Mr. Gribble sat in his small front parlour in a state of angry
amazement. It was half-past six and there was no Mrs. Gribble; worse
still, there was no tea. It was a state of things that had only happened
once before. That was three weeks after marriage, and on that occasion
Mr. Gribble had put his foot down with a bang that had echoed down the
corridors of thirty years.
The fire in the little kitchen was out, and the untidy remains of Mrs.
Gribble's midday meal still disgraced the table. More and more dazed,
the indignant husband could only come to the conclusion that she had
gone out and been run over. Other things might possibly account for her
behaviour; that was the only one that would excuse it.
His meditations were interrupted by the sound of a key in the front
door, and a second later a small, anxious figure entered the room and,
leaning against the table, strove to get its breath. The process was not
helped by the alarming distension of Mr. Gribble's figure.
“I—I got home—quick as I could—Henry,” said Mrs. Gribble, panting.
“Where is my tea?” demanded her husband. “What do you mean by it? The
fire's out and the kitchen is just as you left it.”
“I—I've been to a lawyer's, Henry,” said Mrs. Gribble, “and I had to
wait.”
“Lawyer's?” repeated her husband.
“I got a letter this afternoon telling me to call. Poor Uncle George,
that went to America, is gone.”
“That is no excuse for neglecting me,” said Mr. Gribble. “Of course
people die when they are old. Is that the one that got on and made
money?”
His wife, apparently struggling to repress a little excitement, nodded.
“He—he's left me two hundred pounds a year for life, Henry,” she said,
dabbing at her pale blue eyes with a handkerchief. “They're going to pay
it monthly; sixteen pounds thirteen shillings and fourpence a month.
That's how he left it.”
“Two hund—” began Mr. Gribble, forgetting himself. “_Two hun_——Go and
get my tea! If you think you're going to give yourself airs because
your uncle's left you money, you won't do it in my house.”
He took a chair by the window, and, while his wife busied herself in the
kitchen, sat gazing in blank delight at the little street. Two hundred a
year! It was all he could do to resume his wonted expression as his wife
re-entered the room and began to lay the table. His manner, however,
when she let a cup and saucer slip from her trembling fingers to smash
on the floor left nothing to be desired.
“It's nice to have money come to us in our old age,” said Mrs. Gribble,
timidly, as they sat at tea. “It takes a load off my mind.”
“Old age!” said her husband, disagreeably. “What d'ye mean by old age?
I'm fifty-two, and feel as young as ever I did.”
“You look as young as ever you did,” said the docile Mrs. Gribble. “I
can't see no change in you. At least, not to speak of.”
“Not so much talk,” said her husband. “When I want your opinion of my
looks I'll ask you for it. When do you start getting this money?”
“Tuesday week; first of May,” replied his wife. “The lawyers are going
to send it by registered letter.”
Mr. Gribble grunted.
“I shall be sorry to leave the house for some things,” said his wife,
looking round. “We've been here a good many years now, Henry.”
“Leave the house!” repeated Mr. Gribble, putting down his tea-cup and
staring at her.
“Leave the house! What are you talking about?”
“But we can't stay here, Henry,” faltered Mrs. Gribble. “Not with all
that money. They are building some beautiful houses in Charlton Grove
now—bathroom, tiled hearths, and beautiful stained glass in the front
door; and all for twenty-eight pounds a year.”
“Wonderful!” said the other, with a mocking glint in his eye.
“And iron palings to the front garden, painted chocolate-colour picked
out with blue,” continued his wife, eyeing him wistfully.
Mr. Gribble struck the table a blow with his fist. “This house is good
enough for me,” he roared; “and what's good enough for me is good enough
for you. You want to waste money on show; that's what you want. Stained
glass and bow-windows! You want a bow-window to loll about in, do you?
Shouldn't wonder if you don't want a servant-gal to do the work.”
Mrs. Gribble flushed guiltily, and caught her breath.
