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 Wyhorn 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.”
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
soft-hearted, 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.
THE DREAMER
DREAMS and warnings are things I don't believe in, said the night
watchman. The only dream I ever 'ad that come anything like true was
once when I dreamt I came in for a fortune, and next morning I found
half a crown in the street, which I sold to a man for fourpence. And
once, two days arter my missis 'ad dreamt she 'ad spilt a cup of tea
down the front of 'er Sunday dress, she spoilt a pot o' paint of mine by
sitting in it.
The only other dream I know of that come true happened to the cook of a
bark I was aboard of once, called the _Southern Belle_. He was a silly,
pasty-faced sort o' chap, always giving hisself airs about eddication to
sailormen who didn't believe in it, and one night, when we was
homeward-bound from Sydney, he suddenly sat up in 'is bunk and laughed
so loud that he woke us all up.
“Wot's wrong, cookie?” ses one o' the chaps.
“I was dreaming,” ses the cook, “such a funny dream. I dreamt old Bill
Foster fell out o' the foretop and broke 'is leg.”
“Well, wot is there to laugh at in that?” ses old Bill, very sharp.
“It was funny in my dream,” ses the cook. “You looked so comic with your
leg doubled up under you, you can't think. It would ha' made a cat
laugh.”
Bill Foster said he'd make 'im laugh the other side of his face if he
wasn't careful, and then we went off to sleep agin and forgot all about
it.
If you'll believe me, on'y three days arterwards pore Bill did fall out
o' the foretop and break his leg. He was surprised, but I never see a
man so surprised as the cook was. His eyes was nearly starting out of
'is head, but by the time the other chaps 'ad picked Bill up and asked
'im whether he was hurt, cook 'ad pulled 'imself together agin and was
giving himself such airs it was perfectly sickening.
“My dreams always come true,” he ses. “It's a kind o' second sight with
me. It's a gift, and, being tender-'arted, it worries me terrible
sometimes.”
He was going on like that, taking credit for a pure accident, when the
second officer came up and told 'em to carry Bill below. He was in
agony, of course, but he kept 'is presence of mind, and as they passed
the cook he gave 'im such a clip on the side of the 'ead as nearly broke
it.
“That's for dreaming about me,” he ses.
The skipper and the fust officer and most of the hands set 'is leg
between them, and arter the skipper 'ad made him wot he called
comfortable, but wot Bill called something that I won't soil my ears by
repeating, the officers went off and the cook came and sat down by the
side o' Bill and talked about his gift.
“I don't talk about it as a rule,” he ses, “'cos it frightens people.”
“It's a wonderful gift, cookie,” ses Charlie Epps.
All of 'em thought the same, not knowing wot a fust-class liar the cook
was, and he sat there and lied to 'em till he couldn't 'ardly speak, he
was so 'oarse.
“My grandmother was a gypsy,” he ses, “and it's in the family. Things
that are going to 'appen to people I know come to me in dreams, same as
pore Bill's did. It's curious to me sometimes when I look round at you
chaps, seeing you going about 'appy and comfortable, and knowing all the
time 'orrible things that is going to 'appen to you. Sometimes it gives
me the fair shivers.”
“Horrible things to us, slushy?” ses Charlie, staring.
“Yes,” ses the cook, nodding. “I never was on a ship afore with such a
lot of unfortunit men aboard. Never. There's two pore fellers wot'll be
dead corpses inside o' six months, sitting 'ere laughing and talking as
if they was going to live to ninety. Thank your stars you don't 'ave
such dreams.”
“Who—who are the two, cookie?” ses Charlie, arter a bit.
“Never mind, Charlie,” ses the cook, in a sad voice; “it would do no
good if I was to tell you. Nothing can alter it.”
“Give us a hint,” ses Charlie.
“Well, I'll tell you this much,” ses the cook, arter sitting with his
'ead in his 'ands, thinking; “one of 'em is nearly the ugliest man in
the fo'c's'le and the other ain't.”
O' course, that didn't 'elp 'em much, but it caused a lot of argufying,
and the ugliest man aboard, instead o' being grateful, behaved more like
a wild beast than a Christian when it was pointed out to him that he was
safe.
Arter that dream about Bill, there was no keeping the cook in his place.
He 'ad dreams pretty near every night, and talked little bits of 'em in
his sleep. Little bits that you couldn't make head nor tail of, and when
we asked 'im next morning he'd always shake his 'ead and say, “Never
mind.” Sometimes he'd mention a chap's name in 'is sleep and make 'im
nervous for days.
It was an unlucky v'y'ge that, for some of 'em. About a week arter pore
Bill's accident Ted Jones started playing catch-ball with another chap
and a empty beer-bottle, and about the fifth chuck Ted caught it with
his face. We thought 'e was killed at fust—he made such a noise; but
they got 'im down below, and, arter they 'ad picked out as much broken
glass as Ted would let 'em, the second officer did 'im up in
sticking-plaster and told 'im to keep quiet for an hour or two.
