Mrs. John Boxer stood at the door of the shop with her hands clasped on
her apron. The short day had drawn to a close, and the lamps in the
narrow little thorough-fares of Shinglesea were already lit. For a time
she stood listening to the regular beat of the sea on the beach some
half-mile distant, and then with a slight shiver stepped back into the
shop and closed the door.
[Illustration]
The little shop with its wide-mouthed bottles of sweets was one of her
earliest memories. Until her marriage she had known no other home, and
when her husband was lost with the _North Star_ some three years
before, she gave up her home in Poplar and returned to assist her
mother in the little shop.
In a restless mood she took up a piece of needle-work, and a minute or
two later put it down again. A glance through the glass of the door
leading into the small parlour revealed Mrs. Gimpson, with a red shawl
round her shoulders, asleep in her easy-chair.
Mrs. Boxer turned at the clang of the shop bell, and then, with a wild
cry, stood gazing at the figure of a man standing in the door-way. He
was short and bearded, with oddly shaped shoulders, and a left leg
which was not a match; but the next moment Mrs. Boxer was in his arms
sobbing and laughing together.
Mrs. Gimpson, whose nerves were still quivering owing to the suddenness
with which she had been awakened, came into the shop; Mr. Boxer freed
an arm, and placing it round her waist kissed her with some affection
on the chin.
“He’s come back!” cried Mrs. Boxer, hysterically.
“Thank goodness,” said Mrs. Gimpson, after a moment’s deliberation.
“He’s alive!” cried Mrs. Boxer. “He’s alive!”
She half-dragged and half-led him into the small parlour, and thrusting
him into the easy-chair lately vacated by Mrs. Gimpson seated herself
upon his knee, regardless in her excitement that the rightful owner was
with elaborate care selecting the most uncomfortable chair in the room.
“Fancy his coming back!” said Mrs. Boxer, wiping her eyes. “How did you
escape, John? Where have you been? Tell us all about it.”
Mr. Boxer sighed. “It ’ud be a long story if I had the gift of telling
of it,” he said, slowly, “but I’ll cut it short for the present. When
the _North Star_ went down in the South Pacific most o’ the hands got
away in the boats, but I was too late. I got this crack on the head
with something falling on it from aloft. Look here.”
He bent his head, and Mrs. Boxer, separating the stubble with her
fingers, uttered an exclamation of pity and alarm at the extent of the
scar; Mrs. Gimpson, craning forward, uttered a sound which might mean
anything—even pity.
“When I come to my senses,” continued Mr. Boxer, “the ship was sinking,
and I just got to my feet when she went down and took me with her. How
I escaped I don’t know. I seemed to be choking and fighting for my
breath for years, and then I found myself floating on the sea and
clinging to a grating. I clung to it all night, and next day I was
picked up by a native who was paddling about in a canoe, and taken
ashore to an island, where I lived for over two years. It was right out
o’ the way o’ craft, but at last I was picked up by a trading schooner
named the _Pearl_, belonging to Sydney, and taken there. At Sydney I
shipped aboard the _Marston Towers_, a steamer, and landed at the
Albert Docks this morning.”
“Poor John,” said his wife, holding on to his arm. “How you must have
suffered!”
“I did,” said Mr. Boxer. “Mother got a cold?” he inquired, eying that
lady.
“No, I ain’t,” said Mrs. Gimpson, answering for herself. “Why didn’t
you write when you got to Sydney?”
“Didn’t know where to write to,” replied Mr. Boxer, staring. “I didn’t
know where Mary had gone to.”
“You might ha’ wrote here,” said Mrs. Gimpson.
“Didn’t think of it at the time,” said Mr. Boxer. “One thing is, I was
very busy at Sydney, looking for a ship. However, I’m ’ere now.”
“I always felt you’d turn up some day,” said Mrs. Gimpson. “I felt
certain of it in my own mind. Mary made sure you was dead, but I said
‘no, I knew better.’”
There was something in Mrs. Gimpson’s manner of saying this that
impressed her listeners unfavourably. The impression was deepened when,
after a short, dry laugh _à propos_ of nothing, she sniffed again—three
times.