“We're going to live as we've always lived,” pursued Mr. Gribble. “Money
ain't going to spoil me. I ain't going to put on no side just because
I've come in for a little bit. If you had your way we should end up in
the workhouse.”
He filled his pipe and smoked thoughtfully, while Mrs. Gribble cleared
away the tea-things and washed up. Pictures, good to look upon, formed
in the smoke—pictures of a hale, hearty man walking along the primrose
path arm-in-arm with two hundred a year; of the mahogany and plush of
the saloon bar at the Grafton Arms; of Sunday jaunts, and the Oval on
summer afternoons.
He ate his breakfast slowly on the first of the month, and, the meal
finished, took a seat in the window with his pipe and waited for the
postman. Mrs. Gribble's timid reminders concerning the flight of time
and consequent fines for lateness at work fell on deaf ears. He jumped
up suddenly and met the postman at the door.
“Has it come?” inquired Mrs. Gribble, extending her hand.
By way of reply her husband tore open the envelope and, handing her the
covering letter, counted the notes and coin and placed them slowly in
his pockets. Then, as Mrs. Gribble looked at him, he looked at the
clock, and, snatching up his hat, set off down the road.
He was late home that evening, and his manner forbade conversation. Mrs.
Gribble, with the bereaved air of one who has sustained an irremediable
loss, sighed fitfully, and once applied her handkerchief to her eyes.
“That's no good,” said her husband at last; “that won't bring him back.”
“Bring who back?” inquired Mrs. Gribble, in genuine surprise.
“Why, your Uncle George,” said Mr. Gribble. “That's what you're turning
on the water-cart for, ain't it?”
“I wasn't thinking of him,” said Mrs. Gribble, trying to speak bravely.
“I was thinking of——”
“Well, you ought to be,” interrupted her husband. “He wasn't my uncle,
poor chap, but I've been thinking of him, off and on, all day. That
bloater-paste you are eating now came from his kindness. I brought it
home as a treat.”
“I was thinking of my clothes,” said Mrs. Gribble, clenching her hands
together under the table. “When I found I had come in for that money,
the first thing I thought was that I should be able to have a decent
dress. My old ones are quite worn out, and as for my hat and jacket—”
“Go on,” said her husband, fiercely. “Go on. That's just what I said:
trust you with money, and we should be poorer than ever.”
“I'm ashamed to be seen out,” said Mrs. Gribble.
“A woman's place is the home,” said Mr. Gribble; “and so long as I'm
satisfied with your appearance nobody else matters. So long as I am
pleased, that's everything. What do you want to go dressing yourself up
for? Nothing looks worse than an over-dressed woman.”
“What are we going to do with all that money, then?” inquired Mrs.
Gribble, in trembling tones.
“That'll do,” said Mr. Gribble, decidedly. “That'll do. One o' these
days you'll go too far. You start throwing that money in my teeth and
see what happens. I've done my best for you all these years, and there's
no reason to suppose I sha'n't go on doing so. What did you say? What!”
Mrs. Gribble turned to him a face rendered ghastly by terror. “I—I
said—it was my money,” she stammered.
Mr. Gribble rose, and stood for a full minute regarding her. Then,
kicking a chair out of his way, he took his hat from its peg in the
passage and, with a bang of the street-door that sent a current of
fresh, sweet air circulating through the house, strode off to the
Grafton Arms.
It was past eleven when he returned, but even the spectacle of his wife
laboriously darning her old dress failed to reduce his good-humour in
the slightest degree. In a frivolous mood he even took a feather from
the dismembered hat on the table and stuck it in his hair. He took the
stump of a strong cigar from his lips and, exhaling a final cloud of
smoke, tossed it into the fireplace.
“Uncle George dead,” he said, at last, shaking his head. “Hadn't
pleasure acquaintance, but good man. Good man.”
He shook his head again and gazed mistily at his wife.
“He was a teetotaller,” she remarked, casually.
