arter letting his sister kiss ’im, went into the front room and sat
down. There was cold beef and pickles on the table and two jugs o’
beer, and arter just telling his sister ’ow he fell and broke ’is leg,
they all sat down to supper.
Bert Simmons sat on one side of Emily and Joseph the other, and the
cook couldn’t ’elp feeling sorry for ’er, seeing as he did that
sometimes she was ’aving both hands squeezed at once under the table
and could ’ardly get a bite in edgeways.
Old Bill lit his pipe arter supper, and then, taking another glass o’
beer, he told ’em about the cook dreaming of his accident three days
afore it happened. They couldn’t ’ardly believe it at fust, but when he
went on to tell ’em the other things the cook ’ad dreamt, and that
everything ’ad ’appened just as he dreamt it, they all edged away from
the cook and sat staring at him with their mouths open.
“And that ain’t the worst of it,” ses Bill.
“That’s enough for one night, Bill,” ses Joseph, who was staring at
Bert Simmons as though he could eat him. “Besides, I believe it was
on’y chance. When cook told you ’is dream it made you nervous, and
that’s why you fell.”
“Nervous be blowed!” ses Bill; and then he told ’em about the dream he
’ad heard while he was laying in ’is bunk.
Bill’s sister gave a scream when he ’ad finished, and Emily, wot was
sitting next to Joseph, got up with a shiver and went and sat next to
Bert Simmons and squeezed his coat-sleeve.
“It’s all nonsense!” ses Joseph, starting up. “And if it wasn’t, true
love would run the risk. I ain’t afraid!”
“It’s too much to ask a gal,” ses Bert Simmons, shaking his ’ead.
“I couldn’t dream of it,” ses Emily. “Wot’s the use of being married
for a week? Look at uncle’s leg—that’s enough for me!”
They all talked at once then, and Joseph tried all he could to persuade
Emily to prove to the cook that ’is dreams didn’t always come true; but
it was no good. Emily said she wouldn’t marry ’im if he ’ad a million a
year, and her aunt and uncle backed her up in it—to say nothing of Bert
Simmons.
“I’ll go up and get your presents, Joseph,” she ses; and she ran
upstairs afore anybody could stop her.
Joseph sat there as if he was dazed, while everybody gave ’im good
advice, and said ’ow thankful he ought to be that the cook ’ad saved
him by ’is dreaming. And by and by Emily came downstairs agin with the
presents he ’ad given ’er and put them on the table in front of ’im.
“There’s everything there but that little silver brooch you gave me,
Joseph,” she ses, “and I lost that the other evening when I was out
with—with—for a walk.”
Joseph tried to speak, but couldn’t.
“It was six-and-six, ’cos I was with you when you bought it,” ses
Emily; “and as I’ve lost it, it’s on’y fair I should pay for it.”
She put down ’arf a sovereign with the presents, and Joseph sat staring
at it as if he ’ad never seen one afore.
“And you needn’t mind about the change, Joseph,” ses Emily; “that’ll
’elp to make up for your disappointment.”
Old Bill tried to turn things off with a bit of a laugh. “Why, you’re
made o’ money, Emily,” he ses.
“Ah! I haven’t told you yet,” ses Emily, smiling at him; “that’s a
little surprise I was keeping for you. Aunt Emma—pore Aunt Emma, I
should say—died while you was away and left me all ’er furniture and
two hundred pounds.”
Joseph made a choking noise in his throat and then ’e got up, leaving
the presents and the ’arf-sovereign on the table, and stood by the
door, staring at them.
“Good-night all,” he ses. Then he went to the front door and opened it,
and arter standing there a moment came back as though he ’ad forgotten
something.
“Are you coming along now?” he ses to the cook.
“Not just yet,” ses the cook, very quick.
“I’ll wait outside for you, then,” ses Joseph, grinding his teeth.
“Don’t be long.”
