Ship's Company, the Entire Collection
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“P’r’aps you’d better start, in case she reckernizes my voice,” he said, slowly. “Pitch it in strong about me and ‘ow I was always wondering what had ‘appened to her.”
“You’re in luck, that’s wot you are,” said his friend, enviously. “I’ve only seen furniture like thiss in shop windows before. H’sh! Here she comes.”
He started, and both men tried to look at their ease as a stiff rustling sounded from the stairs. Then the door opened and a tall, stoutly-built old lady with white hair swept into the room and stood regarding them.
Mr. Davis, unprepared for the changes wrought by thirty-five years, stared at her aghast. The black silk dress, the gold watch-chain, and huge cameo brooch did not help to reassure him.
“Good-good afternoon, ma’am,” said Mr. Wotton, in a thin voice.
The old lady returned the greeting, and, crossing to a chair and seating herself in a very upright fashion, regarded him calmly.
“We—we called to see you about a dear old pal—friend, I mean,” continued Mr. Wotton; “one o’ the best. The best.”
“Yes?” said the old lady.
“He’s been missing,” said Mr. Wotton, watching closely for any symptoms of fainting, “for thir-ty-five years. Thir-ty-five years ago-very much against his wish-he left ‘is young and handsome wife to go for a sea v’y’ge, and was shipwrecked and cast away on a desert island.”
“Yes?” said the old lady again.
“I was cast away with ‘im,” said Mr. Wotton. “Both of us was cast away with him.”
He indicated Mr. Davis with his hand, and the old lady, after a glance at that gentleman, turned to Mr. Wotton again.
“We was on that island for longer than I like to think of,” continued Mr. Wotton, who had a wholesome dread of dates. “But we was rescued at last, and ever since then he has been hunting high and low for his wife.”
“It’s very interesting,” murmured the old lady; “but what has it got to do with me?”
Mr. Wotton gasped, and cast a helpless glance at his friend.
“You ain’t heard his name yet,” he said, impressively. “Wot would you say if I said it was—Ben Davis?”
“I should say it wasn’t true,” said the old lady, promptly.
“Not—true?” said Mr. Wotton, catching his breath painfully. “Wish I may die–”
“About the desert island,” continued the old lady, calmly. “The story that I heard was that he went off like a cur and left his young wife to do the best she could for herself. I suppose he’s heard since that she has come in for a bit of money.”
“Money!” repeated Mr. Wotton, in a voice that he fondly hoped expressed artless surprise. “Money!”
“Money,” said the old lady; “and I suppose he sent you two gentlemen round to see how the land lay.”
She was looking full at Mr. Davis as she spoke, and both men began to take a somewhat sombre view of the situation.
“You didn’t know him, else you wouldn’t talk like that,” said Mr. Wotton. “I don’t suppose you’d know ‘im if you was to see him now.”
“I don’t suppose I should,” said the other.
“P’r’aps you’d reckernize his voice?” said Mr. Davis, breaking silence at last.
Mr. Wotton held his breath, but the old lady merely shook her head thoughtfully. “It was a disagreeable voice when his wife used to hear it,” she said at last. “Always fault-finding, when it wasn’t swearing.”
Mr. Wotton glanced at his friend, and, raising his eyebrows slightly, gave up his task. “Might ha’ been faults on both sides,” said Mr. Davis, gruffly. “You weren’t all that you should ha’ been, you know.”
“Me!” said his hostess, raising her voice.
“Yes, you,” said Mr. Davis, rising. “Don’t you know me, Mary? Why, I knew you the moment you come into the room.”
He moved towards her awkwardly, but she rose in her turn and drew back.
“If you touch me I’ll scream,” she said, firmly. “How dare you. Why, I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“It’s Ben Davis, ma’am; it’s ‘im, right enough,” said Mr. Wotton, meekly.
“Hold your tongue,” said the old lady.