“Well, you turned out to be right,” said Mr. Boxer, shortly.
“I gin’rally am,” was the reply; “there’s very few people can take me
in.”
She sniffed again.
“Were the natives kind to you?” inquired Mrs. Boxer, hastily, as she
turned to her husband.
“Very kind,” said the latter. “Ah! you ought to have seen that island.
Beautiful yellow sands and palm-trees; cocoa-nuts to be ’ad for the
picking, and nothing to do all day but lay about in the sun and swim in
the sea.”
“Any public-’ouses there?” inquired Mrs. Gimpson.
“Cert’nly not,” said her son-in-law. “This was an island—one o’ the
little islands in the South Pacific Ocean.”
“What did you say the name o’ the schooner was?” inquired Mrs. Gimpson.
“_Pearl_,” replied Mr. Boxer, with the air of a resentful witness under
cross-examination.
“And what was the name o’ the captin?” said Mrs. Gimpson.
“Thomas—Henery—Walter—Smith,” said Mr. Boxer, with somewhat unpleasant
emphasis.
“An’ the mate’s name?”
“John Brown,” was the reply.
“Common names,” commented Mrs. Gimpson, “very common. But I knew you’d
come back all right—_I_ never ’ad no alarm. ‘He’s safe and happy, my
dear,’ I says. ‘He’ll come back all in his own good time.’”
“What d’you mean by that?” demanded the sensitive Mr. Boxer. “I come
back as soon as I could.”
“You know you were anxious, mother,” interposed her daughter. “Why, you
insisted upon our going to see old Mr. Silver about it.”
“Ah! but I wasn’t uneasy or anxious afterwards,” said Mrs. Gimpson,
compressing her lips.
“Who’s old Mr. Silver, and what should he know about it?” inquired Mr.
Boxer.
“He’s a fortune-teller,” replied his wife. “Reads the stars,” said his
mother-in-law.
Mr. Boxer laughed—a good ringing laugh. “What did he tell you?” he
inquired. “Nothing,” said his wife, hastily. “Ah!” said Mr. Boxer,
waggishly, “that was wise of ’im. Most of us could tell fortunes that
way.”
“That’s wrong,” said Mrs. Gimpson to her daughter, sharply. “Right’s
right any day, and truth’s truth. He said that he knew all about John
and what he’d been doing, but he wouldn’t tell us for fear of ’urting
our feelings and making mischief.”
“Here, look ’ere,” said Mr. Boxer, starting up; “I’ve ’ad about enough
o’ this. Why don’t you speak out what you mean? I’ll mischief ’im, the
old humbug. Old rascal.”
“Never mind, John,” said his wife, laying her hand upon his arm. “Here
you are safe and sound, and as for old Mr. Silver, there’s a lot o’
people don’t believe in him.”
“Ah! they don’t want to,” said Mrs. Gimpson, obstinately. “But don’t
forget that he foretold my cough last winter.”
“Well, look ’ere,” said Mr. Boxer, twisting his short, blunt nose into
as near an imitation of a sneer as he could manage, “I’ve told you my
story and I’ve got witnesses to prove it. You can write to the master
of the _Marston Towers_ if you like, and other people besides. Very
well, then; let’s go and see your precious old fortune-teller. You
needn’t say who I am; say I’m a friend, and tell ’im never to mind
about making mischief, but to say right out where I am and what I’ve
been doing all this time. I have my ’opes it’ll cure you of your
superstitiousness.”
[Illustration]
“We’ll go round after we’ve shut up, mother,” said Mrs. Boxer. “We’ll
have a bit o’ supper first and then start early.”
Mrs. Gimpson hesitated. It is never pleasant to submit one’s
superstitions to the tests of the unbelieving, but after the attitude
she had taken up she was extremely loath to allow her son-in-law a
triumph.
“Never mind, we’ll say no more about it,” she said, primly, “but I ’ave
my own ideas.”
“I dessay,” said Mr. Boxer; “but you’re afraid for us to go to your old
fortune-teller. It would be too much of a show-up for ’im.”
