Ship's Company, the Entire Collection Page 10

  FOR BETTER OR WORSE

  Mr. George Wotton, gently pushing the swing doors of the public bar ofthe "King's Head" an inch apart, applied an eye to the aperture, in thehope of discovering a moneyed friend. His gaze fell on the only man inthe bar a greybeard of sixty whose weather-beaten face and rough clothingspoke of the sea. With a faint sigh he widened the opening and passedthrough.

  "Mornin', Ben," he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness.

  "Have a drop with me," said the other, heartily. "Got any money aboutyou?"

  Mr. Wotton shook his head and his face fell, clearing somewhat as theother handed him his mug. "Drink it all up, George," he said.

  His friend complied. A more tactful man might have taken longer over thejob, but Mr. Benjamin Davis, who appeared to be labouring under somestrong excitement, took no notice.

  "I've had a shock, George," he said, regarding the other steadily. "I'veheard news of my old woman."

  "Didn't know you 'ad one," said Mr. Wotton calmly. "Wot's she done?"

  "She left me," said Mr. Davis, solemnly--"she left me thirty-five yearsago. I went off to sea one fine morning, and that was the last I eversee of er.

  "Why, did she bolt?" inquired Mr. Wotton, with mild interest.

  "No," said his friend, "but I did. We'd been married three years--threelong years--and I had 'ad enough of it. Awful temper she had. The lastwords I ever heard 'er say was: 'Take that!'"

  Mr. Wotton took up the mug and, after satisfying himself as to theabsence of contents, put it down again and yawned.

  "I shouldn't worry about it if I was you," he remarked. "She's hardlylikely 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 whatI 'adn't seen for ten years, and he told me he run acrost 'er only amonth 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 workmyself to death at sea, running here and there at the orders of a packo'lazy scuts aft, she went into service and stayed in one place forfifteen years. Then 'er missis died and left her all 'er money. Fortwenty years, while I've been working myself to skin and bone, she's beenliving in comfort and idleness."

  "'Ard lines," said Mr. Wotton, shaking his head. "It don't bear thinkingof."

  "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'tshe advertise? I should 'ave come at once if she'd said anything aboutmoney."

  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 makeup 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'mthinking of is: Can I get back my share what I ought to have 'ad for thelast twenty years?"

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

  "Yes," snapped Mr. Davis; "I ain't altered much--. 'Sides, what abouther?"

  "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 keepyou. If you take my advice, you won't dream of letting her know you runaway from her. Say you was cast away at sea, and when you came backyears 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 nononsense, mind."

  "If you like I'll come with you," said Mr. Wotton. "I ain't got nothingto do. I could tell 'er I was cast away with you if you liked. Anythingto help a pal."

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

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

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

  "I wonder whether she'll be pleased?" he remarked, as they walked slowlyalong. "She might be--women are funny creatures--so faithful. I knewone whose husband used to knock 'er about dreadful, and after he died shewas so true to his memory she wouldn't marry again."

  Mr. Davis grunted, and, with a longing eye at the omnibuses passing overLondon 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 aeasy-chair and a glass for a friend."

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

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

  A friendly baker put them on the right track at last, both gentlemeneyeing the road with a mixture of concern and delight. It was a road oftrim semi-detached villas, each with a well-kept front garden andneatly-curtained windows. At the gate of a house with the word"Blairgowrie" inscribed in huge gilt letters on the fanlight Mr. Davispaused for a moment uneasily, and then, walking up the path, followed byMr. Wotton, knocked at the door.

  He retired a step in disorder before the apparition of a maid in cap andapron. A sharp "Not to-day!" sounded in his ears and the door closedagain. 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 aftersurveying them through the glass opened the door a little way andparleyed.

  "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, "youtell 'er that there's two gentlemen here what have brought 'er news ofher 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 byhis friend, and a head that had been leaning over the banisters wassuddenly withdrawn. For a moment he stood irresolute in the tinypassage, and then, with a husband's boldness, he entered the front roomand threw himself into an easy-chair. Mr. Wotton, after a scared glancearound the well-furnished room, seated himself on the extreme edge of themost uncomfortable chair he could find and coughed nervously.

  "You tell 'er that there's two gentlemen here what havebrought 'er news of her husband"]

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

  Mr. Davis, who was also suffering from the stiff grandeur of hissurroundings, 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 whathad 'appened to her."

  "You're in luck, that's wot you are," said his friend, enviously. "I'veonly seen furniture like thiss in shop windows before. H'sh! Here shecomes."

  He started, and both men tried to look at their ease as a stiff rustlingsounded from the stairs. Then the door opened and a tall, stoutly-builtold lady with white hair swept into the room and stoo
d 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, andhuge 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 seatingherself 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 symptomsof fainting, "for thir-ty-five years. Thir-ty-five years ago-very muchagainst his wish-he left 'is young and handsome wife to go for a seav'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 awaywith him."

  He indicated Mr. Davis with his hand, and the old lady, after a glance atthat 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 todo 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 yousay 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 Imay die----"

  "About the desert island," continued the old lady, calmly. "The storythat I heard was that he went off like a cur and left his young wife todo the best she could for herself. I suppose he's heard since that shehas come in for a bit of money."

  "Money!" repeated Mr. Wotton, in a voice that he fondly hoped expressedartless surprise. "Money!"

