“Well, wot about it?” ses Mrs. Pearce.
“I’m coming to it,” ses Bill Flurry. “I’ve been two months trying to find you, so there’s no need to be in a hurry for a minute or two. Besides, what I’ve got to say ought to be broke gently, in case you faint away with joy.”
“Rubbish!” ses Mrs. Pearce. “I ain’t the fainting sort.”
“I ‘ope it’s nothing unpleasant,” ses George Hat-chard, pouring ‘im out a glass of whisky.
“Quite the opposite,” ses Bill. “It’s the best news she’s ‘eard for fifteen years.”
“Are you going to tell me wot you want, or ain’t you?” ses Mrs. Pearce.
“I’m coming to it,” ses Bill. “Six months ago I was in Melbourne, and one day I was strolling about looking in at the shop-winders, when all at once I thought I see a face I knew. It was a good bit older than when I see it last, and the whiskers was gray, but I says to myself—”
“I can see wot’s coming,” ses Mrs. Morgan, turning red with excitement and pinching Joe’s arm.
“I ses to myself,” ses Bill Flurry, “either that’s a ghost, I ses or else it’s Charlie—”
“Go on,” ses George Hatchard, as was sitting with ‘is fists clinched on the table and ‘is eyes wide open, staring at ‘im.
“Pearce,” ses Bill Flurry.
You might ‘ave heard a pin drop. They all sat staring at ‘im, and then George Hatchard took out ‘is handkerchief and ‘eld it up to ‘is face.
“But he was drownded in the Evening Star” ses Joe Morgan.
Bill Flurry didn’t answer ‘im. He poured out pretty near a tumbler of whisky and offered it to Mrs. Pearce, but she pushed it away, and, arter looking round in a ‘elpless sort of way and shaking his ‘ead once or twice, he finished it up ‘imself.
“It couldn’t ‘ave been ‘im,” ses George Hatchard, speaking through ‘is handkerchief. “I can’t believe it. It’s too cruel.”
“I tell you it was ‘im,” ses Bill. “He floated off on a spar when the ship went down, and was picked up two days arterwards by a bark and taken to New Zealand. He told me all about it, and he told me if ever I saw ‘is wife to give her ‘is kind regards.”
“Kind regards!” ses Joe Morgan, starting up. “Why didn’t he let ‘is wife know ‘e was alive?”
“That’s wot I said to ‘im,” ses Bill Flurry; “but he said he ‘ad ‘is reasons.”
“Ah, to be sure,” ses Mrs. Morgan, nodding. “Why, you and her can’t be married now,” she ses, turning to George Hatchard.
“Married?” ses Bill Flurry with a start, as George Hatchard gave a groan that surprised ‘im-self. “Good gracious! what a good job I found ‘er!”
“I s’pose you don’t know where he is to be found now?” ses Mrs. Pearce, in a low voice, turning to Bill.
“I do not, ma’am,” ses Bill, “but I think you’d find ‘im somewhere in Australia. He keeps changing ‘is name and shifting about, but I dare say you’d ‘ave as good a chance of finding ‘im as anybody.”
“It’s a terrible blow to me,” ses George Hatchard, dabbing his eyes.
“I know it is,” ses Mrs. Pearce; “but there, you men are all alike. I dare say if this hadn’t turned up you’d ha’ found something else.”
“Oh, ‘ow can you talk like that?” ses George Hatchard, very reproachful. “It’s the only thing in the world that could ‘ave prevented our getting married. I’m surprised at you.”
“Well, that’s all right, then,” ses Mrs. Pearce, “and we’ll get married after all.”
“But you can’t,” ses Alf.
“It’s bigamy,” ses Joe Morgan.
“You’d get six months,” ses his wife.
“Don’t you worry, dear,” ses Mrs. Pearce, nodding at George Hatchard; “that man’s made a mistake.”
“Mistake!” ses Bill Flurry. “Why, I tell you I talked to ‘im. It was Charlie Pearce right enough; scar on ‘is forehead and a wart on ‘is left ear and all.”
“It’s wonderful,” ses Mrs. Pearce. “I can’t think where you got it all from.”
“Got it all from?” ses Bill, staring at her. “Why, from ‘im.”