“Look at me!” commanded Mr. Davis, sternly. “Look at me straight in the eye.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” said the other, sharply. “Look you in the eye, indeed! I don’t want to look in your eye. What would people think?”
“Let ‘em think wot they like,” said Mr. Davis, recklessly. “This is a nice home-coming after being away thirty-five years.”
“Most of it on a desert island,” put in Mr. Wotton, pathetically.
“And now I’ve come back,” resumed Mr. Davis; “come back to stop.”
He hung his cap on a vase on the mantelpiece that reeled under the shock, and, dropping into his chair again, crossed his legs and eyed her sternly. Her gaze was riveted on his dilapidated boots. She looked up and spoke mildly.
“You’re not my husband,” she said. “You’ve made a mistake—I think you had better go.”
“Ho!” said Mr. Davis, with a hard laugh. “Indeed! And ‘ow do you know I’m not?”
“For the best of reasons,” was the reply. “Besides, how can you prove that you are? Thirty-five years is a long time.”
“‘Specially on a desert island,” said Mr. Wotton, rapidly. “You’d be surprised ‘ow slow the time passes. I was there with ‘im, and I can lay my hand on my ‘art and assure you that that is your husband.”
“Nonsense!” said the old lady, vigorously. “Rubbish!”
“I can prove it,” said Mr. Davis, fixing her with a glittering eye. “Do you remember the serpent I ‘ad tattooed on my leg for a garter?”
“If you don’t go at once,” said the old lady, hastily, “I’ll send for the police.”
“You used to admire it,” said Mr. Davis, reproachfully. “I remember once–”
“If you say another word,” said the other, in a fierce voice, “I’ll send straight off for the police. You and your serpents! I’ll tell my husband of you, that’s what I’ll do.”
“Your WHAT?” roared Mr. Davis, springing to his feet.
“My husband. He won’t stand any of your nonsense, I can tell you. You’d better go before he comes in.”
“O-oh,” said Mr. Davis, taking a long breath. “Oh, so you been and got married again, ‘ave you? That’s your love for your husband as was cast away while trying to earn a living for you. That’s why you don’t want me, is it? We’ll see. I’ll wait for him.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the other, with great dignity. “I’ve only been married once.”
Mr. Davis passed the back of his hand across his eyes in a dazed fashion and stared at her.
“Is—is somebody passing himself off as me?” he demanded. “‘Cos if he is I’ll ‘ave you both up for bigamy.”
“Certainly not.”
“But—but—”
Mr. Davis turned and looked blankly at his friend. Mr. Wotton met his gaze with dilated eyes.
“You say you recognize me as your wife?” said the old lady.
“Certainly,” said Mr. Davis, hotly.
“It’s very curious,” said the other—“very. But are you sure? Look again.”
Mr. Davis thrust his face close to hers and stared hard. She bore his scrutiny without flinching.
“I’m positive certain,” said Mr. Davis, taking a breath.
“That’s very curious,” said the old lady; “but, then, I suppose we are a bit alike. You see, Mrs. Davis being away, I’m looking after her house for a bit. My name happens to be Smith.”
Mr. Davis uttered a sharp exclamation, and, falling back a step, stared at her open-mouthed.
“We all make mistakes,” urged Mr. Wotton, after a long silence, “and Ben’s sight ain’t wot it used to be. He strained it looking out for a sail when we was on that desert–”
“When—when’ll she be back?” inquired Mr. Davis, finding his voice at last.
The old lady affected to look puzzled. “But I thought you were certain that I was your wife?” she said, smoothly.
“My mistake,” said Mr. Davis, ruefully. “Thirty-five years is a long time and people change a bit; I have myself. For one thing, I must say I didn’t expect to find ‘er so stout.”
“Stout!” repeated the other, quickly.
“Not that I mean you’re too stout,” said Mr. Davis, hurriedly—“for people that like stoutness, that is. My wife used to ‘ave a very good figger.”