ANGELS’ VISITS
[Illustration]
ANGELS’ VISITS
Mr. William Jobling leaned against his door-post, smoking. The evening
air, pleasant in its coolness after the heat of the day, caressed his
shirt-sleeved arms. Children played noisily in the long, dreary street,
and an organ sounded faintly in the distance. To Mr. Jobling, who had
just consumed three herrings and a pint and a half of strong tea, the
scene was delightful. He blew a little cloud of smoke in the air, and
with half-closed eyes corrected his first impression as to the tune
being played round the corner.
“Bill!” cried the voice of Mrs. Jobling, who was washing-up in the tiny
scullery.
“’Ullo!” responded Mr. Jobling, gruffly.
“You’ve been putting your wet teaspoon in the sugar-basin, and—well, I
declare, if you haven’t done it again.”
“Done what?” inquired her husband, hunching his shoulders.
“Putting your herringy knife in the butter. Well, you can eat it now; I
won’t. A lot of good me slaving from morning to night and buying good
food when you go and spoil it like that.”
Mr. Jobling removed the pipe from his mouth. “Not so much of it,” he
commanded. “I like butter with a little flavor to it. As for your
slaving all day, you ought to come to the works for a week; you’d know
what slavery was then.”
Mrs. Jobling permitted herself a thin, derisive cackle, drowned
hurriedly in a clatter of tea-cups as her husband turned and looked
angrily up the little passage.
“Nag! nag! nag!” said Mr. Jobling.
He paused expectantly.
“Nag! nag! nag! from morning till night,” he resumed. “It begins in the
morning and it goes on till bedtime.”
“It’s a pity—” began Mrs. Jobling.
“Hold your tongue,” said her husband, sternly; “I don’t want any of
your back answers. It goes on all day long up to bedtime, and last
night I laid awake for two hours listening to you nagging in your
sleep.”
He paused again.
“Nagging in your sleep,” he repeated.
There was no reply.
“Two hours!” he said, invitingly; “two whole hours, without a stop.”
“I ’ope it done you good,” retorted his wife. “I noticed you did wipe
one foot when you come in to-night.”
Mr. Jobling denied the charge hotly, and, by way of emphasizing his
denial, raised his foot and sent the mat flying along the passage.
Honor satisfied, he returned to the door-post and, looking idly out on
the street again, exchanged a few desultory remarks with Mr. Joe Brown,
who, with his hands in his pockets, was balancing himself with great
skill on the edge of the curb opposite.
His gaze wandered from Mr. Brown to a young and rather
stylishly-dressed woman who was approaching—a tall, good-looking girl
with a slight limp, whose hat encountered unspoken feminine criticism
at every step. Their eyes met as she came up, and recognition flashed
suddenly into both faces.
“Fancy seeing you here!” said the girl. “Well, this is a pleasant
surprise.”
She held out her hand, and Mr. Jobling, with a fierce glance at Mr.
Brown, who was not behaving, shook it respectfully.
“I’m so glad to see you again,” said the girl; “I know I didn’t thank
you half enough the other night, but I was too upset.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Mr. Jobling, in a voice the humility of which
was in strong contrast to the expression with which he was regarding
the antics of Mr. Brown, as that gentleman wafted kisses to the four
winds of heaven.
There was a pause, broken by a short, dry cough from the parlor window.
The girl, who was almost touching the sill, started nervously.
“It’s only my missis,” said Mr. Jobling.
The girl turned and gazed in at the window. Mr. Jobling, with the stem
of his pipe, performed a brief ceremony of introduction.
“Good-evening,” said Mrs. Jobling, in a thin voice. “I don’t know who
you are, but I s’pose my ’usband does.”
“I met him the other night,” said the girl, with a bright smile; “I
slipped on a piece of peel or something and fell, and he was passing
and helped me up.”
Mrs. Jobling coughed again. “First I’ve heard of it,” she remarked.
“I forgot to tell you,” said Mr. Jobling, carelessly. “I hope you
wasn’t hurt much, miss?”
“I twisted my ankle a bit, that’s all,” said the girl; “it’s painful
when I walk.”
“Painful now?” inquired Mr. Jobling, in concern.
The girl nodded. “A little; not very.”