“Oh, of course,” ses Mrs. Pearce. “I didn’t think of that; but that only makes it the more wonderful, doesn’t it? — because, you see, he didn’t go on the Evening Star.”
“Wot?” ses George Hatchard. “Why you told me yourself—”
“I know I did,” ses Mrs. Pearce, “but that was only just to spare your feelings. Charlie was going to sea in her, but he was prevented.”
“Prevented?” ses two or three of ’em.
“Yes,” ses Mrs. Pearce; “the night afore he was to ‘ave sailed there was some silly mistake over a diamond ring, and he got five years. He gave a different name at the police-station, and naturally everybody thought ‘e went down with the ship. And when he died in prison I didn’t undeceive ’em.”
She took out her ‘andkerchief, and while she was busy with it Bill Flurry got up and went out on tiptoe. Young Alf got up a second or two arterwards to see where he’d gone; and the last Joe Morgan and his missis see of the happy couple they was sitting on one chair, and George Hatchard was making desprit and ‘artrending attempts to smile.
A DISTANT RELATIVE
MR. POTTER had just taken Ethel Spriggs into the kitchen to say good-by; in the small front room Mr. Spriggs, with his fingers already fumbling at the linen collar of ceremony, waited impatiently.
“They get longer and longer over their good-bys,” he complained.
“It’s only natural,” said Mrs. Spriggs, looking up from a piece of fine sewing. “Don’t you remember—”
“No, I don’t,” said her husband, doggedly. “I know that your pore father never ‘ad to put on a collar for me; and, mind you, I won’t wear one after they’re married, not if you all went on your bended knees and asked me to.”
He composed his face as the door opened, and nodded good-night to the rather over-dressed young man who came through the room with his daughter.
The latter opened the front-door and passing out with Mr. Potter, held it slightly open. A penetrating draught played upon the exasperated Mr. Spriggs. He coughed loudly.
“Your father’s got a cold,” said Mr. Potter, in a concerned voice.
“No; it’s only too much smoking,” said the girl. “He’s smoking all day long.” The indignant Mr. Spriggs coughed again; but the young people had found a new subject of conversation. It ended some minutes later in a playful scuffle, during which the door acted the part of a ventilating fan.
“It’s only for another fortnight,” said Mrs. Spriggs, hastily, as her husband rose.
“After they’re spliced,” said the vindictive Mr. Spriggs, resuming his seat, “I’ll go round and I’ll play about with their front-door till—”
He broke off abruptly as his daughter, darting into the room, closed the door with a bang that nearly extinguished the lamp, and turned the key. Before her flushed and laughing face Mr. Spriggs held his peace.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, eying him. “What are you looking like that for?”
“Too much draught — for your mother,” said Mr. Spriggs, feebly. “I’m afraid of her asthma agin.”
He fell to work on the collar once more, and, escaping at last from the clutches of that enemy, laid it on the table and unlaced his boots. An attempt to remove his coat was promptly frustrated by his daughter.
“You’ll get doing it when you come round to see us,” she explained.
Mr. Spriggs sighed, and lighting a short clay pipe — forbidden in the presence of his future son-in-law — fell to watching mother and daughter as they gloated over dress materials and discussed double-widths.
“Anybody who can’t be ‘appy with her,” he said, half an hour later, as his daughter slapped his head by way of bidding him good-night, and retired, “don’t deserve to be ‘appy.”
“I wish it was over,” whispered his wife. “She�
�ll break her heart if anything happens, and — and Gus-sie will be out now in a day or two.”
“A gal can’t ‘elp what her uncle does,” said Mr. Spriggs, fiercely; “if Alfred throws her over for that, he’s no man.”
“Pride is his great fault,” said his wife, mournfully. .
“It’s no good taking up troubles afore they come,” observed Mr. Spriggs. “P’r’aps Gussie won’t come ere.
“He’ll come straight here,” said his wife, with conviction; “he’ll come straight here and try and make a fuss of me, same as he used to do when we was children and I’d got a ha’penny. I know him.”
“Cheer up, old gal,” said Mr. Spriggs; “if he does, we must try and get rid of ‘im; and, if he won’t go, we must tell Alfred that he’s been to Australia, same as we did Ethel.”
His wife smiled faintly.
