“Is it better?” he inquired.
“A little better,” said the victim, with a shiver.
Mr. Miller, in his emotion, was squeezing the handkerchief hard, and a cold stream was running down her neck.
“Thank you. It’s all right now.”
The dealer replaced the handkerchief, and sat for some time regarding her earnestly. Then the carpenter and his wife displaying manifest signs of impatience, he took his departure, after first inviting himself for another game of draughts the following night.
He walked home with the air of a conqueror, and thought exultingly that the two thousand pounds were his. It was a deal after his own heart, and not the least satisfactory part about it was the way he had got the better of Wiggett.
He completed his scheme the following day after a short interview with the useful Smith. By the afternoon Wiggett found that his exclusive information was common property, and all Thatcham was marvelling at the fortitude with which Mrs. Pullen was bearing the loss of her fortune. With a view of being out of the way when the denial was published, Mr. Miller, after loudly expressing in public his sympathy for Mrs. Pullen and his admiration of her qualities, drove over with some pigs to a neighbouring village, returning to Thatcham in the early evening. Then hurriedly putting his horse up he made his way to the carpenter’s.
The Tidgers were at home when he entered, and Mrs. Pullen flushed faintly as he shook hands.
“I was coming in before,” he said, impressively, “after what I heard this afternoon, but I had to drive over to Thorpe.”
“You ‘eard it?” inquired the carpenter, in an incredulous voice.
“Certainly,” said the dealer, “and very sorry I was. Sorry for one thing, but glad for another.”
The carpenter opened his mouth and seemed about to speak. Then he checked himself suddenly and gazed with interest at the ingenuous dealer.
“I’m glad,” said Mr. Miller, slowly, as he nodded at a friend of Mrs. Tidger’s who had just come in with a long face, “because now that Mrs. Pullen is poor, I can say to her what I couldn’t say while she was rich.”
Again the astonished carpenter was about to speak, but the dealer hastily checked him with his hand.
“One at a time,” he said. “Mrs. Pullen, I was very sorry to hear this afternoon, for your sake, that you had lost all your money. What I wanted to say to you now, now that you are poor, was to ask you to be Mrs. Miller. What d’ye say?”
Mrs. Pullen, touched at so much goodness, wept softly and said, “Yes.” The triumphant Miller took out his handkerchief — the same that he had used the previous night, for he was not an extravagant man — and tenderly wiped her eyes.
“Well, I’m blowed!” said the staring carpenter.
“I’ve got a nice little ‘ouse,” continued the wily Mr. Miller. “It’s a poor place, but nice, and we’ll play draughts every evening. When shall it be?”
“When you like,” said Mrs. Pullen, in a faint voice.
“I’ll put the banns up to-morrow,” said the dealer.
Mrs. Tidger’s lady friend giggled at so much haste, but Mrs. Tidger, who felt that she had misjudged him, was touched.
“It does you credit, Mr. Miller,” she said, warmly.
“No, no,” said the dealer; and then Mr. Tidger got up, and crossing the room, solemnly shook hands with him.
“Money or no money, she’ll make a good wife,” he said.
“I’m glad you’re pleased,” said the dealer, wondering at this cordiality.
“I don’t deny I thought you was after her money,” continued the carpenter, solemnly. “My missus thought so, too.”
Mr. Miller shook his head, and said he thought they would have known him better.
“Of course it is a great loss,” said the carpenter. “Money is money.”
“That’s all it is, though,” said the slightly mystified Mr. Miller.
“What I can’t understand is,” continued the carpenter, “‘ow the news got about. Why, the neighbours knew of it a couple of hours before we did.”
The dealer hid a grin. Then he looked a bit bewildered again.
“I assure you,” said the carpenter, “it was known in the town at least a couple of hours before we got the letter.”
Mr. Miller waited a minute to get perfect control over his features. “Letter?” he repeated, faintly.
“The letter from the lawyers,” said the carpenter.