Mr. Wotton nodded. “He used to rave about it on that des–”
“When will she be back?” inquired Mr. Davis, interrupting him.
Mrs. Smith shook her head. “I can’t say,” she replied, moving towards the door. “When she’s off holidaying, I never know when she’ll return. Shall I tell her you called?”
“Tell her I–certainly,” said Mr. Davis, with great vehemence. “I’ll come in a week’s time and see if she’s back.”
“She might be away for months,” said the old lady, moving slowly to the passage and opening the street door. “Good-afternoon.”
She closed the door behind them and stood watching them through the glass as they passed disconsolately into the street. Then she went back into the parlour, and standing before the mantelpiece, looked long and earnestly into the mirror.
Mr. Davis returned a week later—alone, and, pausing at the gate, glanced in dismay at a bill in the window announcing that the house was to be sold. He walked up the path still looking at it, and being admitted by the trim servant was shown into the parlour, and stood in a dispirited fashion before Mrs. Smith.
“Not back yet?” he inquired, gruffly.
The old lady shook her head.
“What—what—is that bill for?” demanded Mr. Davis, jerking his thumb towards it.
“She is thinking of selling the house,” said Mrs. Smith. “I let her know you had been, and that is, the result. She won’t comeback. You won’t see her again.”
“Where is she?” inquired Mr. Davis, frowning.
Mrs. Smith shook her head again. “And it would be no use my telling you,” she said. “What she has got is her own, and the law won’t let you touch a penny of it without her consent. You must have treated her badly; why did you leave her?”
“Why?” repeated Mr. Davis. “Why? Why, because she hit me over the ‘ead with a broom-handle.”
Mrs. Smith tossed her head.
“Fancy you remembering that for thirty-five years!” she said.
“Fancy forgetting it!” retorted Mr. Davis.
“I suppose she had a hot temper,” said the old lady.
“‘Ot temper?” said the other. “Yes.” He leaned forward, and holding his chilled hands over the fire stood for some time deep in thought.
“I don’t know what it is,” he said at last, “but there’s a something about you that reminds me of her. It ain’t your voice, ‘cos she had a very nice voice—when she wasn’t in a temper—and it ain’t your face, because—”
“Yes?” said Mrs. Smith, sharply. “Because it don’t remind me of her.”
“And yet the other day you said you recognized me at once,” said the old lady.
“I thought I did,” said Mr. Davis. “One thing is, I was expecting to see her, I s’pose.”
There was a long silence.
“Well, I won’t keep you,” said Mrs. Smith at last, “and it’s no good for you to keep coming here to see her. She will never come here again. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you don’t look over and above respectable. Your coat is torn, your trousers are patched in a dozen places, and your boots are half off your feet—I don’t know what the servant must think.”
“I—I only came to look for my wife,” said Mr. Davis, in a startled voice. “I won’t come again.”
“That’s right,” said the old lady. “That’ll please her, I know. And if she should happen to ask what sort of a living you are making, what shall I tell her?”
“Tell her what you said about my clothes, ma’am,” said Mr. Davis, with his hand on the door-knob. “She’ll understand then. She’s known wot it is to be poor herself. She’d got a bad temper, but she’d have cut her tongue out afore she’d ‘ave thrown a poor devil’s rags in his face. Good-afternoon.”
“Good-afternoon, Ben,” said the old woman, in a changed voice.
Mr. Davis, half-way through the door, started as though he had been shot, and, facing about, stood eyeing her in dumb bewilderment.
“If I take you back again,” repeated his wife, “are you going to behave yourself?”
“It isn’t the same voice and it isn’t the same face,” said the old woman; “but if I’d only got a broomhandle handy–”
Mr. Davis made an odd noise in his throat.
“If you hadn’t been so down on your luck,” said his wife, blinking her eyes rapidly, “I’d have let you go. If you hadn’t looked ‘so miserable I could have stood it. If I take you back, are you going to behave yourself?”