Mr. Jobling hesitated; the contortions of Mr. Brown’s face as he strove
to make a wink carry across the road would have given pause to a bolder
man; and twice his wife’s husky little cough had sounded from the
window.
“I s’pose you wouldn’t like to step inside and rest for five minutes?”
he said, slowly.
“Oh, thank you,” said the girl, gratefully; “I should like to. It—it
really is very painful. I ought not to have walked so far.”
She limped in behind Mr. Jobling, and after bowing to Mrs. Jobling sank
into the easy-chair with a sigh of relief and looked keenly round the
room. Mr. Jobling disappeared, and his wife flushed darkly as he came
back with his coat on and his hair wet from combing. An awkward silence
ensued.
“How strong your husband is!” said the girl, clasping her hands
impulsively.
“Is he?” said Mrs. Jobling.
“He lifted me up as though I had been a feather,” responded the girl.
“He just put his arm round my waist and had me on my feet before I knew
where I was.”
“Round your waist?” repeated Mrs. Jobling.
“Where else should I put it?” broke in her husband, with sudden
violence.
His wife made no reply, but sat gazing in a hostile fashion at the
bold, dark eyes and stylish hat of the visitor.
“I should like to be strong,” said the latter, smiling agreeably over
at Mr. Jobling.
“When I was younger,” said that gratified man, “I can assure you I
didn’t know my own strength, as the saying is. I used to hurt people
just in play like, without knowing it. I used to have a hug like a
bear.”
“Fancy being hugged like that!” said the girl. “How awful!” she added,
hastily, as she caught the eye of the speechless Mrs. Jobling.
“Like a bear,” repeated Mr. Jobling, highly pleased at the impression
he had made. “I’m pretty strong now; there ain’t many as I’m afraid
of.”
He bent his arm and thoughtfully felt his biceps, and Mrs. Jobling
almost persuaded herself that she must be dreaming, as she saw the girl
lean forward and pinch Mr. Jobling’s arm. Mr. Jobling was surprised
too, but he had the presence of mind to bend the other.
“Enormous!” said the girl, “and as hard as iron. What a prize-fighter
you’d have made!”
“He don’t want to do no prize-fighting,” said Mrs. Jobling, recovering
her speech; “he’s a respectable married man.”
Mr. Jobling shook his head over lost opportunities. “I’m too old,” he
remarked.
“He’s forty-seven,” said his wife.
“Best age for a man, in my opinion,” said the girl; “just entering his
prime. And a man is as old as he feels, you know.”
Mr. Jobling nodded acquiescence and observed that he always felt about
twenty-two; a state of affairs which he ascribed to regular habits, and
a great partiality for the company of young people.
“I was just twenty-two when I married,” he mused, “and my missis was
just six months—”
“You leave my age alone,” interrupted his wife, trembling with passion.
“I’m not so fond of telling my age to strangers.”
“You told mine,” retorted Mr. Jobling, “and nobody asked you to do
that. Very free you was in coming out with mine.”
“I ain’t the only one that’s free,” breathed the quivering Mrs.
Jobling. “I ’ope your ankle is better?” she added, turning to the
visitor.
“Much better, thank you,” was the reply.
“Got far to go?” queried Mrs. Jobling.
The girl nodded. “But I shall take a tram at the end of the street,”
she said, rising.
Mr. Jobling rose too, and all that he had ever heard or read about
etiquette came crowding into his mind. A weekly journal patronized by
his wife had three columns regularly, but he taxed his memory in vain
for any instructions concerning brown-eyed strangers with sprained
ankles. He felt that the path of duty led to the tram-lines. In a
somewhat blundering fashion he proffered his services; the girl
accepted them as a matter of course.
Mrs. Jobling, with lips tightly compressed, watched them from the door.
The girl, limping slightly, walked along with the utmost composure, but
the bearing of her escort betokened a mind fully conscious of the
scrutiny of the street.
He returned in about half an hour, and having this time to run the
gauntlet of the street alone, entered with a mien which caused his
wife’s complaints to remain unspoken. The cough of Mr. Brown, a
particularly contagious one, still rang in his ears, and he sat for
some time in fierce silence.