“That’s the ticket,” continued Mr. Spriggs. “For one thing, I b’leeve he’ll be ashamed to show his face here; but, if he does, he’s come back from Australia. See? It’ll make it nicer for ‘im too. You don’t suppose he wants to boast of where he’s been?”
“And suppose he comes while Alfred is here?” said his wife.
“Then I say, ‘How ‘ave you left ’em all in Australia?’ and wink at him,” said the ready Mr. Spriggs.
“And s’pose you’re not here?” objected his wife.
“Then you say it and wink at him,” was the reply. “No; I know you can’t,” he added, hastily, as Mrs. Spriggs raised another objection; “you’ve been too well brought up. Still, you can try.”
It was a slight comfort to Mrs. Spriggs that Mr. Augustus Price did, after all, choose a convenient time for his reappearance. A faint knock sounded on the door two days afterwards as she sat at tea with her husband, and an anxious face with somewhat furtive eyes was thrust into the room.
“Emma!” said a mournful voice, as the upper part of the intruder’s body followed the face.
“Gussie!” said Mrs. Spriggs, rising in disorder.
Mr. Price drew his legs into the room, and, closing the door with extraordinary care, passed the cuff of his coat across his eyes and surveyed them tenderly.
“I’ve come home to die,” he said, slowly, and, tottering across the room, embraced his sister with much unction.
“What are you going to die of?” inquired Mr. Spriggs, reluctantly accepting the extended hand.
“Broken ‘art, George,” replied his brother-in-law, sinking into a chair.
Mr. Spriggs grunted, and, moving his chair a little farther away, watched the intruder as his wife handed him a plate. A troubled glance from his wife reminded him of their arrangements for the occasion, and he cleared his throat several times in vain attempts to begin.
“I’m sorry that we can’t ask you to stay with us, Gussie, ‘specially as you’re so ill,” he said, at last; “but p’r’aps you’ll be better after picking a bit.”
Mr. Price, who was about to take a slice of bread and butter, refrained, and, closing his eyes, uttered a faint moan. “I sha’n’t last the night,” he muttered.
“That’s just it,” said Mr. Spriggs, eagerly. “You see, Ethel is going to be married in a fortnight, and if you died here that would put it off.”
“I might last longer if I was took care of,” said the other, opening his eyes.
“And, besides, Ethel don’t know where you’ve been,” continued Mr. Spriggs. “We told ‘er that you had gone to Australia. She’s going to marry a very partikler young chap — a grocer — and if he found it out it might be awk’ard.”
Mr. Price closed his eyes again, but the lids quivered.
“It took ‘im some time to get over me being a bricklayer,” pursued Mr. Spriggs. “What he’d say to you—”
“Tell ‘im I’ve come back from Australia, if you like,” said Mr. Price, faintly. “I don’t mind.”
Mr. Spriggs cleared his throat again. “But, you see, we told Ethel as you was doing well out there,” he said, with an embarrassed laugh, “and girl-like, and Alfred talking a good deal about his relations, she — she’s made the most of it.”
“It don’t matter,” said the complaisant Mr. Price; “you say what you like. I sha’n’t interfere with you.”
“But, you see, you don’t look as though you’ve been making money,” said his sister, impatiently. “Look at your clothes.”
Mr. Price held up his hand. “That’s easy got over,” he remarked; “while I’m having a bit of tea George can go out and buy me some new ones. You get what you think I should look richest in, George — a black tail-coat would be best, I should think, but I leave it to you. A bit of a fancy waistcoat, p’r’aps, lightish trousers, and a pair o’ nice boots, easy sevens.”
He sat upright in his chair and, ignoring the look of consternation that passed between husband and wife, poured himself out a cup of tea and took a slice of cake.
“Have you got any money?” said Mr. Spriggs, after a long pause.
“I left it behind me — in Australia,” said Mr. Price, with ill-timed facetiousness.
“Getting better, ain’t you?” said his brother-in-law, sharply. “How’s that broken ‘art getting on?”
“It’ll go all right under a fancy waistcoat,” was the reply; “and while you’re about it, George, you’d better get me a scarf-pin, and, if you could run to a gold watch and chain—”
He was interrupted by a frenzied outburst from Mr. Spriggs; a somewhat incoherent summary of Mr. Price’s past, coupled with unlawful and heathenish hopes for his future.