Ted was very proud of 'is looks, and the way he went on was alarming.
Fust of all he found fault with the chap 'e was playing with, and then
he turned on the cook.
“It's a pity you didn't see _that_ in a dream,” he ses, tryin' to sneer,
on'y the sticking-plaster was too strong for 'im.
“But I did see it,” ses the cook, drawin' 'imself up.
“_Wot?_” ses Ted, starting.
“I dreamt it night afore last, just exactly as it 'appened,” ses the
cook, in a offhand way.
“Why didn't you tell me, then?” ses Ted choking.
“It 'ud ha' been no good,” ses the cook, smiling and shaking his 'ead.
“Wot I see must 'appen. I on'y see the future, and that must be.”
“But you stood there watching me chucking the bottle about,” ses Ted,
getting out of 'is bunk. “Why didn't you stop me?”
“You don't understand,” ses the cook. “If you'd 'ad more eddication—”
He didn't 'ave time to say any more afore Ted was on him, and cookie,
being no fighter, 'ad to cook with one eye for the next two or three
days. He kept quiet about 'is dreams for some time arter that, but it
was no good, because George Hall, wot was a firm believer, gave 'im a
licking for not warning 'im of a sprained ankle he got skylarking, and
Bob Law took it out of 'im for not telling 'im that he was going to lose
'is suit of shore-going togs at cards.
The only chap that seemed to show any good feeling for the cook was a
young feller named Joseph Meek, a steady young chap wot was goin' to be
married to old Bill Foster's niece as soon as we got 'ome. Nobody else
knew it, but he told the cook all about it on the quiet. He said she was
too good for 'im, but, do all he could, he couldn't get her to see it.
“My feelings 'ave changed,” he ses.
“P'r'aps they'll change agin,” ses the cook, trying to comfort 'im.
Joseph shook his 'ead. “No, I've made up my mind,” he ses, very slow.
“I'm young yet, and, besides, I can't afford it; but 'ow to get out of
it I don't know. Couldn't you 'ave a dream agin it for me?”
“Wot d'ye mean?” ses the cook, firing up. “Do you think I make my dreams
up?”
“No, no; cert'inly not,” ses Joseph, patting 'im on the shoulder; “but
couldn't you do it just for once? 'Ave a dream that me and Emily are
killed a few days arter the wedding. Don't say in wot way, 'cos she
might think we could avoid it; just dream we are killed. Bill's always
been a superstitious man, and since you dreamt about his leg he'd
believe anything; and he's that fond of Emily I believe he'd 'ave the
wedding put off, at any rate—if I put him up to it.”
It took 'im three days and a silver watch-chain to persuade the cook,
but he did at last; and one arternoon, when old Bill, who was getting on
fust-class, was resting 'is leg in 'is bunk, the cook went below and
turned in for a quiet sleep.
For ten minutes he was as peaceful as a lamb, and old Bill, who 'ad been
laying in 'is bunk with an eye open watching 'im, was just dropping off
'imself, when the cook began to talk in 'is sleep, and the very fust
words made Bill sit up as though something 'ad bit 'im.
“There they go,” ses the cook, “Emily Foster and Joseph Meek—and there's
old Bill, good old Bill, going to give the bride away. How 'appy they
all look, especially Joseph!”
Old Bill put his 'and to his ear and leaned out of his bunk.
“There they go,” ses the cook agin; “but wot is that 'orrible black
thing with claws that's 'anging over Bill?”
Pore Bill nearly fell out of 'is bunk, but he saved 'imself at the last
moment and lay there as pale as death, listening.
“It must be meant for Bill,” ses the cook, “Well, pore Bill; he won't
know of it, that's one thing. Let's 'ope it'll be sudden.”
He lay quiet for some time and then he began again.
“No,” he ses, “it isn't Bill; it's Joseph and Emily, stark and stiff,
and they've on'y been married a week. 'Ow awful they look! Pore things.
Oh! oh! o-oh!”
He woke up with a shiver and began to groan and then 'e sat up in his
bunk and saw old Bill leaning out and staring at 'im.
“You've been dreaming, cook,” ses Bill, in a trembling voice.
“'Ave I?” ses the cook. “How do you know?”
“About me and my niece,” ses Bill; “you was talking in your sleep.”
“You oughtn't to 'ave listened,” ses the cook, getting out of 'is bunk
and going over to 'im. “I 'ope you didn't 'ear all I dreamt. 'Ow much
did you hear?”
Bill told 'im, and the cook sat there, shaking his 'ead. “Thank
goodness, you didn't 'ear the worst of it,” he ses.
“_Worst!_” ses Bill. “Wot, was there any more of it?”
“Lot's more,” ses the cook. “But promise me you won't tell Joseph, Bill.
Let 'im be happy while he can; it would on'y make 'im miserable, and it
wouldn't do any good.”