“I see her on the tram,” he said, at last “Her name’s Robinson—Miss
Robinson.”
“In-deed!” said his wife.
“Seems a nice sort o’ girl,” said Mr. Jobling, carelessly. “She’s took
quite a fancy to you.”
“I’m sure I’m much obliged to her,” retorted his wife.
[Illustration: “He astonished Mrs. Jobling next day by the gift of a
geranium.”]
“So I—so I asked her to give you a look in now and then,” continued Mr.
Jobling, filling his pipe with great care, “and she said she would.
It’ll cheer you up a bit.”
Mrs. Jobling bit her lip and, although she had never felt more fluent
in her life, said nothing. Her husband lit his pipe, and after a rapid
glance in her direction took up an old newspaper and began to read.
He astonished Mrs. Jobling next day by the gift of a geranium in full
bloom. Surprise impeded her utterance, but she thanked him at last with
some warmth, and after a little deliberation decided to put it in the
bedroom.
Mr. Jobling looked like a man who has suddenly discovered a flaw in his
calculations. “I was thinking of the front parlor winder,” he said, at
last.
“It’ll get more sun upstairs,” said his wife.
She took the pot in her arms, and disappeared. Her surprise when she
came down again and found Mr. Jobling rearranging the furniture, and
even adding a choice ornament or two from the kitchen, was too
elaborate to escape his notice.
“Been going to do it for some time,” he remarked.
Mrs. Jobling left the room and strove with herself in the scullery. She
came back pale of face and with a gleam in her eye which her husband
was too busy to notice.
“It’ll never look much till we get a new hearthrug,” she said, shaking
her head. “They’ve got one at Jackson’s that would be just the thing;
and they’ve got a couple of tall pink vases that would brighten up the
fireplace wonderful. They’re going for next to nothing, too.”
Mr. Jobling’s reply took the form of uncouth and disagreeable
growlings. After that phase had passed he sat for some time with his
hand placed protectingly in his trouser-pocket. Finally, in a fierce
voice, he inquired the cost.
Ten minutes later, in a state fairly evenly divided between pleasure
and fury, Mrs. Jobling departed with the money. Wild yearnings for
courage that would enable her to spend the money differently, and
confront the dismayed Mr. Jobling in a new hat and jacket, possessed
her on the way; but they were only yearnings, twenty-five years’
experience of her husband’s temper being a sufficient safeguard.
Miss Robinson came in the day after as they were sitting down to tea.
Mr. Jobling, who was in his shirt-sleeves, just had time to disappear
as the girl passed the window. His wife let her in, and after five
remarks about the weather sat listening in grim pleasure to the efforts
of Mr. Jobling to find his coat. He found it at last, under a chair
cushion, and, somewhat red of face, entered the room and greeted the
visitor.
Conversation was at first rather awkward. The girl’s eyes wandered
round the room and paused in astonishment on the pink vases; the beauty
of the rug also called for notice.
“Yes, they’re pretty good,” said Mr. Jobling, much gratified by her
approval.
“Beautiful,” murmured the girl. “What a thing it is to have money!” she
said, wistfully.
“I could do with some,” said Mr. Jobling, with jocularity. He helped
himself to bread and butter and began to discuss money and how to spend
it. His ideas favored retirement and a nice little place in the
country.
“I wonder you don’t do it,” said the girl, softly.
Mr. Jobling laughed. “Gingell and Watson don’t pay on those lines,” he
said. “We do the work and they take the money.”
“It’s always the way,” said the girl, indignantly; “they have all the
luxuries, and the men who make the money for them all the hardships. I
seem to know the name Gingell and Watson. I wonder where I’ve seen it?”
“In the paper, p’r’aps,” said Mr. Jobling.
“Advertising?” asked the girl.
Mr. Jobling shook his head. “Robbery,” he replied, seriously. “It was
in last week’s paper. Somebody got to the safe and got away with nine
hundred pounds in gold and bank-notes.”
“I remember now,” said the girl, nodding. “Did they catch them?”