“It’s no good your trying to aggravate me, John Boxer, because you
can’t do it,” said Mrs. Gimpson, in a voice trembling with passion.
“O’ course, if people like being deceived they must be,” said Mr.
Boxer; “we’ve all got to live, and if we’d all got our common sense
fortune-tellers couldn’t. Does he tell fortunes by tea-leaves or by the
colour of your eyes?”
“Laugh away, John Boxer,” said Mrs. Gimpson, icily; “but I shouldn’t
have been alive now if it hadn’t ha’ been for Mr. Silver’s warnings.”
“Mother stayed in bed for the first ten days in July,” explained Mrs.
Boxer, “to avoid being bit by a mad dog.”
“_Tchee—tchee—tchee_,” said the hapless Mr. Boxer, putting his hand
over his mouth and making noble efforts to restrain himself;
“_tchee—tch——_”
“I s’pose you’d ha’ laughed more if I ’ad been bit?” said the glaring
Mrs. Gimpson.
“Well, who did the dog bite after all?” inquired Mr. Boxer, recovering.
“You don’t understand,” replied Mrs. Gimpson, pityingly; “me being safe
up in bed and the door locked, there was no mad dog. There was no use
for it.”
“Well,” said Mr. Boxer, “me and Mary’s going round to see that old
deceiver after supper, whether you come or not. Mary shall tell ’im I’m
a friend, and ask him to tell her everything about ’er husband. Nobody
knows me here, and Mary and me’ll be affectionate like, and give ’im to
understand we want to marry. Then he won’t mind making mischief.”
“You’d better leave well alone,” said Mrs. Gimpson.
Mr. Boxer shook his head. “I was always one for a bit o’ fun,” he said,
slowly. “I want to see his face when he finds out who I am.”
Mrs. Gimpson made no reply; she was looking round for the
market-basket, and having found it she left the reunited couple to keep
house while she went out to obtain a supper which should, in her
daughter’s eyes, be worthy of the occasion.
She went to the High Street first and made her purchases, and was on
the way back again when, in response to a sudden impulse, as she passed
the end of Crowner’s Alley, she turned into that small by-way and
knocked at the astrologer’s door.
A slow, dragging footstep was heard approaching in reply to the
summons, and the astrologer, recognising his visitor as one of his most
faithful and credulous clients, invited her to step inside. Mrs.
Gimpson complied, and, taking a chair, gazed at the venerable white
beard and small, red-rimmed eyes of her host in some perplexity as to
how to begin.
“My daughter’s coming round to see you presently,” she said, at last.
The astrologer nodded.
“She—she wants to ask you about ’er husband,” faltered Mrs. Gimpson;
“she’s going to bring a friend with her—a man who doesn’t believe in
your knowledge. He—he knows all about my daughter’s husband, and he
wants to see what you say you know about him.”
The old man put on a pair of huge horn spectacles and eyed her
carefully.
“You’ve got something on your mind,” he said, at last; “you’d better
tell me everything.”
Mrs. Gimpson shook her head.
“There’s some danger hanging over you,” continued Mr. Silver, in a low,
thrilling voice; “some danger in connection with your son-in-law.
There,” he waved a lean, shrivelled hand backward and forward as though
dispelling a fog, and peered into distance—“there is something forming
over you. You—or somebody—are hiding something from me.”
[Illustration]
Mrs. Gimpson, aghast at such omniscience, sank backward in her chair.
“Speak,” said the old man, gently; “there is no reason why you should
be sacrificed for others.”
Mrs. Gimpson was of the same opinion, and in some haste she reeled off
the events of the evening. She had a good memory, and no detail was
lost.
“Strange, strange,” said the venerable Mr. Silver, when he had
finished. “He is an ingenious man.”
“Isn’t it true?” inquired his listener. “He says he can prove it. And
he is going to find out what you meant by saying you were afraid of
making mischief.”
“He can prove some of it,” said the old man, his eyes snapping
spitefully. “I can guarantee that.”
“But it wouldn’t have made mischief if you had told us that,” ventured
Mrs. Gimpson. “A man can’t help being cast away.”