“He was tee-toller,” repeated Mr. Gribble, regarding her equably. “Good
man. Uncle George dead—tee-toller.”
Mrs. Gribble gathered up her work and began to put it away.
“Bed-time,” said Mr. Gribble, and led the way upstairs, singing.
His good-humour had evaporated by the morning, and, having made a light
breakfast of five cups of tea, he went off, with lagging steps, to work.
It was a beautiful spring morning, and the idea of a man with two
hundred a year and a headache going off to a warehouse instead of a
day's outing seemed to border upon the absurd. What use was money
without freedom? His toil was sweetened that day by the knowledge that
he could drop it any time he liked and walk out, a free man, into the
sunlight.
By the end of a week his mind was made up. Each day that passed made his
hurried uprising and scrambled breakfast more and more irksome; and on
Monday morning, with hands in trouser-pockets and legs stretched out, he
leaned back in his chair and received his wife's alarming intimations as
to the flight of time with a superior and sphinx-like smile.
“It's too fine to go to work to-day,” he said, lazily. “Come to that,
any day is too fine to waste at work.”
Mrs. Gribble sat gasping at him.
“So on Saturday I gave 'em a week's notice,” continued her husband, “and
after Potts and Co. had listened while I told 'em what I thought of 'em,
they said they'd do without the week's notice.”
“You've never given up your job?” said Mrs. Gribble.
“I spoke to old Potts as one gentleman of independent means to another,”
said Mr. Gribble, smiling. “Thirty-five bob a week after twenty years'
service! And he had the cheek to tell me I wasn't worth that. When I
told him what he was worth he talked about sending for the police. What
are you looking like that for? I've worked hard for you for thirty
years, and I've had enough of it. Now it's your turn.”
“You'd find it hard to get another place at your age,” said his wife;
“especially if they wouldn't give you a good character.”
“Place!” said the other, staring. “Place! I tell you I've done with
work. For a man o' my means to go on working for thirty-five bob a week
is ridiculous.”
“But suppose anything happened to me,” said his wife, in a troubled
voice.
“That's not very likely,” said Mr. Gribble.
“You're tough enough. And if it did your money would come to me.”
Mrs. Gribble shook her head.
“WHAT?” roared her husband, jumping up.
“I've only got it for life, Henry, as I told you,” said Mrs. Gribble, in
alarm. “I thought you knew it would stop when I died.”
“And what's to become of me if anything happens to you, then?” demanded
the dismayed Mr. Gribble. “What am I to do?”
Mrs. Gribble put her handkerchief to her eyes.
“And don't start weakening your constitution by crying,” shouted the
incensed husband.
“What are you mumbling?”
“I sa—sa—said, let's hope—you'll go first,” sobbed his wife. “Then it
will be all right.”
Mr. Gribble opened his mouth, and then, realizing the inadequacy of the
English language for moments of stress, closed it again. He broke his
silence at last in favour of Uncle George.
“Mind you,” he said, concluding a peroration which his wife listened to
with her fingers in her ears—“mind you, I reckon I've been absolutely
done by you and your precious Uncle George. I've given up a good
situation, and now, any time you fancy to go off the hooks, I'm to be
turned into the street.”
“I'll try and live, for your sake, Henry,” said his wife.
“Think of my worry every time you are ill,” pursued the indignant Mr.
Gribble.
Mrs. Gribble sighed, and her husband, after a few further remarks
concerning Uncle George, his past and his future, announced his
intention of going to the lawyers and seeing whether anything could be
done. He came back in a state of voiceless gloom, and spent the rest of
a beautiful day indoors, smoking a pipe which had lost much of its
flavour, and regarding with a critical and anxious eye the small, weedy
figure of his wife as she went about her work.
The second month's payment went into his pocket as a matter of course,
but on this occasion Mrs. Gribble made no requests for new clothes or
change of residence. A little nervous cough was her sole comment.
“Got a cold?” inquired her husband, starting.
