gale,
sitting up.”]
Before Mr. Gale had made up his mind his coat and waistcoat were off,
and Mr. Brown was at work on his boots. In five minutes’ time he was
tucked up in Mr. Wragg’s bed; his clothes were in a neat little pile on
a chair, and Messrs. Harris and Brown were indulging in a
congratulatory double-shuffle by the window.
“Don’t come to your senses yet awhile,” said the former; “and when you
do, tell the doctor you can’t move your limbs.”
“If they try to pull you out o’ bed,” said Mr. Brown, “scream as though
you’re being killed. _H’sh_! Here they are.”
Voices sounded below; Miss Miller and the doctor had met at the door
with Mr. Wragg, and a violent outburst on that gentleman’s part died
away as he saw that the intruders had disappeared. He was still
grumbling when Mr. Harris, putting his head over the balusters, asked
him to make a little less noise.
Mr. Wragg came upstairs in three bounds, and his mien was so terrible
that Messrs. Harris and Brown huddled together for protection. Then his
gaze fell on the bed and he strove in vain for speech.
“We done it for the best,” faltered Mr. Harris.
Mr. Wragg made a gurgling noise in his throat, and, as the doctor
entered the room, pointed with a trembling finger at the bed. The other
two gentlemen edged toward the door.
“Take him away; take him away at once,” vociferated Mr. Wragg.
The doctor motioned him to silence, and Joe Harris and Mr. Brown held
their breaths nervously as he made an examination. For ten minutes he
prodded and puzzled over the insensible form in the bed; then he turned
to the couple at the door.
“How did it happen?” he inquired.
Mr. Harris told him. He also added that he thought it was best to put
him to bed at once before he came round.
“Quite right,” said the doctor, nodding. “It’s a very serious case.”
“Well, I can’t ’ave him ’ere,” broke in Mr. Wragg.
“It won’t be for long,” said the doctor, shaking his head.
“I can’t ’ave him ’ere at all, and, what’s more, I won’t. Let him go to
his own bed,” said Mr. Wragg, quivering with excitement.
“He is not to be moved,” said the doctor, decidedly. “If he comes to
his senses and gets out of bed you must coax him back again.”
“_Coax_?” stuttered Mr. Wragg. “_Coax?_ What’s he got to do with me?
This house isn’t a ’orsepittle. Put his clothes on and take ’im away.”