“No, and not likely to,” was the reply.
Miss Robinson opened her big eyes and looked round with an air of
pretty defiance. “I am glad of it,” she said.
“Glad?” said Mrs. Jobling, involuntarily breaking a self-imposed vow of
silence. “Glad?”
The girl nodded. “I like pluck,” she said, with a glance in the
direction of Mr. Jobling; “and, besides, whoever took it had as much
right to it as Gingell and Watson; they didn’t earn it.”
Mrs. Jobling, appalled at such ideas, glanced at her husband to see how
he received them. “The man’s a thief,” she said, with great energy,
“and he won’t enjoy his gains.”
“I dare say—I dare say he’ll enjoy it right enough,” said Mr. Jobling,
“if he ain’t caught, that is.”
“I believe he is the sort of man I should like,” declared Miss
Robinson, obstinately.
“I dare say,” said Mrs. Jobling; “and I’ve no doubt he’d like you.
Birds of a—”
“That’ll do,” said her husband, peremptorily; “that’s enough about it.
The guv’nors can afford to lose it; that’s one comfort.”
He leaned over as the girl asked for more sugar and dropped a spoonful
in her cup, expressing surprise that she should like her tea so sweet.
Miss Robinson, denying the sweetness, proffered her cup in proof, and
Mrs. Jobling sat watching with blazing eyes the antics of her husband
as he sipped at it.
“Sweets to the sweet,” he said, gallantly, as he handed it back.
Miss Robinson pouted, and, raising the cup to her lips, gazed ardently
at him over the rim. Mr. Jobling, who certainly felt not more than
twenty-two that evening, stole her cake and received in return a rap
from a teaspoon. Mr. Jobling retaliated, and Mrs. Jobling, unable to
eat, sat looking on in helpless fury at little arts of fascination
which she had discarded—at Mr. Jobling’s earnest request—soon after
their marriage.
[Illustration: “They offered Mrs. Jobling her choice of at least a
hundred plans for bringing him to his senses.”]
By dint of considerable self-control, aided by an occasional glance
from her husband, she managed to preserve her calm until he returned
from seeing the visitor to her tram. Then her pent-up feelings found
vent. Quietly scornful at first, she soon waxed hysterical over his age
and figure. Tears followed as she bade him remember what a good wife
she had been to him, loudly claiming that any other woman would have
poisoned him long ago. Speedily finding that tears were of no avail,
and that Mr. Jobling seemed to regard them rather as a tribute to his
worth than otherwise, she gave way to fury, and, in a fine, but
unpunctuated passage, told him her exact opinion of Miss Robinson.
“It’s no good carrying on like that,” said Mr. Jobling, magisterially,
“and, what’s more, I won’t have it.”
“Walking into my house and making eyes at my ’usband,” stormed his
wife.
“So long as I don’t make eyes at her there’s no harm done,” retorted
Mr. Jobling. “I can’t help her taking a fancy to me, poor thing.”
“I’d poor thing her,” said his wife.
“She’s to be pitied,” said Mr. Jobling, sternly. “I know how she feels.
She can’t help herself, but she’ll get over it in time. I don’t suppose
she thinks for a moment we have noticed her—her—her liking for me, and
I’m not going to have her feelings hurt.”
“What about my feelings?” demanded his wife.
“_You_ have got me,” Mr. Jobling reminded her.
The nine points of the law was Mrs. Jobling’s only consolation for the
next few days. Neighboring matrons, exchanging sympathy for
information, wished, strangely enough, that Mr. Jobling was their
husband. Failing that they offered Mrs. Jobling her choice of at least
a hundred plans for bringing him to his senses.
Mr. Jobling, who was a proud man, met their hostile glances as he
passed to and from his work with scorn, until a day came when the
hostility vanished and gave place to smiles. Never so many people in
the street, he thought, as he returned from work; certainly never so
many smiles. People came hurriedly from their back premises to smile at
him, and, as he reached his door, Mr. Joe Brown opposite had all the
appearance of a human sunbeam. Tired of smiling faces, he yearned for
that of his wife. She came out of the kitchen and met him with a look
of sly content. The perplexed Mr. Jobling eyed her morosely.