Mr. Davis stood gaping at her.
“If I take you back again,” repeated his wife, speaking very slowly, “are you going to behave yourself?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Davis, finding his voice at last. “Yes, if you are.”
THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA
“What I want you to do,” said Mr. George Wright, as he leaned towards the old sailor, “is to be an uncle to me.”
“Aye, aye,” said the mystified Mr. Kemp, pausing with a mug of beer midway to his lips.
“A rich uncle,” continued the young man, lowering his voice to prevent any keen ears in the next bar from acquiring useless knowledge. “An uncle from New Zealand, who is going to leave me all ‘is money.”
“Where’s it coming from?” demanded Mr. Kemp, with a little excitement.
“It ain’t coming,” was the reply. “You’ve only got to say you’ve got it. Fact of the matter is, I’ve got my eye on a young lady; there’s another chap after ‘er too, and if she thought I’d got a rich uncle it might make all the difference. She knows I ‘ad an uncle that went to New Zealand and was never heard of since. That’s what made me think of it.”
Mr. Kemp drank his beer in thoughtful silence. “How can I be a rich uncle without any brass?” he inquired at length.
“I should ‘ave to lend you some—a little,” said Mr. Wright.
The old man pondered. “I’ve had money lent me before,” he said, candidly, “but I can’t call to mind ever paying it back. I always meant to, but that’s as far as it got.”
“It don’t matter,” said the other. “It’ll only be for a little while, and then you’ll ‘ave a letter calling you back to New Zealand. See? And you’ll go back, promising to come home in a year’s time, after you’ve wound up your business, and leave us all your money. See?”
Mr. Kemp scratched the back of his neck. “But she’s sure to find it out in time,” he objected.
“P’r’aps,” said Mr. Wright. “And p’r’aps not. There’ll be plenty of time for me to get married before she does, and you could write back and say you had got married yourself, or given your money to a hospital.”
He ordered some more beer for Mr. Kemp, and in a low voice gave him as much of the family history as he considered necessary.
“I’ve only known you for about ten days,” he concluded, “but I’d sooner trust you than people I’ve known for years.”
“I took a fancy to you the moment I set eyes on you,” rejoined Mr. Kemp. “You’re the living image of a young fellow that lent me five pounds once, and was drowned afore my eyes the week after. He ‘ad a bit of a squint, and I s’pose that’s how he came to fall overboard.”
He emptied his mug, and then, accompanied by Mr. Wright, fetched his sea-chest from the boarding-house where he was staying, and took it to the young man’s lodgings. Fortunately for the latter’s pocket the chest contained a good best suit and boots, and the only expenses incurred were for a large, soft felt hat and a gilded watch and chain. Dressed in his best, with a bulging pocket-book in his breast-pocket, he set out with Mr. Wright on the following evening to make his first call.
Mr. Wright, who was also in his best clothes, led the way to a small tobacconist’s in a side street off the Mile End Road, and, raising his hat with some ceremony, shook hands with a good-looking young woman who stood behind the counter: Mr. Kemp, adopting an air of scornful dignity intended to indicate the possession of great wealth, waited.
“This is my uncle,” said Mr. Wright, speaking rapidly, “from New Zealand, the one I spoke to you about. He turned up last night, and you might have knocked me down with a feather. The last person in the world I expected to see.”
Mr. Kemp, in a good rolling voice, said, “Good evening, miss; I hope you are well,” and, subsiding into a chair, asked for a cigar. His surprise when he found that the best cigar they stocked only cost sixpence almost assumed the dimensions of a grievance.
“It’ll do to go on with,” he said, smelling it suspiciously. “Have you got change for a fifty-pound note?”
Miss Bradshaw, concealing her surprise by an effort, said that she would see, and was scanning the contents of a drawer, when Mr. Kemp in some haste discovered a few odd sovereigns in his waistcoat-pocket. Five minutes later he was sitting in the little room behind the shop, holding forth to an admiring audience.