Mr. Miller was silent again. His features were getting tiresome. He eyed the door furtively.
“What-was-in-the letter?” he asked.
“Short and sweet,” said the carpenter, with bitterness. “Said it was all a mistake, because they’d been and found another will. People shouldn’t make such mistakes.”
“We’re all liable to make mistakes,” said Miller, thinking he saw an opening.
“Yes, we made a mistake when we thought you was after Ann’s money,” assented the carpenter. “I’m sure I thought you’d be the last man in the world to be pleased to hear that she’d lost it. One thing is, you’ve got enough for both.”
Mr. Miller made no reply, but in a dazed way strove to realize the full measure of the misfortune which had befallen him. The neighbour, with the anxiety of her sex to be the first with a bit of news, had already taken her departure. He thought of Wiggett walking the earth a free man, and of Smith with a three-months’ bill for twenty pounds. His pride as a dealer was shattered beyond repair, and emerging from a species of mist, he became conscious that the carpenter was addressing him.
“We’ll leave you two young things alone.” .. figure:: images/011.jpg
“We’ll leave you two young things alone for a bit,” said Mr. Tidger, heartily. “We’re going out. When you’re tired o’ courting you can play draughts, and Ann will show you one or two of ‘er moves. So long.”
THREE AT TABLE
The talk in the coffee-room had been of ghosts and apparitions, and nearly everybody present had contributed his mite to the stock of information upon a hazy and somewhat thread-bare subject. Opinions ranged from rank incredulity to childlike faith, one believer going so far as to denounce unbelief as impious, with a reference to the Witch of Endor, which was somewhat marred by being complicated in an inexplicable fashion with the story of Jonah.
“Talking of Jonah,” he said solemnly, with a happy disregard of the fact that he had declined to answer several eager questions put to him on the subject, “look at the strange tales sailors tell us.”
“I wouldn’t advise you to believe all those,” said a bluff, clean-shaven man, who had been listening without speaking much. “You see when a sailor gets ashore he’s expected to have something to tell, and his friends would be rather disappointed if he had not.”
“It’s a well-known fact,” interrupted the first speaker firmly, “that sailors are very prone to see visions.”
“They are,” said the other dryly, “they generally see them in pairs, and the shock to the nervous system frequently causes headache next morning.”
“You never saw anything yourself?” suggested an unbeliever.
“Man and boy,” said the other, “I’ve been at sea thirty years, and the only unpleasant incident of that kind occurred in a quiet English countryside.”
“And that?” said another man.
“I was a young man at the time,” said the narrator, drawing at his pipe and glancing good-humouredly at the company. “I, had just come back from China, and my own people being away I went down into the country to invite myself to stay with an uncle. When I got down to the place I found it closed and the family in the South of France; but as they were due back in a couple of days I decided to put up at the Royal George, a very decent inn, and await their return.
“The first day I passed well enough; but in the evening the dulness of the rambling old place, in which I was the only visitor, began to weigh upon my spirits, and the next morning after a late breakfast I set out with the intention of having a brisk day�
�s walk.
“I started off in excellent spirits, for the day was bright and frosty, with a powdering of snow on the iron-bound roads and nipped hedges, and the country had to me all the charm of novelty. It was certainly flat, but there was plenty of timber, and the villages through which I passed were old and picturesque.
“I lunched luxuriously on bread and cheese and beer in the bar of a small inn, and resolved to go a little further before turning back. When at length I found I had gone far enough, I turned up a lane at right angles to the road I was passing, and resolved to find my way back by another route. It is a long lane that has no turning, but this had several, each of which had turnings of its own, which generally led, as I found by trying two or three of them, into the open marshes. Then, tired of lanes, I resolved to rely upon the small compass which hung from my watch chain and go across country home.
“I had got well into the marshes when a white fog, which had been for some time hovering round the edge of the ditches, began gradually to spread. There was no escaping it, but by aid of my compass I was saved from making a circular tour and fell instead into frozen ditches or stumbled over roots in the grass. I kept my course, however, until at four o’clock, when night was coming rapidly up to lend a hand to the fog, I was fain to confess myself lost.