  "Money," said the old lady; "and I suppose he sent you two gentlemenround to see how the land lay."

  She was looking full at Mr. Davis as she spoke, and both men began totake 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 silenceat last.

  Mr. Wotton held his breath, but the old lady merely shook her headthoughtfully. "It was a disagreeable voice when his wife used to hearit," 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.

  "Don't you know me, Mary?"]

  "Yes, you," said Mr. Davis, rising. "Don't you know me, Mary? Why, Iknew 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 theeye."

  "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 anice 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 hersternly. Her gaze was riveted on his dilapidated boots. She looked upand spoke mildly.

  "You're not my husband," she said. "You've made a mistake--I think youhad better go."

  "Ho!" said Mr. Davis, with a hard laugh. "Indeed! And 'ow do you knowI'm not?"

  "For the best of reasons," was the reply. "Besides, how can you provethat you are? Thirty-five years is a long time."

  "'Specially on a desert island," said Mr. Wotton, rapidly. "You'd besurprised 'ow slow the time passes. I was there with 'im, and I can laymy 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. "Doyou 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 thepolice."

  "You used to admire it," said Mr. Davis, reproachfully. "I rememberonce----"

  "If you say another word," said the other, in a fierce voice, "I'll sendstraight off for the police. You and your serpents! I'll tell myhusband 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'dbetter go before he comes in."

  "O-oh," said Mr. Davis, taking a long breath. "Oh, so you been and gotmarried again, 'ave you? That's your love for your husband as was castaway while trying to earn a living for you. That's why you don't wantme, is it? We'll see. I'll wait for him."

  "You don't know what you're talking about," said the other, with greatdignity. "I've only been married once."

  Mr. Davis passed the back of his hand across his eyes in a dazed fashionand stared at her.

  "Is--is somebody passing himself off as me?" he demanded. "'Cos if heis I'll 'ave you both up for bigamy."

  "Certainly not."

  "But--but--"

  Mr. Davis turned and looked blankly at his friend. Mr. Wotton met hisgaze 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? Lookagain."

  Mr. Davis thrust his face close to hers and stared hard. She bore hisscrutiny 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 abit alike. You see, Mrs. Davis being away, I'm looking after her housefor a bit. My name happens to be Smith."

  Mr. Davis uttered a sharp exclamation, and, falling back a step, staredat her open-mouthed.

  "We all make mistakes," urged Mr. Wotton, after a long silence, "andBen's sight ain't wot it used to be. He strained it looking out for asail when we was on that desert----"

  "When--when'll she be back?" inquired Mr. Davis, finding his voice atlast.

  The old lady affected to look puzzled. "But I thought you were certainthat I was your wife?" she said, smoothly.

  "My mistake," said Mr. Davis, ruefully. "Thirty-five years is a longtime and people change a bit; I have myself. For one thing, I must sayI 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--"forpeople that like stoutness, that is. My wife used to 'ave a very goodfigger."

  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 towardsthe 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'llcome in a week's time and see if she's back."

  "She might be away for months," said the old lady, moving slowly to thepassage and opening the street door. "Good-afternoon."

  She closed the door behind them and stood watching them through the glassas they passed disconsolately into the street. Then she went back intothe parlour, and standing before the mantelpiece, looked long andearnestly into the mirror.

  Mr. Davis returned a week later--alone, and, pausing at the gate, glancedin dismay at a bill in the window announcing that the house was to besold. He walked up the path still looking at it, and being admitted bythe trim servant was shown into the parlour, and stood in a dispiritedfashion 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 thumbtowards it.

  "She is thinking of selling the house," said Mrs. Smith. "I let her knowyou had been, and that is, the result. She won't comeback. You won'tsee her again."

  "Where is she?" inquired Mr. Davis, frowning.

  Mrs. Smith shook her head again. "And it would be no use my tellingyou," she said. "What she has got is her own, and the law won't let youtouch a penny of it without her consent. You must have treated herbadly; why did you leave her?"

  "Why?" repeated Mr. Davis. "Why? Why, because she hit me over the 'eadwith 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 holdinghis 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 somethingabout you that reminds me of her. It ain't your voice, 'cos she had avery 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 oldlady.

  "I thought I did," said Mr. Davis. "One thing is, I was expecting to seeher, I s'pose."

  There was a long silence.

  "Well, I won't keep you," said Mrs. Smith at last, "and it's no good foryou 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 aboverespectable. Your coat is torn, your trousers are patched in a dozenplaces, and your boots are half off your feet--I don't know what theservant must think."

  "I--I only came to look for my wife," said Mr. Davis, in a startledvoice. "I won't come again."

  "That's right," said the old lady. "That'll please her, I know. And ifshe should happen to ask what sort of a living you are making, what shallI tell her?"

  "Tell her what you said about my clothes, ma'am," said Mr. Davis, withhis hand on the door-knob. "She'll understand then. She's known wot itis to be poor herself. She'd got a bad temper, but she'd have cut hertongue 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 behaveyourself?"

  "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 hereyes rapidly, "I'd have let you go. If you hadn't looked 'so miserable Icould have stood it. If I take you back, are you going to behaveyourself?"

  Mr. Davis stood gaping at her.

  "If I take you back again," repeated his wife, speaking very slowly, "areyou going to behave yourself?"

  "Yes," said Mr. Davis, finding his voice at last. "Yes, if you are."