“I don't think so,” replied his wife, and, surprised and touched at this
unusual display of interest, coughed again.
“Is it your throat or your chest?” he inquired, gruffly.
Mrs. Gribble coughed again to see. After five coughs she said she
thought it was her chest.
“You'd better not go out o' doors to-day, then,” said Mr. Gribble.
“Don't stand about in draughts; and I'll fetch you in a bottle of cough
mixture when I go out. What about a lay-down on the sofa?”
His wife thanked him, and, reaching the sofa, watched with half-closed
eyes as he cleared the breakfast-table. It was the first time he had
done such a thing in his life, and a little honest pride in the
possession of such a cough would not be denied. Dim possibilities of its
vast usefulness suddenly occurred to her.
She took the cough mixture for a week, by which time other symptoms,
extremely disquieting to an ease-loving man, had manifested themselves.
Going upstairs deprived her of breath; carrying a loaded tea-tray
produced a long and alarming stitch in the side. The last time she ever
filled the coal-scuttle she was discovered sitting beside it on the
floor in a state of collapse.
“You'd better go and see the doctor,” said Mr. Gribble.
Mrs. Gribble went. Years before the doctor had told her that she ought
to take life easier, and she was now able to tell him she was prepared
to take his advice.
“And, you see, I must take care of myself now for the sake of my
husband,” she said, after she had explained matters.
“I understand,” said the doctor.
“If anything happened to me—” began the patient.
“Nothing shall happen,” said the other. “Stay in bed to-morrow morning,
and I'll come round and overhaul you.”
Mrs. Gribble hesitated. “You might examine me and think I was all
right,” she objected; “and at the same time you wouldn't know how I
feel.”
“I know just how you feel,” was the reply. “Good-bye.”
He came round the following morning and, following the dejected Mr.
Gribble upstairs, made a long and thorough investigation of his patient.
“Say 'ninety-nine,'” he said, adjusting his stethoscope.
Mrs. Gribble ticked off “ninety-nines” until her husband's ears ached
with them. The doctor finished at last, and, fastening his bag, stood
with his beard in his hand, pondering. He looked from the little,
white-faced woman on the bed to the bulky figure of Mr. Gribble.
“You had better lie up for a week,” he said, decidedly. “The rest will
do you good.”
“Nothing serious, I s'pose?” said Mr. Gribble, as he led the way
downstairs to the small parlour.
“She ought to be all right with care,” was the reply.
“Care?” repeated the other, distastefully. “What's the matter with her?”
“She's not very strong,” said the doctor; “and hearts don't improve with
age, you know. Under favourable conditions she's good for some years
yet. The great thing is never to thwart her. Let her have her own way in
everything.”
“Own way in everything?” repeated the dumbfounded Mr. Gribble.
The doctor nodded. “Never let her worry about anything,” he continued;
“and, above all, never find fault with her.”
“Not,” said Mr. Gribble, thickly—“not even for her own good?”
“Unless you want to run the risk of losing her.”
Mr. Gribble shivered.
“Let her have an easy time,” said the doctor, taking up his hat. “Pamper
her a bit if you like; it won't hurt her. Above all, don't let that
heart of hers get excited.”
He shook hands with the petrified Mr. Gribble and went off, grinning
wickedly. He had few favourites, and Mr. Gribble was not one of them.
For two days the devoted husband did the housework and waited on the
invalid. Then he wearied, and, at his wife's suggestion, a small girl
was engaged as servant. She did most of the nursing as well, and, having
a great love for the sensational, took a grave view of her mistress's
condition.
It was a relief to Mr. Gribble when his wife came downstairs again, and
he was cheered to see that she looked much better. His satisfaction was
so marked that it brought on her cough again.
“It's this house, I think,” she said, with a resigned smile. “It never
did agree with me.
“Well, you've lived in it a good many years,” said her husband,
controlling himself with difficulty.
“It's rather dark and small,” said Mrs. Gribble. “Not but what it is
good enough for me. And I dare say it will last my time.”