“So far as I know,” he said, in reply to a question of Mrs. Bradshaw’s, “George is the only relation I’ve got. Him and me are quite alone, and I can tell you I was glad to find him.”
Mrs. Bradshaw sighed. “It’s a pity you are so far apart,” she said.
“It’s not for long,” said Mr. Kemp. “I’m just going back for about a year to wind up things out there, and then I’m coming back to leave my old bones over here. George has very kindly offered to let me live with him.”
“He won’t suffer for it, I’ll be bound,” said Mrs. Bradshaw, archly.
“So far as money goes he won’t,” said the old man. “Not that that would make any difference to George.”
“It would be the same to me if you hadn’t got a farthing,” said Mr. Wright, promptly.
Mr. Kemp, somewhat affected, shook hands with him, and leaning back in the most comfortable chair in the room, described his life and struggles in New Zealand. Hard work, teetotalism, and the simple life combined appeared to be responsible for a fortune which he affected to be too old to enjoy. Misunderstandings of a painful nature were avoided by a timely admission that under medical advice he was now taking a fair amount of stimulant.
“Mind,” he said, as he walked home with the elated George, “it’s your game, not mine, and it’s sure to come a bit expensive. I can’t be a rich uncle without spending a bit. ‘Ow much did you say you’d got in the bank?”
“We must be as careful as we can,” said Mr. Wright, hastily. “One thing is they can’t leave the shop to go out much. It’s a very good little business, and it ought to be all right for me and Bella one of these days, eh?”
Mr. Kemp, prompted by a nudge in the ribs, assented. “It’s wonderful how they took it all in about me,” he said; “but I feel certain in my own mind that I ought to chuck some money about.”
“Tell ‘em of the money you have chucked about,” said Mr. Wright. “It’ll do just as well, and come a good deal cheaper. And you had better go round alone to-morrow evening. It’ll look better. Just go in for another one of their sixpenny cigars.”
Mr. Kemp obeyed, and the following evening, after sitting a little while chatting in the shop, was invited into the parlour, where, mindful of Mr. Wright’s instructions, he held his listeners enthralled by tales of past expenditure. A tip of fifty pounds to his bedroom steward coming over was characterized by Mrs. Bradshaw as extravagant.
“Seems to be going all right,” said Mr. Wright, as the old man made his report; “but be careful; don’t go overdoing it.”
Mr. Kemp nodded. “I can turn ‘em round my little finger,” he said. “You’ll have Bella all to yourself to-morrow evening.”
Mr. Wright flushed. “How did you manage that?” he inquired. “It’s the first time she has ever been out with me alone.”
“She ain’t coming out,” said Mr. Kemp. “She’s going to stay at home and mind the shop; it’s the mother what’s coming out. Going to spend the evening with me!”
Mr. Wright frowned. “What did you do that for?” he demanded, hotly.
“I didn’t do it,” said Mr. Kemp, equably; “they done it. The old lady says that, just for once in her life, she wants to see how it feels to spend money like water.”
“Money like water!” repeated the horrified Mr. Wright. “Money like— I’ll ‘money’ her—I’ll–”
“It don’t matter to me,” said Mr. Kemp. “I can have a headache or a chill, or something of that sort, if you like. I don’t want to go. It’s no pleasure to me.”
“What will it cost?” demanded Mr. Wright, pacing up and down the room.
The rich uncle made a calculation. “She wants to go to a place called the Empire,” he said, slowly, “and have something for supper, and there’d be cabs and things. I dessay it would cost a couple o’ pounds, and it might be more. But I’d just as soon ave’ a chill—just.”
Mr. Wright groaned, and after talking of Mrs. Bradshaw as though she were already his mother-in-law, produced the money. His instructions as to economy lasted almost up to the moment when he stood with Bella outside the shop on the following evening and watched the couple go off.
