Chapter 9

“I shouldn't worry about it if I was you,” he remarked. “She's hardly likely to find you now. And if she does she won't get much.”

Mr. Davis gave vent to a contemptuous laugh. “Get much!” he repeated. “It's her what's got it. I met a old shipmate of mine this morning what I 'adn't seen for ten years, and he told me he run acrost 'er only a month ago. After she left me--”

“But you said you left her!” exclaimed his listening friend.

“Same thing,” said Mr. Davis, impatiently. “After she left me to work myself to death at sea, running here and there at the orders of a pack o'lazy scuts aft, she went into service and stayed in one place for fifteen years. Then 'er missis died and left her all 'er money. For twenty years, while I've been working myself to skin and bone, she's been living in comfort and idleness.”

“'Ard lines,” said Mr. Wotton, shaking his head. “It don't bear thinking of.”

“Why didn't she advertise for me?” said Mr. Davis, raising his voice. “That's what I want to know. Advertisements is cheap enough; why didn't she advertise? I should 'ave come at once if she'd said anything about money.”

Mr. Wotton shook his head again. “P'r'aps she didn't want you,” he said, slowly.

“What's that got to do with it?” demanded the other. “It was 'er dooty. She'd got money, and I ought to have 'ad my 'arf of it. Nothing can make up for that wasted twenty years--nothing.”

“P'r'aps she'll take you back,” said Mr. Wotton.

“Take me back?” repeated Mr. Davis. “O' course she'll take me back. She'll have to. There's a law in the land, ain't there? What I'm thinking of is: Can I get back my share what I ought to have 'ad for the last twenty years?”

“Get 'er to take you back first,” counselled his friend. “Thirty-five years is along time, and p'r'aps she has lost 'er love for you. Was you good-looking in those days?”

“Yes,” snapped Mr. Davis; “I ain't altered much--. 'Sides, what about her?”

“That ain't the question,” said the other. “She's got a home and money. It don't matter about looks; and, wot's more, she ain't bound to keep you. If you take my advice, you won't dream of letting her know you run away from her. Say you was cast away at sea, and when you came back years afterwards you couldn't find her.”

Mr. Davis pondered for some time in sulky silence.

“P'r'aps it would be as well,” he said at last; “but I sha'n't stand no nonsense, mind.”

“If you like I'll come with you,” said Mr. Wotton. “I ain't got nothing to do. I could tell 'er I was cast away with you if you liked. Anything to help a pal.”

Mr. Davis took two inches of soiled clay pipe from his pocket and puffed thoughtfully.

“You can come,” he said at last. “If you'd only got a copper or two we could ride; it's down Clapham way.”

Mr. Wotton smiled feebly, and after going carefully through his pockets shook his head and followed his friend outside.

“I wonder whether she'll be pleased?” he remarked, as they walked slowly along. “She might be--women are funny creatures--so faithful. I knew one whose husband used to knock 'er about dreadful, and after he died she was so true to his memory she wouldn't marry again.”

Mr. Davis grunted, and, with a longing eye at the omnibuses passing over London Bridge, asked a policeman the distance to Clapham.

“Never mind,” said Mr. Wotton, as his friend uttered an exclamation. “You'll have money in your pocket soon.”

Mr. Davis's face brightened. “And a watch and chain too,” he said.

“And smoke your cigar of a Sunday,” said Mr. Wotton, “and have a easy-chair and a glass for a friend.”

Mr. Davis almost smiled, and then, suddenly remembering his wasted twenty years, shook his head grimly over the friendship that attached itself to easy-chairs and glasses of ale, and said that there was plenty of it about. More friendship than glasses of ale and easy-chairs, perhaps.

At Clapham, they inquired the way of a small boy, and, after following the road indicated, retraced their steps, cheered by a faint but bloodthirsty hope of meeting him again.

A friendly baker put them on the right track at last, both gentlemen eyeing the road with a mixture of concern and delight. It was a road of trim semi-detached villas, each with a well-kept front garden and neatly-curtained windows. At the gate of a house with the word “Blairgowrie” inscribed in huge gilt letters on the fanlight Mr. Davis paused for a moment uneasily, and then, walking up the path, followed by Mr. Wotton, knocked at the door.

He retired a step in disorder before the apparition of a maid in cap and apron. A sharp “Not to-day!” sounded in his ears and the door closed again. He faced his friend gasping.

“I should give her the sack first thing,” said Mr. Wotton.

Mr. Davis knocked again, and again. The maid reappeared, and after surveying them through the glass opened the door a little way and parleyed.

“I want to see your missis,” said Mr. Davis, fiercely.

“What for?” demanded the girl.

“You tell 'er,” said Mr. Davis, inserting his foot just in time, “you tell 'er that there's two gentlemen here what have brought 'er news of her husband, and look sharp about it.”

“They was cast away with 'im,” said Mr. Wotton.

“On a desert island,” said Mr. Davis. He pushed his way in, followed by his friend, and a head that had been leaning over the banisters was suddenly withdrawn. For a moment he stood irresolute in the tiny passage, and then, with a husband's boldness, he entered the front room and threw himself into an easy-chair. Mr. Wotton, after a scared glance around the well-furnished room, seated himself on the extreme edge of the most uncomfortable chair he could find and coughed nervously.

“Better not be too sudden with her,” he whispered. “You don't want her to faint, or anything of that sort. Don't let 'er know who you are at first; let her find it out for herself.”

Mr. Davis, who was also suffering from the stiff grandeur of his surroundings, nodded.

“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.