“Nonsense!” said her husband, gruffly. “You want to get out a bit more.
You've got nothing to do now we are wasting all this money on a servant.
Why don't you go out for little walks?”
Mrs. Gribble went, after several promptings, and the fruit of one of
them was handed by the postman to Mr. Gribble a few days afterwards.
Half-choking with wrath and astonishment, he stood over his trembling
wife with the first draper's bill he had ever received.
“One pound two shillings and threepence three-farthings!” he recited.
“It must be a mistake. It must be for somebody else.”
Mrs. Gribble, with her hand to her heart, tottered to the sofa and lay
there with her eyes closed.
“I had to get some dress material,” she said, in a quavering voice. “You
want me to go out, and I'm so shabby I'm ashamed to be seen.”
Mr. Gribble made muffled noises in his throat; then, afraid to trust
himself, he went into the back-yard and, taking a seat on an upturned
bucket, sat with his head in his hands peering into the future.
The dressmaker's bill and a bill for a new hat came after the next
monthly payment; and a bill for shoes came a week later. Hoping much
from the well-known curative effects of fine feathers, he managed to
treat the affair with dignified silence. The only time he allowed full
play to his feelings Mrs. Gribble took to her bed for two days, and the
doctor had a heart-to-heart talk with him on the doorstep.
It was a matter of great annoyance to him that his wife still continued
to attribute her ill-health to the smallness and darkness of the house;
and the fact that there were only two of the houses in Charlton Grove
left caused a marked depression of spirits. It was clear that she was
fretting. The small servant went further, and said that she was fading
away.
They moved at the September quarter, and a slight, but temporary,
improvement in Mrs. Gribble's health took place. Her cheeks flushed and
her eyes sparkled over new curtains and new linoleum. The tiled hearths,
and stained glass in the front door filled her with a deep and solemn
thankfulness. The only thing that disturbed her was the fact that Mr.
Gribble, to avoid wasting money over necessaries, contrived to spend an
unduly large portion on personal luxuries.
“We ought to have some new things for the kitchen,” she said one day.
“No money,” said Mr. Gribble, laconically.
“And a mat for the bathroom.”
Mr. Gribble got up and went out.
She had to go to him for everything. Two hundred a year and not a penny
she could call her own! She consulted her heart, and that faithful organ
responded with a bound that set her nerves quivering. If she could only
screw her courage to the sticking-point the question would be settled
for once and all.
White and trembling she sat at breakfast on the first of November,
waiting for the postman, while the unconscious Mr. Gribble went on with
his meal. The double-knocks down the road came nearer and nearer, and
Mr. Gribble, wiping his mouth, sat upright with an air of alert and
pleased interest. Rapid steps came to the front door, and a double bang
followed.
“Always punctual,” said Mr. Gribble, good-humouredly.
His wife made no reply, but, taking a blue-crossed envelope from the
maid in her shaking fingers, looked round for a knife. Her gaze
encountered Mr. Gribble's outstretched hand.
“After you,” he said sharply.
Mrs. Gribble found the knife, and, hacking tremulously at the envelope,
peeped inside it and, with her gaze fastened on the window, fumbled for
her pocket. She was so pale and shook so much that the words died away
on her husband's lips.
“It is—all right,” gasped his wife.
She put her hand to her throat and, hardly able to believe in her
victory, sat struggling for breath. Before her, grim and upright, her
husband sat, a figure of helpless smouldering wrath.
“You might lose it,” he said, at last. “I sha'n't lose it,” said his
wife.
To avoid further argument, she arose and went slowly upstairs. Through
the doorway Mr. Gribble saw her helping herself up by the banisters, her
left hand still at her throat. Then he heard her moving slowly about in
the bedroom overhead.
He took out his pipe and filled it mechanically, and was just holding a
match to the tobacco when he paused and gazed with a puzzled air at the
ceiling. “Blamed if it don't sound like somebody dancing!” he growled.