“It’s wonderful how well they get on together,” said Bella, as they re-entered the shop and passed into the parlour. “I’ve never seen mother take to anybody so quick as she has to him.”
“I hope you like him, too,” said Mr. Wright.
“He’s a dear,” said Bella. “Fancy having all that money. I wonder what it feels like?”
“I suppose I shall know some day,” said the young man, slowly; “but it won’t be much good to me unless–”
“Unless?” said Bella, after a pause.
“Unless it gives me what I want,” replied the other. “I’d sooner be a poor man and married to the girl I love, than a millionaire.”
Miss Bradshaw stole an uneasy glance at his somewhat sallow features, and became thoughtful.
“It’s no good having diamonds and motor-cars and that sort of thing unless you have somebody to share them with,” pursued Mr. Wright.
Miss Bradshaw’s eyes sparkled, and at that moment the shop-bell tinkled and a lively whistle sounded. She rose and went into the shop, and Mr. Wright settled back in his chair and scowled darkly as he saw the intruder.
“Good evening,” said the latter. “I want a sixpenny smoke for twopence, please. How are we this evening? Sitting up and taking nourishment?”
Miss Bradshaw told him to behave himself.
“Always do,” said the young man. “That’s why I can never get anybody to play with. I had such an awful dream about you last night that I couldn’t rest till I saw you. Awful it was.”
“What was it?” inquired Miss Bradshaw.
“Dreamt you were married,” said Mr. Hills, smiling at her.
Miss Bradshaw tossed her head. “Who to, pray?” she inquired.
“Me,” said Mr. Hills, simply. “I woke up in a cold perspiration. Halloa! is that Georgie in there? How are you, George? Better?”
“I’m all right,” said Mr. Wright, with dignity, as the other hooked the door open with his stick and nodded at him.
“Well, why don’t you look it?” demanded the lively Mr. Hills. “Have you got your feet wet, or what?”
“Oh, be quiet,” said Miss Bradshaw, smiling at him.
“Right-o,” said Mr. Hills, dropping into a chair by the counter and caressing his moustache. “But you wouldn’t speak to me like that if you knew what a terrible day I’ve had.”
“What have you been doing?” asked the girl.
“Working,” said the other, with a huge sigh. “Where’s the millionaire? I came round on purpose to have a look at him.”
“Him and mother have gone to the Empire?” said Miss Bradshaw.
Mr. Hills gave three long, penetrating whistles, and then, placing his cigar with great care on the counter, hid his face in a huge handkerchief. Miss Bradshaw, glanced from him to the frowning Mr. Wright, and then, entering the parlour, closed the door with a bang. Mr. Hills took the hint, and with a somewhat thoughtful grin departed.
He came in next evening for another cigar, and heard all that there was to hear about the Empire. Mrs. Bradshaw would have treated him but coldly, but the innocent Mr. Kemp, charmed by his manner, paid him great attention.
“He’s just like what I was at his age,” he said. “Lively.”
“I’m not a patch on you,” said Mr. Hills, edging his way by slow degrees into the parlour. “I don’t take young ladies to the Empire. Were you telling me you came over here to get married, or did I dream it?”
“‘Ark at him,” said the blushing Mr. Kemp, as Mrs. Bradshaw shook her head at the offender and told him to behave himself.
“He’s a man any woman might be happy with,” said Mr. Hills. “He never knows how much there is in his trousers-pocket. Fancy sewing on buttons for a man like that. Gold-mining ain’t in it.”
Mrs. Bradshaw shook her head at him again, and Mr. Hills, after apologizing to her for revealing her innermost thoughts before the most guileless of men, began to question Mr. Kemp as to the prospects of a bright and energetic young man, with a distaste for work, in New Zealand. The audience listened with keen attention to the replies, the only disturbing factor being a cough of Mr. Wright’s, which became more and more troublesome as the evening wore on. By the time uncle and nephew rose to depart the latter was so hoarse that he could scarcely speak.