“The compass was now no good to me, and I wandered about miserably, occasionally giving a shout on the chance of being heard by some passing shepherd or farmhand. At length by great good luck I found my feet on a rough road driven through the marshes, and by walking slowly and tapping with my stick managed to keep to it. I had followed it for some distance when I heard footsteps approaching me.
“We stopped as we met, and the new arrival, a sturdy-looking countryman, hearing of my plight, walked back with me for nearly a mile, and putting me on to a road gave me minute instructions how to reach a village some three miles distant.
“I was so tired that three miles sounded like ten, and besides that, a little way off from the road I saw dimly a lighted window. I pointed it out, but my companion shuddered and looked round him uneasily.
“‘You won’t get no good there,’ he said, hastily.
“‘Why not?’ I asked.
“‘There’s a something there, sir,’ he replied, ‘what ’tis I dunno, but the little ‘un belonging to a gamekeeper as used to live in these parts see it, and it was never much good afterward. Some say as it’s a poor mad thing, others says as it’s a kind of animal; but whatever it is, it ain’t good to see.’
“‘Well, I’ll keep on, then,’ I said. ‘Goodnight.’
“He went back whistling cheerily until his footsteps died away in the distance, and I followed the road he had indicated until it divided into three, any one of which to a stranger might be said to lead straight on. I was now cold and tired, and having half made up my mind walked slowly back toward the house.
“At first all I could see of it was the little patch of light at the window. I made for that until it disappeared suddenly, and I found myself walking into a tall hedge. I felt my way round this until I came to a small gate, and opening it cautiously, walked, not without some little nervousness, up a long path which led to the door. There was no light and no sound from within. Half repenting of my temerity I shortened my stick and knocked lightly upon the door.
“I waited a couple of minutes and then knocked again, and my stick was still beating the door when it opened suddenly and a tall bony old woman, holding a candle, confronted me.
“‘What do you want?’ she demanded gruffly.
“‘I’ve lost my way,’ I said, civilly; ‘I want to get to Ashville.’
“‘Don’t know it,’ said the old woman.
“She was about to close the door when a man emerged from a room at the side of the hall and came toward us. An old man of great height and breadth of shoulder.
“‘Ashville is fifteen miles distant,’ he said slowly.
“‘If you will direct me to the nearest village, I shall be grateful,’ I remarked.
“He made no reply, but exchanged a quick, furtive glance with the woman. She made a gesture of dissent.
“‘The nearest place is three miles off,’ he said, turning to me and apparently trying to soften a naturally harsh voice; ‘if you will give me the pleasure of your company, I will make you as comfortable as I can.’
“I hesitated. They were certainly a queer-looking couple, and the gloomy hall with the shadows thrown by the candle looked hardly more inviting than the darkness outside.
“‘You are very kind,’ I murmured, irresolutely, ‘but—’
“‘Come in,’ he said quickly; ‘shut the door, Anne.’
“Almost before I knew it I was standing inside and the old woman, muttering to herself, had closed the door behind me. With a queer sensation of being trapped I followed my host into the room, and taking the proffered chair warmed my frozen fingers at the fire.
“‘Dinner will soon be ready,’ said the old man, regarding me closely. ‘If you will excuse me.’
“I bowed and he left the room. A minute afterward I heard voices; his and the old woman’s, and, I fancied, a third. Before I had finished my inspection of the room he returned, and regarded me with the same strange look I had noticed before.
“‘There will be three of us at dinner,’ he said, at length. ‘We two and my son.’
“I bowed again, and secretly hoped that that look didn’t run in the family.
“‘I suppose you don’t mind dining in the dark,’ he said, abruptly.