“I don't know so much about that,” ses Bill, thinking about the
arguments some of them had 'ad with Ted about the bottle. “Was it arter
they was married, cookie, that it 'appened? Are you sure?”
“Certain sure. It was a week arter,” ses the cook.
“Very well, then,” ses Bill, slapping 'is bad leg by mistake; “if they
didn't marry, it couldn't 'appen, could it?”
“Don't talk foolish,” ses the cook; “they must marry. I saw it in my
dream.”
“Well, we'll see,” ses Bill. “I'm going to 'ave a quiet talk with Joseph
about it, and see wot he ses. I ain't a-going to 'ave my pore gal
murdered just to please you and make your dreams come true.”
He 'ad a quiet talk with Joseph, but Joseph wouldn't 'ear of it at fust.
He said it was all the cook's nonsense, though 'e owned up that it was
funny that the cook should know about the wedding and Emily's name, and
at last he said that they would put it afore Emily and let her decide.
That was about the last dream the cook had that v'y'ge, although he told
old Bill one day that he had 'ad the same dream about Joseph and Emily
agin, so that he was quite certain they 'ad got to be married and
killed. He wouldn't tell Bill 'ow they was to be killed, because 'e said
it would make 'im an old man afore his time; but, of course, he 'ad to
say that _if_ they wasn't married the other part couldn't come true. He
said that as he 'ad never told 'is dreams before—except in the case of
Bill's leg—he couldn't say for certain that they couldn't be prevented
by taking care, but p'r'aps, they could; and Bill pointed out to 'im wot
a useful man he would be if he could dream and warn people in time.
By the time we got into the London river old Bill's leg was getting on
fust-rate, and he got along splendid on a pair of crutches the carpenter
'ad made for him. Him and Joseph and the cook had 'ad a good many talks
about the dream, and the old man 'ad invited the cook to come along 'ome
with 'em, to be referred to when he told the tale.
“I shall take my opportunity,” he ses, “and break it to 'er gentle like.
When I speak to you, you chip in, and not afore. D'ye understand?”
We went into the East India Docks that v'y'ge, and got there early on a
lovely summer's evening. Everybody was 'arf crazy at the idea o' going
ashore agin, and working as cheerful and as willing as if they liked it.
There was a few people standing on the pier-head as we went in, and
among 'em several very nice-looking young wimmen.
“My eye, Joseph,” ses the cook, who 'ad been staring hard at one of 'em,
“there's a fine gal—lively, too. Look 'ere!”
He kissed 'is dirty paw—which is more than I should 'ave liked to 'ave
done it if it 'ad been mine—and waved it, and the gal turned round and
shook her 'ead at 'im.
“Here, that'll do,” ses Joseph, very cross, “That's my gal; that's my
Emily.”
“Eh?” says the cook. “Well, 'ow was I to know? Besides, you're a-giving
of her up.”
Joseph didn't answer 'im. He was staring at Emily, and the more he
stared the better-looking she seemed to grow. She really was an uncommon
nice-looking gal, and more than the cook was struck with her.
“Who's that chap standing alongside of her?” ses the cook.
“It's one o' Bill's sister's lodgers,” ses Joseph, who was looking very
bad-tempered. “I should like to know wot right he 'as to come 'ere to
welcome me 'ome. I don't want 'im.”
“P'r'aps he's fond of 'er,” ses the cook. “I could be, very easy.”
“I'll chuck 'im in the dock if he ain't careful,” ses Joseph, turning
red in the face.
He waved his 'and to Emily, who didn't 'appen to be looking at the
moment, but the lodger waved back in a careless sort of way and then
spoke to Emily, and they both waved to old Bill who was standing on his
crutches further aft.
By the time the ship was berthed and everything snug it was quite dark,
and old Bill didn't know whether to take the cook 'ome with 'im and
break the news that night, or wait a bit. He made up his mind at last to
get it over and done with, and arter waiting till the cook 'ad cleaned
'imself they got a cab and drove off.
Bert Simmons, the lodger, 'ad to ride on the box, and Bill took up so
much room with 'is bad leg that Emily found it more comfortable to sit
on Joseph's knee; and by the time they got to the 'ouse he began to see
wot a silly mistake he was making.
“Keep that dream o' yours to yourself till I make up my mind,” he ses to
the cook, while Bill and the cabman were calling each other names.
“Bill's going to speak fust,” whispers the cook.
The lodger and Emily 'ad gone inside, and Joseph stood there, fidgeting,
while the cabman asked Bill, as a friend, why he 'adn't paid twopence
more for his face, and Bill was wasting his time trying to think of
something to say to 'urt the cabman's feelings. Then he took Bill by the
arm as the cab drove off and told 'im not to say nothing about the
dream, because he was going to risk it.
“Stuff and nonsense,” ses Bill. “I'm going to tell Emily. It's my dooty.
Wot's the good o' being married if you're going to be killed?”
He stumped in on his crutches afore Joseph could say any more, and,
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.