“You’re wasting time,” said Mr. Price, calmly, as he paused for breath. “Don’t get ’em if you don’t want to. I’m trying to help you, that’s all. I don’t mind anybody knowing where I’ve been. I was innercent. If you will give way to sinful pride you must pay for it.”
Mr. Spriggs, by a great effort, regained his self-control. “Will you go away if I give you a quid?” he asked, quietly.
“No,” said Mr. Price, with a placid smile. “I’ve got a better idea of the value of money than that. Besides, I want to see my dear niece, and see whether that young man’s good enough for her.”
“Two quid?” suggested his brother-in-law. Mr. Price shook his head. “I couldn’t do it,” he said, calmly. “In justice to myself I couldn’t do it. You’ll be feeling lonely when you lose Ethel, and I’ll stay and keep you company.”
The bricklayer nearly broke out again; but, obeying a glance from his wife, closed his lips and followed her obediently upstairs. Mr. Price, filling his pipe from a paper of tobacco on the mantelpiece, winked at himself encouragingly in the glass, and smiled gently as he heard the chinking of coins upstairs.
“Be, careful about the size,” he said, as Mr. Spriggs came down and took his hat from a nail; “about a couple of inches shorter than yourself and not near so much round the waist.”
Mr. Spriggs regarded him sternly for a few seconds, and then, closing the door with a bang, went off down the street. Left alone, Mr. Price strolled about the room investigating, and then, drawing an easy-chair up to the fire, put his feet on the fender and relapsed into thought.
Two hours later he sat in the same place, a changed and resplendent being. His thin legs were hidden in light check trousers, and the companion waistcoat to Joseph’s Coat graced the upper part of his body. A large chrysanthemum in the button-hole of his frock-coat completed the picture of an Australian millionaire, as understood by Mr. Spriggs.
“A nice watch and chain, and a little money in my pockets, and I shall be all right,” murmured Mr. Price.
“You won’t get any more out o’ me,” said Mr. Spriggs, fiercely. “I’ve spent every farthing I’ve got.”
“Except what’s in the bank,” said his brother-in-law. “It’ll take you a day or two to get at it, I know. S’pose we say Saturday for the watch and chain?”
Mr. Spriggs looked helplessly at his wife, but she avoided his gaze. He turned and gazed in a fascinated fashion at Mr. Price, and received a c
heerful nod in return.
“I’ll come with you and help choose it,” said the latter. “It’ll save you trouble if it don’t save your pocket.”
He thrust his hands in his trouser-pockets and, spreading his legs wide apart, tilted his head back and blew smoke to the ceiling. He was in the same easy position when Ethel arrived home accompanied by Mr. Potter.
“It’s — it’s your Uncle Gussie,” said Mrs. Spriggs, as the girl stood eying the visitor.
“From Australia,” said her husband, thickly.
Mr. Price smiled, and his niece, noticing that he removed his pipe and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, crossed over and kissed his eyebrow. Mr. Potter was then introduced and received a gracious reception, Mr. Price commenting on the extraordinary likeness he bore to a young friend of his who had just come in for forty thousand a year.
“That’s nearly as much as you’re worth, uncle, isn’t it?” inquired Miss Spriggs, daringly.
Mr. Price shook his head at her and pondered. “Rather more,” he said, at last, “rather more.”
Mr. Potter caught his breath sharply; Mr. Spriggs, who was stooping to get a light for his pipe, nearly fell into the fire. There was an impressive silence.
“Money isn’t everything,” said Mr. Price, looking round and shaking his head. “It’s not much good, except to give away.”
His eye roved round the room and came to rest finally upon Mr. Potter. The young man noticed with a thrill that it beamed with benevolence.
“Fancy coming over without saying a word to anybody, and taking us all by surprise like this!” said Ethel.
“I felt I must see you all once more before I died,” said her uncle, simply. “Just a flying visit I meant it to be, but your father and mother won’t hear of my going back just yet.”
“Of course not,” said Ethel, who was helping the silent Mrs. Spriggs to lay supper.
“When I talked of going your father ‘eld me down in my chair,” continued the veracious Mr. Price.
“Quite right, too,” said the girl. “Now draw your chair up and have some supper, and tell us all about Australia.”
Works of W. W. Jacobs Page 214