“True,” said the astrologer, slowly; “true. But let them come and
question me; and whatever you do, for your own sake don’t let a soul
know that you have been here. If you do, the danger to yourself will be
so terrible that even _I_ may be unable to help you.”
Mrs. Gimpson shivered, and more than ever impressed by his marvellous
powers made her way slowly home, where she found the unconscious Mr.
Boxer relating his adventures again with much gusto to a married couple
from next door.
“It’s a wonder he’s alive,” said Mr. Jem Thompson, looking up as the
old woman entered the room; “it sounds like a story-book. Show us that
cut on your head again, mate.”
The obliging Mr. Boxer complied.
“We’re going on with ’em after they’ve ’ad supper,” continued Mr.
Thompson, as he and his wife rose to depart. “It’ll be a fair treat to
me to see old Silver bowled out.”
Mrs. Gimpson sniffed and eyed his retreating figure disparagingly; Mrs.
Boxer, prompted by her husband, began to set the table for supper.
It was a lengthy meal, owing principally to Mr. Boxer, but it was over
at last, and after that gentleman had assisted in shutting up the shop
they joined the Thompsons, who were waiting outside, and set off for
Crowner’s Alley. The way was enlivened by Mr. Boxer, who had thrills of
horror every ten yards at the idea of the supernatural things he was
about to witness, and by Mr. Thompson, who, not to be outdone,
persisted in standing stock-still at frequent intervals until he had
received the assurances of his giggling better-half that he would not
be made to vanish in a cloud of smoke.
By the time they reached Mr. Silver’s abode the party had regained its
decorum, and, except for a tremendous shudder on the part of Mr. Boxer
as his gaze fell on a couple of skulls which decorated the magician’s
table, their behaviour left nothing to be desired. Mrs. Gimpson, in a
few awkward words, announced the occasion of their visit. Mr. Boxer she
introduced as a friend of the family from London.
“I will do what I can,” said the old man, slowly, as his visitors
seated themselves, “but I can only tell you what I see. If I do not see
all, or see clearly, it cannot be helped.”
Mr. Boxer winked at Mr. Thompson, and received an understanding pinch
in return; Mrs. Thompson in a hot whisper told them to behave
themselves.
The mystic preparations were soon complete. A little cloud of smoke,
through which the fierce red eyes of the astrologer peered keenly at
Mr. Boxer, rose from the table. Then he poured various liquids into a
small china bowl and, holding up his hand to command silence, gazed
steadfastly into it. “I see pictures,” he announced, in a deep voice.
“The docks of a great city; London. I see an ill-shaped man with a bent
left leg standing on the deck of a ship.”
Mr. Thompson, his eyes wide open with surprise, jerked Mr. Boxer in the
ribs, but Mr. Boxer, whose figure was a sore point with him, made no
response.
“The ship leaves the docks,” continued Mr. Silver, still peering into
the bowl. “As she passes through the entrance her stern comes into view
with the name painted on it. The—the—the——”
“Look agin, old chap,” growled Mr. Boxer, in an undertone.
“The _North Star_,” said the astrologer. “The ill-shaped man is still
standing on the fore-part of the ship; I do not know his name or who he
is. He takes the portrait of a beautiful young woman from his pocket
and gazes at it earnestly.”
Mrs. Boxer, who had no illusions on the subject of her personal
appearance, sat up as though she had been stung; Mr. Thompson, who was
about to nudge Mr. Boxer in the ribs again, thought better of it and
assumed an air of uncompromising virtue.
“The picture disappears,” said Mr. Silver. “Ah! I see; I see. A ship in
a gale at sea. It is the _North Star;_ it is sinking. The ill-shaped
man sheds tears and loses his head. I cannot discover the name of this
man.”
Mr. Boxer, who had been several times on the point of interrupting,
cleared his throat and endeavoured to look unconcerned.
“The ship sinks,” continued the astrologer, in thrilling tones. “Ah!
what is this? a piece of wreckage with a monkey clinging to it? No,
no-o. The ill-shaped man again. Dear me!”
[Illustration]
His listeners sat spellbound. Only the laboured and intense breathing
of Mr. Boxer broke the silence.