“What are you laughing at me for?” he demanded.
“I wasn’t laughing at you,” said his wife.
She went back into the kitchen and sang blithely as she bustled over
the preparations for tea. Her voice was feeble, but there was a
triumphant effectiveness about the high notes which perplexed the
listener sorely. He seated himself in the new easy-chair—procured to
satisfy the supposed aesthetic tastes of Miss Robinson—and stared at
the window.
“You seem very happy all of a sudden,” he growled, as his wife came in
with the tray.
“Well, why shouldn’t I be?” inquired Mrs. Jobling. “I’ve got everything
to make me so.”
Mr. Jobling looked at her in undisguised amazement.
“New easy-chair, new vases, and a new hearthrug,” explained his wife,
looking round the room. “Did you order that little table you said you
would?”
“Yes,” growled Mr. Jobling.
“Pay for it?” inquired his wife, with a trace of anxiety.
“Yes,” said Mr. Jobling again.
Mrs. Jobling’s face relaxed. “I shouldn’t like to lose it at the last
moment,” she said. “You ’ave been good to me lately, Bill; buying all
these nice things. There’s not many women have got such a thoughtful
husband as what I have.”
“Have you gone dotty? or what?” inquired her bewildered husband.
“It’s no wonder people like you,” pursued Mrs. Jobling, ignoring the
question, and smiling again as she placed three chairs at the table.
“I’ll wait a minute or two before I soak the tea; I expect Miss
Robinson won’t be long, and she likes it fresh.”
Mr. Jobling, to conceal his amazement and to obtain a little fresh air
walked out of the room and opened the front door.
“Cheer oh!” said the watchful Mr. Brown, with a benignant smile.
Mr. Jobling scowled at him.
“It’s all right,” said Mr. Brown. “You go in and set down; I’m watching
for her.”
He nodded reassuringly, and, not having curiosity enough to accept the
other’s offer and step across the road and see what he would get,
shaded his eyes with his hand and looked with exaggerated anxiety up
the road. Mr. Jobling, heavy of brow, returned to the parlor and looked
hard at his wife.
“She’s late,” said Mrs. Jobling, glancing at the clock. “I do hope
she’s all right, but I should feel anxious about her if she was my gal.
It’s a dangerous life.”
“Dangerous life!” said Mr. Jobling, roughly. “What’s a dangerous life?”
“Why, hers,” replied his wife, with a nervous smile. “Joe Brown told
me. He followed her ’ome last night, and this morning he found out all
about her.”
The mention of Mr. Brown’s name caused Mr. Jobling at first to assume
an air of indifference; but curiosity overpowered him.
“What lies has he been telling?” he demanded.
“I don’t think it’s a lie, Bill,” said his wife, mildly. “Putting two
and two—”
“What did he say?” cried Mr. Jobling, raising his voice.
“He said, ‘She—she’s a lady detective,’” stammered Mrs. Jobling,
putting her handkerchief to her unruly mouth.
“A tec!” repeated her husband. “A lady tec?”
Mrs. Jobling nodded. “Yes, Bill. She—she—she—”
“Well?” said Mr. Jobling, in exasperation.
“She’s being employed by Gingell and Watson,” said his wife.
Mr. Jobling sprang to his feet, and with scarlet face and clinched
fists strove to assimilate the information and all its meaning.
“What—what did she come here for? Do you mean to tell me she thinks _I_
took the money?” he said, huskily, after a long pause.
Mrs. Jobling bent before the storm. “I think she took a fancy to you,
Bill,” she said, timidly.
Mr. Jobling appeared to swallow something; then he took a step nearer
to her. “You let me see you laugh again, that’s all,” he said,
fiercely. “As for that Jezzybill—”
“There she is,” said his wife, as a knock sounded at the door. “Don’t
say anything to hurt her feelings, Bill. You said she was to be pitied.
And it must be a hard life to ’ave to go round and flatter old married
men. I shouldn’t like it.”