“‘Not at all,’ I replied, hiding my surprise as well as I could, ‘but really I’m afraid I’m intruding. If you’ll allow me—’
“He waved his huge gaunt hands. ‘We’re not going to lose you now we’ve got you,’ he said, with a dry laugh. ‘It’s seldom we have company, and now we’ve got you we’ll keep you. My son’s eyes are bad, and he can’t stand the light. Ah, here is Anne.’
“As he spoke the old woman entered, and, eyeing me stealthily, began to lay the cloth, while my host, taking a chair the other side of the hearth, sat looking silently into the fire. The table set, the old woman brought in a pair of fowls ready carved in a dish, and placing three chairs, left the room. The old man hesitated a moment, and then, rising from his chair, placed a large screen in front of the fire and slowly extinguished the candles.
“‘Blind man’s holiday,’ he said, with clumsy jocosity, and groping his way to the door opened it. Somebody came back into the room with him, and in a slow, uncertain fashion took a seat at the table, and the strangest voice I have ever heard broke a silence which was fast becoming oppressive.
“‘A cold night,’ it said slowly.
“I replied in the affirmative, and light or no light, fell to with an appetite which had only been sharpened by the snack in the middle of the day. It was somewhat difficult eating in the dark, and it was evident from the behaviour of my invisible companions that they were as unused to dining under such circumstances as I was. We ate in silence until the old woman blundered into the room with some sweets and put them with a crash upon the table.
“‘Are you a stranger about here?’ inquired the curious voice again.
“I replied in the affirmative, and murmured something about my luck in stumbling upon such a good dinner.
“‘Stumbling is a very good word for it,’ said the voice grimly. ‘You have forgotten the port, father.’
“‘So I have,’ said the old man, rising. ‘It’s a bottle of the “Celebrated” to-day; I will get it myself.’
“He felt his way to the door, and closing it behind him, left me alone with my unseen neighbour. There was something so strange about the whole business that I must confess to more than a slight feeling of uneasiness.
“My host seemed to be absent a long time. I heard the man opposite lay down his fork and spoon, and half fancied I could see a pair of wild eyes shining through the gloom like a cat’s.
“With a growing sense of uneasiness I pushed
my chair back. It caught the hearthrug, and in my efforts to disentangle it the screen fell over with a crash and in the flickering light of the fire I saw the face of the creature opposite. With a sharp catch of my breath I left my chair and stood with clenched fists beside it. Man or beast, which was it? The flame leaped up and then went out, and in the mere red glow of the fire it looked more devilish than before.
“For a few moments we regarded each other in silence; then the door opened and the old man returned. He stood aghast as he saw the warm firelight, and then approaching the table mechanically put down a couple of bottles.
“‘I beg your pardon,’ said I, reassured by his presence, ‘but I have accidentally overturned the screen. Allow me to replace it.’
“‘No,’ said the old man, gently, ‘let it be.
“‘We have had enough of the dark. I’ll give you a light.’
“He struck a match and slowly lit the candles. Then — I saw that the man opposite had but the remnant of a face, a gaunt wolfish face in which one unquenched eye, the sole remaining feature, still glittered. I was greatly moved, some suspicion of the truth occurring to me.
“‘My son was injured some years ago in a burning house,’ said the old man. ‘Since then we have lived a very retired life. When you came to the door we—’ his voice trembled, ‘that is-my son—’
“‘I thought,” said the son simply, ‘that it would be better for me not to come to the dinner-table. But it happens to be my birthday, and my father would not hear of my dining alone, so we hit upon this foolish plan of dining in the dark. I’m sorry I startled you.’
“‘I am sorry,’ said I, as I reached across the table and gripped his hand, ‘that I am such a fool; but it was only in the dark that you startled me.’
“From a faint tinge in the old man’s cheek and a certain pleasant softening of the poor solitary eye in front of me I secretly congratulated myself upon this last remark.
“‘We never see a friend,’ said the old man, apologetically, ‘and the temptation to have company was too much for us. Besides, I don’t know what else you could have done.’
Works of W. W. Jacobs Page 177