“He is alone on the boundless sea,” pursued the seer; “night falls. Day
breaks, and a canoe propelled by a slender and pretty but dusky maiden
approaches the castaway. She assists him into the canoe and his head
sinks on her lap, as with vigorous strokes of her paddle she propels
the canoe toward a small island fringed with palm trees.”
“Here, look ’ere—” began the overwrought Mr. Boxer.
“_H’sh, h’sh!_” ejaculated the keenly interested Mr. Thompson. “W’y
don’t you keep quiet?”
“The picture fades,” continued the old man. “I see another: a native
wedding. It is the dusky maiden and the man she rescued. Ah! the
wedding is interrupted; a young man, a native, breaks into the group.
He has a long knife in his hand. He springs upon the ill-shaped man and
wounds him in the head.”
Involuntarily Mr. Boxer’s hand went up to his honourable scar, and the
heads of the others swung round to gaze at it. Mrs. Boxer’s face was
terrible in its expression, but Mrs. Gimpson’s bore the look of sad and
patient triumph of one who knew men and could not be surprised at
anything they do.
“The scene vanishes,” resumed the monotonous voice, “and another one
forms. The same man stands on the deck of a small ship. The name on the
stern is the _Peer_—no, _Paris_—no, no, no, _Pearl_. It fades from the
shore where the dusky maiden stands with hands stretched out
imploringly. The ill-shaped man smiles and takes the portrait of the
young and beautiful girl from his pocket.”
“Look ’ere,” said the infuriated Mr. Boxer, “I think we’ve ’ad about
enough of this rubbish. I have—more than enough.”
“I don’t wonder at it,” said his wife, trembling furiously. “You can go
if you like. I’m going to stay and hear all that there is to hear.”
“You sit quiet,” urged the intensely interested Mr. Thompson. “He ain’t
said it’s you. There’s more than one misshaped man in the world, I
s’pose?”
“I see an ocean liner,” said the seer, who had appeared to be in a
trance state during this colloquy. “She is sailing for England from
Australia. I see the name distinctly: the _Marston Towers_. The same
man is on board of her. The ship arrives at London. The scene closes;
another one forms. The ill-shaped man is sitting with a woman with a
beautiful face—not the same as the photograph.”
“What they can see in him I can’t think,” muttered Mr. Thompson, in an
envious whisper. “He’s a perfick terror, and to look at him——”
“They sit hand in hand,” continued the astrologer, raising his voice.
“She smiles up at him and gently strokes his head; he——”
A loud smack rang through the room and startled the entire company;
Mrs. Boxer, unable to contain herself any longer, had, so far from
profiting by the example, gone to the other extreme and slapped her
husband’s head with hearty good-will. Mr. Boxer sprang raging to his
feet, and in the confusion which ensued the fortune-teller, to the
great regret of Mr. Thompson, upset the contents of the magic bowl.
“I can see no more,” he said, sinking hastily into his chair behind the
table as Mr. Boxer advanced upon him.
Mrs. Gimpson pushed her son-in-law aside, and laying a modest fee upon
the table took her daughter’s arm and led her out. The Thompsons
followed, and Mr. Boxer, after an irresolute glance in the direction of
the ingenuous Mr. Silver, made his way after them and fell into the
rear. The people in front walked on for some time in silence, and then
the voice of the greatly impressed Mrs. Thompson was heard, to the
effect that if there were only more fortune-tellers in the world there
would be a lot more better men.
Mr. Boxer trotted up to his wife’s side. “Look here, Mary,” he began.
“Don’t you speak to me,” said his wife, drawing closer to her mother,
“because I won’t answer you.”
Mr. Boxer laughed, bitterly. “This is a nice home-coming,” he remarked.
He fell to the rear again and walked along raging, his temper by no
means being improved by observing that Mrs. Thompson, doubtless with a
firm belief in the saying that “Evil communications corrupt good
manners,” kept a tight hold of her husband’s arm. His position as an
outcast was clearly defined, and he ground his teeth with rage as he
observed the virtuous uprightness of Mrs. Gimpson’s back. By the time
they reached home he was in a spirit of mad recklessness far in advance
of the character given him by the astrologer.
His wife gazed at him with a look of such strong interrogation as he
was about to follow her into the house that he paused with his foot on
the step and eyed her dumbly.
“Have you left anything inside that you want?” she inquired.
[Illustration]
Mr. Boxer shook his head. “I only wanted to come in and make a clean
breast of it,” he said, in a curious voice; “then I’ll go.”
Mrs. Gimpson stood aside to let him pass, and Mr. Thompson, not to be
denied, followed close behind with his faintly protesting wife. They
sat down in a row against the wall, and Mr. Boxer, sitting opposite in
a hang-dog fashion, eyed them with scornful wrath.
“Well?” said Mrs. Boxer, at last.
“All that he said was quite true,” said her husband, defiantly. “The
only thing is, he didn’t tell the arf of it. Altogether, I married
three dusky maidens.”
Everybody but Mr. Thompson shuddered with horror.
“Then I married a white girl in Australia,” pursued Mr. Boxer,
musingly. “I wonder old Silver didn’t see that in the bowl; not arf a
fortune-teller, I call ’im.”
“What they _see_ in ’im!” whispered the astounded Mr. Thompson to his
wife.
“And did you marry the beautiful girl in the photograph?” demanded Mrs.
Boxer, in trembling accents.
“I did,” said her husband.
“Hussy,” cried Mrs. Boxer.
“I married her,” said Mr. Boxer, considering—“I married her at
Camberwell, in eighteen ninety-three.”
“Eighteen _ninety-three!_” said his wife, in a startled voice. “But you
couldn’t. Why, you didn’t marry me till eighteen ninety-_four_.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” inquired the monster, calmly.
Mrs. Boxer, pale as ashes, rose from her seat and stood gazing at him
with horror-struck eyes, trying in vain to speak.
“You villain!” cried Mrs. Gimpson, violently. “I always distrusted
you.”
[Illustration]
“I know you did,” said Mr. Boxer, calmly. “You’ve been committing
bigamy,” cried Mrs. Gimpson.
“Over and over agin,” assented Mr. Boxer, cheerfully. “It’s got to be a
’obby with me.”
“Was the first wife alive when you married my daughter?” demanded Mrs.
Gimpson.
“Alive?” said Mr. Boxer. “O’ course she was. She’s alive now—bless
her.”
He leaned back in his chair and regarded with intense satisfaction the
horrified faces of the group in front.
“You—you’ll go to jail for this,” cried Mrs. Gimpson, breathlessly.
“What is your first wife’s address?”
“I decline to answer that question,” said her son-in-law.
“What is your first wife’s address?” repeated Mrs. Gimpson.
“Ask the fortune-teller,” said Mr. Boxer, with an aggravating smile.
“And then get ’im up in the box as a witness, little bowl and all. He
can tell you more than I can.”
“I demand to know her name and address,” cried Mrs. Gimpson, putting a
bony arm around the waist of the trembling Mrs. Boxer.
“I decline to give it,” said Mr. Boxer, with great relish. “It ain’t
likely I’m going to give myself away like that; besides, it’s agin the
law for a man to criminate himself. You go on and start your bigamy
case, and call old red-eyes as a witness.”
Mrs. Gimpson gazed at him in speechless wrath and then stooping down
conversed in excited whispers with Mrs. Thompson. Mrs. Boxer crossed
over to her husband.
“Oh, John,” she wailed, “say it isn’t true, say it isn’t true.”
Mr. Boxer hesitated. “What’s the good o’ me saying anything?” he said,
doggedly.
“It isn’t true,” persisted his wife. “Say it isn’t true.”
“What I told you when I first came in this evening was quite true,”
said her husband, slowly. “And what I’ve just told you is as true as
what that lying old fortune-teller told you. You can please yourself
what you believe.”
“I believe you, John,” said his wife, humbly.
Mr. Boxer’s countenance cleared and he drew her on to his knee.
“That’s right,” he said, cheerfully. “So long as you believe in me I
don’t care what other people think. And before I’m much older I’ll find
out how that old rascal got to know the names of the ships I was
aboard. Seems to me somebody’s been talking.”